After the typical lag between re-enrollment and medical clearance, I´m happy to say two more years of Peace Corps service are now lined up...in Costa Rica!
The Community, Youth, and Families (CYF) assignment will be different from my previous one as a physics teacher. Probably the most striking difference is the lack of a structured assignment laid right in my lap. In Guinea the math and science curricula were rigidly defined. Yes, there were opportunities to spice it up, but any major deviations were a distraction to the main objective of preparing students for national exams. To some extent we were as equally plugged into the community as we were into our assignments. The role of 'teacher' carries a certain predefined level of respect in Guinea. Sure, there are always the hams who try to take over a classroom and the wizened old man perched on a bench in the shade, griping about "Kids these days!" But between my limited experience at site and discussions with others, this behavior still appeared the exception to the rule.
In Guinea I had actually looked upon the other 'extensionist' roles with a bit of jealousy. These individuals often entered a community having to prove themselves completely. A project was based on a detailed assessment of the community's needs, its success hinging on foresight, vision, and ultimately creativity. I don´t view myself as a very creative person. Aside from sports, my hobbies tend to gravitate toward a passive observation of the world (photography and writing). The opportunity to conjure up a project from scratch and steer it to completion is a foray into my own unknown capabilities. As such, the it´s both a risk and a thrill.
The decision to move forward is also terribly bittersweet. While studying in Strasbourg six years ago I promised myself I'd never again have a long-distance relationship. It´s just too much to have one´s heart in on one side of an ocean and one´s body in another. I feel that way right now. Guinea is still where I belong. I was ready to pour my heart into my little corner of the Fouta Djallon, and part of me is not willing to submit to the fact that the door to that experience really is closing for good. Guinea and Costa Rica are currently polar opposites in my mind, one being a country plagued with poverty and instability and the other a popular destination for cooing honeymooners. I know this is a preconception, as I´ve never been to Costa Rica--especially not the unpaved Costa Rica flung miles from the tables full of cocktail umbrellas and Macanudo cigars.
Nor am I ready to leave Peru. After three weeks at the Casa I´m finally starting to find opportunities to serve beyond the standard "6-1 with the Lupes" or "2-7 with the Grandes". This past week many of us have been brainstorming activities to keep the children busy during their summer vacation. Tomorrow I´ll begin a 3x/weekly tutoring regimen to help one of the kids catch up with his peers in math. Another disappointment is that I won´t be able to work for longer with good friend and fellow G18er Emily. With three years working with kids under her belt, a stellar work ethic, and an open mind, she is already someone who has taught me alot about passionately throwing oneself into a cause. She was the individual who opened up the opportunity of serving in Ayacucho, so my time here is largely due to her ability to make connections.
A few months ago my future was as muddy as a December evening in Carmen Alto. I´m surprised by how quickly the schedule has congealed. A mid-January departure from Ayacucho will take me to Cuzco for some quick daytrips to nearby Inca ruins and then to a four day hike down the Inca Trail to Macchu Picchu. The first week in February I´ll be in Boston for a week visiting Bec and other friends (you know who you are...email me!), followed by a few weeks of hellos/goodbyes in the Chicago area. The next adventure begins March 1st.
Hope to see many of you somewhere along the way.
Tuesday, December 29, 2009
Thursday, December 24, 2009
I´ve selfishly pilfered this entry from my friend Emily, who has been sharing a parallel path to mine over the last 6 months. A link to her blog is included in the list of Guinea volunteers on the left. To anyone looking for a spot to place those final donation dollars of 2009, look no further!
A fellow volunteer here at the orphanage has been working hard organizing the first annual ¡Los Gorrioncitos Rockeros! It's a concert in Lima on January 13, to raise money for the orphanage. No obligations but if you are able to make a small donation to cover some of the initial costs of the concert it would be really apreciated. She has until the 28th to raise the money. If you have any specific questions you can contact Adeline Tissier directly at adrenalinaperu@hotmail.fr. I think she has 300 dollars left to raise. The money can be transferred directly into an account. Email me or Adeline for the account information.
I've also added a link to the Casa's webpage if you would like to make a general donation to the casa. You can read about the project for a new home.
People make inquiries to come and volunteer here every day. The Señoritas, the children, Papa Gil, the volunteers, the donors, this place is surrounded by so much love. Unfortunately eventually you realize that in addition, what they really need is money.
A fellow volunteer here at the orphanage has been working hard organizing the first annual ¡Los Gorrioncitos Rockeros! It's a concert in Lima on January 13, to raise money for the orphanage. No obligations but if you are able to make a small donation to cover some of the initial costs of the concert it would be really apreciated. She has until the 28th to raise the money. If you have any specific questions you can contact Adeline Tissier directly at adrenalinaperu@hotmail.fr. I think she has 300 dollars left to raise. The money can be transferred directly into an account. Email me or Adeline for the account information.
I've also added a link to the Casa's webpage if you would like to make a general donation to the casa. You can read about the project for a new home.
People make inquiries to come and volunteer here every day. The Señoritas, the children, Papa Gil, the volunteers, the donors, this place is surrounded by so much love. Unfortunately eventually you realize that in addition, what they really need is money.
Wednesday, December 23, 2009
Navidad
This afternoon all volunteers will be participating in La Fiesta de Quinientos Niños (Festival of 500 Children). Put on by the casa every year, it´s an opportunity for the children of the orphanage to give back to the community around them. The reality of Carmen Alto and the surrounding neighborhoods is that many families have it worse off than Los Gorriones. It´s a great learning experience and demonstration of goodwill--those with so little embracing the spirit of giving.
Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays to everyone. Visions of family and smells of pine are dancing through my head.
Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays to everyone. Visions of family and smells of pine are dancing through my head.
Friday, December 18, 2009
More on December Weather
Living at 9,000 ft, I rarely need to crane my neck to enjoy some of the more beautiful distractions of the Andes. As I walk out of the hostel and make my way for the Casa Hogar, there's enough life around to lure my eyes away from thoughts of home or the day ahead. The streets all slope sharply to the left, as Los Gorionnes is perched on a high point in the valley where Ayacucho lies. Still, piles of stone cling to their place, peppered with garbage and stray dogs looking for scraps. Sometimes these piles are carefully disassembled and reassembled into a compound wall, which retains a remarkable amount of order given the stones´ lack of geometry--a throwback to Inca expertise? On top of them lies either a collection of broken bottles glued in place or a heap of dirt sprouting cacti, which hang over the wall like a line of hands awaiting a marathoner.
More than half of the buildings here--none more than 3 stories--are unfinished. Steel rods jut like wiry tufts of hair from the four corners. Often, clothes are found hanging from these in the morning sun. Most facades retain their original cement grey or red brick, though there is the occasional freckle of bright color. Spanish tiles, seemingly older than the houses they cover, crack and fade.
My taxi bounced and jolted my way toward the Casa on my first night in Ayacucho. As we turned off the principal concrete road onto the undulating terrain of Carmen Alto, I felt some comfort; this place felt more like Guinea than any other since I had left West Africa. It still does. In the morning I'm able to sleep through the same comical cackles of malnourished chickens and morning vendors (although one young entrepreneurial bread seller still gets me with his old-school bike horn). A couple new additions are the pigs and the dogs. Yes, outside of the Muslim world people eat pigs. Big ones. If I go up on the roof to wash my clothes, I can look down on the adjacent pen and see a handful of piglets jockeying for feeding position as their mom lounges. My favorite is the big papa on the way to the Casa. He's a beast. I can't take my eyes off him. One of these days he'll actually move. Smaller pigs are always shuffling around the neighborhood as they munch grass and weeds sprouting up from the new rains. Their bellies are distended. They're healthy, and so are the dogs.
Healthy dogs are active dogs. Healthy, active dogs. Without domestication. With buddies. This morning I was enthralled by an old woman who, having removed her two characteristic long braids, was washing her back-length black hair on the side of the street (just beyond Papa Grande). As I watched her carefully letting the water trickle off into her small row of plants, I finally turned to investigate the footsteps behind me. A young golden mutt was just trotting along, content to have something to follow. At this time of day he's as harmless as any other moving piece in the archaic life of Carmen Alto. At night his territorial tendencies will kick in a little stronger. The other day I saw a pack of three small, pug-looking things with underbites nearly kill another dog of the same size. Striated ribs showing his malnourishment, the dog was probably going to die soon from malnourishment anyway. Regardless, it was hard to watch. When they funnel into teams, the dogs can get aggressive toward people, though bending over to pick up a rock is usually enough to keep them at bay.
...ok, I have to pause and comment because a sheep just jumped into the internet cafe, took a look at me, and bolted...but not before freaking fellow volunteer Julie out with a very human-sounding "maaaaaiggh!!"...
Adherence to tradition is another welcome sight. The petite women in traditional alpaca or lamb's wool sweaters and knee-length skirts are the norm of the older generation. Always, always on her back is a black and flourescent striped cloth, wrapped just so to carry a bundle of veggies or a grandchild. The brown leather bombin hats are apparently a holdover from the early 20th century railroad industry in Peru, but it's done little to shield her face from the mountain sun, which by day's end seems to do more damage than anything I encountered in Africa. The kids are adorable. They hang off their mothers' backs, wearing colorful little gorritos. Life here is a travel advertisement. I remember flipping through the images in my Lonely Planet Peru, marveling at the shots. Here in Ayacucho I feel like everywhere I turn is a sight oozing with traditional imagery.
Still there's distraction. As I mentioned, Carmen Alto ("alto" = high) sits high in the bowl. The best way to describe it is to say we're hanging onto the side of a tongue. The neighborhood juts out into the valley below, so we're pleasantly surrounded by mountains on all sides, even behind us. That said, the view is absolutely spectacular. Ayacucho's Andes are not the toothed and jagged peaks conjured up by Touching the Void adventurers, but they're still hard and intimidating, so large they always feel an arm's length away. Cumulus clouds hang out at eye level. It's easy to lose oneself for minutes at a time in the rising, constantly reshaping columns. They're pure as tapioca. Later in the day they bravely creep in over the valley. Sunlight streaks through like a set of rolling spotlights. This is my favorite time of day, because parts of the city I´d never noticed are trhust into focus. Last week a mountain behind Carmen Alto was brightly lit, a whole slope of earth-toned houses puffing out their chests.
And then in rolls afternoon. More and more we're growing accustomed to the predictability of the rainy season (Dec - Mar). It doesn't take a sixth sense to forecast a storm when an infantry of gray clouds comes climbing over the far peaks. They hang in waylay for a while. Then, slowly, thin grey sleeves unroll from scattered rips in the distance. The air grows humid and cold and begins tearing down the streets. Dry dust starts looking for eyes.
The rain is cold and serious. This is nothing like I found in Guinea, with naked kids jumping into puddles and my host family members awaiting their turn in the outdoor shower stall. Old ladies click their canes along at double time for cover. Dogs crawl under cars. By this point the volunteers working with the disabled "Lupes" have carried them back to their room, surely closing the door behind. There are some characteristic flashes and cracks to make a Midwesterner feel welcome, but an Andes rain is predominantly a morose one--more "November" than "July".
Rarely does a storm last more than a couple hours. Late last week, however, one continued through the evening. Guinea flashbacks rushed to me as I hopped over huge divots in the road turned into the rivers. By morning Carmen Alto was back to its boisterous self. The boy with the bike horn ran ahead of me, a basket of bread on his back, as I made my way to the volunteer house for breakfast. It was my day off. Emily, Mal, and I were joining a Peruvian friend named Luis Angel on a short trip to Huanta. On our way into the city, the #8 bus abruptly turned from its normal path past the market. Confused, we hopped off about two blocks away from the market and made our way down the hill. The reason for the change was soon very obvious. Ayacucho had been rocked by flooding. Mounds of mud filled many of the streets. Cars were literally mangled. In front of the market, a crowd had gathered in front of a rickshaw-style moto taxi that had been smashed. The crowd's size was due either to the wrecked vehicle's proximity to the usual market bustle or to the fact that they were pulling someone from it. Rather than fight through the onlookers for an answer, we decided to walk on. The power of the floods was present everywhere. Bulldozers mixed with manual laborers to push piles of earth off of bridges. Police tape blocked entire avenues while officials sorted out the mess.
Fellow volunteers who lived in the center of town recounted their struggle through narrow streets as water rushed past their shins; they had started home only a half hour after the storm began. By the following morning the powerful flash flood had subsided, but not before stealing eleven lives in its fury. The papers have certainly told the stories of all these individuals, though the only one I've heard was the story of two young girls caught by surprise as a wall of mud careened down a street in their direction. One of the girls pushed her best friend to safety. Tragically, she couldn't save herself.
More than half of the buildings here--none more than 3 stories--are unfinished. Steel rods jut like wiry tufts of hair from the four corners. Often, clothes are found hanging from these in the morning sun. Most facades retain their original cement grey or red brick, though there is the occasional freckle of bright color. Spanish tiles, seemingly older than the houses they cover, crack and fade.
My taxi bounced and jolted my way toward the Casa on my first night in Ayacucho. As we turned off the principal concrete road onto the undulating terrain of Carmen Alto, I felt some comfort; this place felt more like Guinea than any other since I had left West Africa. It still does. In the morning I'm able to sleep through the same comical cackles of malnourished chickens and morning vendors (although one young entrepreneurial bread seller still gets me with his old-school bike horn). A couple new additions are the pigs and the dogs. Yes, outside of the Muslim world people eat pigs. Big ones. If I go up on the roof to wash my clothes, I can look down on the adjacent pen and see a handful of piglets jockeying for feeding position as their mom lounges. My favorite is the big papa on the way to the Casa. He's a beast. I can't take my eyes off him. One of these days he'll actually move. Smaller pigs are always shuffling around the neighborhood as they munch grass and weeds sprouting up from the new rains. Their bellies are distended. They're healthy, and so are the dogs.
Healthy dogs are active dogs. Healthy, active dogs. Without domestication. With buddies. This morning I was enthralled by an old woman who, having removed her two characteristic long braids, was washing her back-length black hair on the side of the street (just beyond Papa Grande). As I watched her carefully letting the water trickle off into her small row of plants, I finally turned to investigate the footsteps behind me. A young golden mutt was just trotting along, content to have something to follow. At this time of day he's as harmless as any other moving piece in the archaic life of Carmen Alto. At night his territorial tendencies will kick in a little stronger. The other day I saw a pack of three small, pug-looking things with underbites nearly kill another dog of the same size. Striated ribs showing his malnourishment, the dog was probably going to die soon from malnourishment anyway. Regardless, it was hard to watch. When they funnel into teams, the dogs can get aggressive toward people, though bending over to pick up a rock is usually enough to keep them at bay.
...ok, I have to pause and comment because a sheep just jumped into the internet cafe, took a look at me, and bolted...but not before freaking fellow volunteer Julie out with a very human-sounding "maaaaaiggh!!"...
Adherence to tradition is another welcome sight. The petite women in traditional alpaca or lamb's wool sweaters and knee-length skirts are the norm of the older generation. Always, always on her back is a black and flourescent striped cloth, wrapped just so to carry a bundle of veggies or a grandchild. The brown leather bombin hats are apparently a holdover from the early 20th century railroad industry in Peru, but it's done little to shield her face from the mountain sun, which by day's end seems to do more damage than anything I encountered in Africa. The kids are adorable. They hang off their mothers' backs, wearing colorful little gorritos. Life here is a travel advertisement. I remember flipping through the images in my Lonely Planet Peru, marveling at the shots. Here in Ayacucho I feel like everywhere I turn is a sight oozing with traditional imagery.
Still there's distraction. As I mentioned, Carmen Alto ("alto" = high) sits high in the bowl. The best way to describe it is to say we're hanging onto the side of a tongue. The neighborhood juts out into the valley below, so we're pleasantly surrounded by mountains on all sides, even behind us. That said, the view is absolutely spectacular. Ayacucho's Andes are not the toothed and jagged peaks conjured up by Touching the Void adventurers, but they're still hard and intimidating, so large they always feel an arm's length away. Cumulus clouds hang out at eye level. It's easy to lose oneself for minutes at a time in the rising, constantly reshaping columns. They're pure as tapioca. Later in the day they bravely creep in over the valley. Sunlight streaks through like a set of rolling spotlights. This is my favorite time of day, because parts of the city I´d never noticed are trhust into focus. Last week a mountain behind Carmen Alto was brightly lit, a whole slope of earth-toned houses puffing out their chests.
And then in rolls afternoon. More and more we're growing accustomed to the predictability of the rainy season (Dec - Mar). It doesn't take a sixth sense to forecast a storm when an infantry of gray clouds comes climbing over the far peaks. They hang in waylay for a while. Then, slowly, thin grey sleeves unroll from scattered rips in the distance. The air grows humid and cold and begins tearing down the streets. Dry dust starts looking for eyes.
The rain is cold and serious. This is nothing like I found in Guinea, with naked kids jumping into puddles and my host family members awaiting their turn in the outdoor shower stall. Old ladies click their canes along at double time for cover. Dogs crawl under cars. By this point the volunteers working with the disabled "Lupes" have carried them back to their room, surely closing the door behind. There are some characteristic flashes and cracks to make a Midwesterner feel welcome, but an Andes rain is predominantly a morose one--more "November" than "July".
Rarely does a storm last more than a couple hours. Late last week, however, one continued through the evening. Guinea flashbacks rushed to me as I hopped over huge divots in the road turned into the rivers. By morning Carmen Alto was back to its boisterous self. The boy with the bike horn ran ahead of me, a basket of bread on his back, as I made my way to the volunteer house for breakfast. It was my day off. Emily, Mal, and I were joining a Peruvian friend named Luis Angel on a short trip to Huanta. On our way into the city, the #8 bus abruptly turned from its normal path past the market. Confused, we hopped off about two blocks away from the market and made our way down the hill. The reason for the change was soon very obvious. Ayacucho had been rocked by flooding. Mounds of mud filled many of the streets. Cars were literally mangled. In front of the market, a crowd had gathered in front of a rickshaw-style moto taxi that had been smashed. The crowd's size was due either to the wrecked vehicle's proximity to the usual market bustle or to the fact that they were pulling someone from it. Rather than fight through the onlookers for an answer, we decided to walk on. The power of the floods was present everywhere. Bulldozers mixed with manual laborers to push piles of earth off of bridges. Police tape blocked entire avenues while officials sorted out the mess.
Fellow volunteers who lived in the center of town recounted their struggle through narrow streets as water rushed past their shins; they had started home only a half hour after the storm began. By the following morning the powerful flash flood had subsided, but not before stealing eleven lives in its fury. The papers have certainly told the stories of all these individuals, though the only one I've heard was the story of two young girls caught by surprise as a wall of mud careened down a street in their direction. One of the girls pushed her best friend to safety. Tragically, she couldn't save herself.
Sunday, December 13, 2009
Some Info About Ayacucho & the Casa Hogar
I have a couple days off next week, so I'll try and provide a little more personal information about work here at the orphanage in Ayacucho.
Another volunteer has provided some pretty extensive info (as well as photos) of the neighborhood Carmen Alto (Vista Alegre) and work at the Casa Hogar.
http://www.travelblog.org/South-America/Peru/Ayacucho/blog-211538.html
If you select "Next Entry" you can reach the volunteer's subsequent entries.
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75F and sunny in Ayacucho...what a December!
Another volunteer has provided some pretty extensive info (as well as photos) of the neighborhood Carmen Alto (Vista Alegre) and work at the Casa Hogar.
http://www.travelblog.org/South-America/Peru/Ayacucho/blog-211538.html
If you select "Next Entry" you can reach the volunteer's subsequent entries.
-------------
75F and sunny in Ayacucho...what a December!
Thursday, December 10, 2009
Arribas y Abajos
I had been communicating for about a week now with one of the photo editors from TIME when on Dec 8th, I logged into my email and viewed the tremendous news that one of my recently-posted Flickr photos made the magazine! Click here for more info on the photo. Apparently it's for a "Flickr Tribute to Michael Jackson" photo spread. I won't believe it completely until I see the copy with my own eyes. The issue is due out Dec 14. I have no idea of the size or how much info will be provided, but I'll be happy to see a thumbnail tucked somewhere between the Gap Xmas advertisement and the Letters section.
Serendipity gets the better part of the credit for this shot. As one of the International Thriller Day participants, I was nowhere near my camera at the time. My friend Emily had set it on a nearby table and hit the shutter release to start a video recording. A month later, as I was looking through Africa photos, I saw that my camera had automatically created a screenshot of the clip. After a little playing with Lightroom, it turned out to be a pretty cool looking capture(albeit low-res), so I posted it with everything else. Go figure, out of a video with over 1000 frames, the one that my camera grabs for a screenshot makes it into TIME. The Lumix is smarter than I thought. Hope somebody's enjoying it...
The following day, I went with the two other American volunteers at La Casa Hogar to a festival in Quinua, about an hour away from Ayacucho. Because the three of us worked in the morning, we missed the re-enactment of the Battle of Ayacucho (a definitive battle between Peruvians and the Spanish in the fight for independence). Even for just two hours, we took in our share of some spectacular mountain views and old Spanish architechture. The golden daylight hours hit a short time before we were to leave, so I sprinted around with my camera, still riding the high of the news I had received the day before. The one thing I don't really like about the Lumix is that it doesn't have quite the throw necessary for those candid snapshots of people just living their lives. An old woman perched on a doorstep, traditionally dressed in a purple wool sweater and bombin hat, refused my request to take her photo. Regardless, it was a productive afternoon. One of the pueblo's main pedestrian walkways inclines steeply, requiring multiple flights of stairs. The slope is so great that I was able to catch some close-ups of the undulating edges of the spanish tile roofs along with a backdrop sky as big as any I had seen in Africa. Anxious to start looking back on the day, I threw the camera quickly into my bag, rejoined Mal and Emily, and headed past the artisanal market crowds for the buses to Ayacucho. As soon as we hopped into an empty one I slung my bag around and noticed the zipper open, the camera gone.
I was devastated and completely disappointed with myself for not being more aware. We didn't see another white person our entire time in Quinua, so I let my guard down thinking we were far away from the petty theft found in more touristed corners of the country. The bus ride home was a miserable attempt to make sense of what had just happened. More than anything I wanted to give the Casa Hogar some memorable photos, both for the kids and for web advertisement. That opportunity was immediately stripped from me by some opportunistic kid. Trying to remain positive, I reasoned the event into some cosmic trade-off I had previously made: choose between two months in Peru and no camera or a sedentary 2 months at home with it. Optimism was hard to come by as I slid down the mountainside with the rest of our over-capacity van, cold rainwater leaking through the window and onto my head.
Serendipity gets the better part of the credit for this shot. As one of the International Thriller Day participants, I was nowhere near my camera at the time. My friend Emily had set it on a nearby table and hit the shutter release to start a video recording. A month later, as I was looking through Africa photos, I saw that my camera had automatically created a screenshot of the clip. After a little playing with Lightroom, it turned out to be a pretty cool looking capture(albeit low-res), so I posted it with everything else. Go figure, out of a video with over 1000 frames, the one that my camera grabs for a screenshot makes it into TIME. The Lumix is smarter than I thought. Hope somebody's enjoying it...
The following day, I went with the two other American volunteers at La Casa Hogar to a festival in Quinua, about an hour away from Ayacucho. Because the three of us worked in the morning, we missed the re-enactment of the Battle of Ayacucho (a definitive battle between Peruvians and the Spanish in the fight for independence). Even for just two hours, we took in our share of some spectacular mountain views and old Spanish architechture. The golden daylight hours hit a short time before we were to leave, so I sprinted around with my camera, still riding the high of the news I had received the day before. The one thing I don't really like about the Lumix is that it doesn't have quite the throw necessary for those candid snapshots of people just living their lives. An old woman perched on a doorstep, traditionally dressed in a purple wool sweater and bombin hat, refused my request to take her photo. Regardless, it was a productive afternoon. One of the pueblo's main pedestrian walkways inclines steeply, requiring multiple flights of stairs. The slope is so great that I was able to catch some close-ups of the undulating edges of the spanish tile roofs along with a backdrop sky as big as any I had seen in Africa. Anxious to start looking back on the day, I threw the camera quickly into my bag, rejoined Mal and Emily, and headed past the artisanal market crowds for the buses to Ayacucho. As soon as we hopped into an empty one I slung my bag around and noticed the zipper open, the camera gone.
I was devastated and completely disappointed with myself for not being more aware. We didn't see another white person our entire time in Quinua, so I let my guard down thinking we were far away from the petty theft found in more touristed corners of the country. The bus ride home was a miserable attempt to make sense of what had just happened. More than anything I wanted to give the Casa Hogar some memorable photos, both for the kids and for web advertisement. That opportunity was immediately stripped from me by some opportunistic kid. Trying to remain positive, I reasoned the event into some cosmic trade-off I had previously made: choose between two months in Peru and no camera or a sedentary 2 months at home with it. Optimism was hard to come by as I slid down the mountainside with the rest of our over-capacity van, cold rainwater leaking through the window and onto my head.
Friday, December 4, 2009
4th Continent
The whirlwind month at home is spitting me into another corner of the globe, a one-way ticket and an open-ended commitment while PC re-enrollment lumbers along.
Call yesterday a caffeine kick. Around 10 a.m. I plopped into the driver's seat to head for the barber. Before I even let off the brake 2009 hit me like an accident. Four continents! Acapulco beach ultimate on the coldest midwestern week of the year, waterlogged in an Irish January, impromptu snowboard customization in CO (sorry Frank), Tahoe play, coasting on the wind over a San Diego bluff, there and Backfrica (so well put by Jake), and now...
Painful reminders of Guinea more than linger. Even as I type, news of a Dadis assassination attempt creep through the 56k modem in my parents' basement. The scabs from evacuation are still fresh. During our fairwell ceremony Ousmane, the Guinea training coordinator, gave the most heartbreaking speech I have ever witnessed. "Come back. Please come back. We need you. Now more than ever." Such trenchant emotion does not fade easily, and I know these words echo in more hearts than just my own. All 94 of us...it kills us.
Ayacucho's history offers me some optimism for Guinea. Just a decade ago it was the epicenter of a guerilla war. Now an orphanage is stretching to fit its volunteer demand. I know much of that has to do with Peru's obvious offerings: towering Andes, history's exposed bands, the mystical Macchu Picchu. Still, it's an example of hope rebounded.
The last several weeks have been spectacular. Thank you to those who helped me indulge in some of the pleasures I was only dreaming of a couple months ago. I know it's a far from complete list, but:
Owed Thank Yous:
- Bec, for sharing your time w/ me in the City, for your sweet apartment location (that was seriously the first time I ever was able to run on the River or the Lake), for reminding me that dreams are not something to be compromised, and for cider.
- Tina, for Green Goddess and MAC&CHEESE!!!! Also, for welcoming me into your home so I may continue the Rummikub domination...up 3 games and not looking back! They say one's ears ring when someone's talking about him; so when I crack my head on the corner of a cabinet I'll know you're reading this. Fired up for February yet?
- Lilly folks, for reminding me how much Indy still feels like home, even with a hippie bus
- Sloan, for your ever-warm hospitality and friendship (and to Oliver for tolertaing my insistence on transforming his name into a french verb)
- Indy Ulty, for great mussels, some crazy conjured-up memories, and some crazier cop stories
- Hoglunds, for your wonderful hospitality and contagious spirit
- Vince, love friends, love fam, love life: you make it look so easy, keep it up
- cheese, oh how I missed you
- Michelle & Al, for coming out and being cousins :)
- Britta & Suji, for (c)hugs(4jugs) that will never dip in intensity
- Henkes and Grandma, I can still taste the dinners (and Ross's cheesecake)
- Chad, for bending over backwards for your friends, even when they're 5000 mi away
- Grandma & Grandpa Sova, for your bursting hearts and curiosities
- Aunt Karen, for helping me feel like I'm home, even when I was away
- Joanna, for helping me align my own disjointed sentiments long enough to start reflecting on the past summer, and for your unyielding courage
- For all your calls, emails, and visits, and your forgiveness if I forgot you (it's 03:30 after all)
and finally to Mom & Dad, for your overwhelming generosity, and your patient support of my restlessness. I know my dreams are often your sacrifice.
Keep in touch,
Kevin
Call yesterday a caffeine kick. Around 10 a.m. I plopped into the driver's seat to head for the barber. Before I even let off the brake 2009 hit me like an accident. Four continents! Acapulco beach ultimate on the coldest midwestern week of the year, waterlogged in an Irish January, impromptu snowboard customization in CO (sorry Frank), Tahoe play, coasting on the wind over a San Diego bluff, there and Backfrica (so well put by Jake), and now...
Painful reminders of Guinea more than linger. Even as I type, news of a Dadis assassination attempt creep through the 56k modem in my parents' basement. The scabs from evacuation are still fresh. During our fairwell ceremony Ousmane, the Guinea training coordinator, gave the most heartbreaking speech I have ever witnessed. "Come back. Please come back. We need you. Now more than ever." Such trenchant emotion does not fade easily, and I know these words echo in more hearts than just my own. All 94 of us...it kills us.
Ayacucho's history offers me some optimism for Guinea. Just a decade ago it was the epicenter of a guerilla war. Now an orphanage is stretching to fit its volunteer demand. I know much of that has to do with Peru's obvious offerings: towering Andes, history's exposed bands, the mystical Macchu Picchu. Still, it's an example of hope rebounded.
The last several weeks have been spectacular. Thank you to those who helped me indulge in some of the pleasures I was only dreaming of a couple months ago. I know it's a far from complete list, but:
Owed Thank Yous:
- Bec, for sharing your time w/ me in the City, for your sweet apartment location (that was seriously the first time I ever was able to run on the River or the Lake), for reminding me that dreams are not something to be compromised, and for cider.
- Tina, for Green Goddess and MAC&CHEESE!!!! Also, for welcoming me into your home so I may continue the Rummikub domination...up 3 games and not looking back! They say one's ears ring when someone's talking about him; so when I crack my head on the corner of a cabinet I'll know you're reading this. Fired up for February yet?
- Lilly folks, for reminding me how much Indy still feels like home, even with a hippie bus
- Sloan, for your ever-warm hospitality and friendship (and to Oliver for tolertaing my insistence on transforming his name into a french verb)
- Indy Ulty, for great mussels, some crazy conjured-up memories, and some crazier cop stories
- Hoglunds, for your wonderful hospitality and contagious spirit
- Vince, love friends, love fam, love life: you make it look so easy, keep it up
- cheese, oh how I missed you
- Michelle & Al, for coming out and being cousins :)
- Britta & Suji, for (c)hugs(4jugs) that will never dip in intensity
- Henkes and Grandma, I can still taste the dinners (and Ross's cheesecake)
- Chad, for bending over backwards for your friends, even when they're 5000 mi away
- Grandma & Grandpa Sova, for your bursting hearts and curiosities
- Aunt Karen, for helping me feel like I'm home, even when I was away
- Joanna, for helping me align my own disjointed sentiments long enough to start reflecting on the past summer, and for your unyielding courage
- For all your calls, emails, and visits, and your forgiveness if I forgot you (it's 03:30 after all)
and finally to Mom & Dad, for your overwhelming generosity, and your patient support of my restlessness. I know my dreams are often your sacrifice.
Keep in touch,
Kevin
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