Author Archives: ram5400

Coming home to so much stuff…

The first thing I noticed after arriving in New York City was the height of the buildings. Driving through the supposed capital of the world, it was hard not to feel impressed. Well developed, the streets are wide enough that traffic can flow through them at a reasonable pace. The structures–including high rises, sidewalks and roads–aren’t falling apart. And yeah, the lights: the atmosphere was smothered in glowing name brands like Aeropostale, McDonald’s, Gap, just fill in the blank; it was more big business than I’d seen in months.

So I’m home, here in the cultural vacuum of Pennsylvania. Before leaving to study abroad, I’d thought that there was more to the picture, that I wasn’t getting the full story here in middle-class America. Now I’m positive that that’s the case.

I’ve seen parts of Argentina, Ecuador and Peru. This little bit of international experience has made me incredibly cynical. I’m somewhat closer to working through my affliction, the typical university student crisis of what to do with my life, but not very. The world is a heavy place with lots of absurd stuff going on. I wanted to acquire a global perspective while on the road, and well, I suppose got it: Life is a process of struggling to survive, people get by however they can. And I’m fortunate enough to be in a country like the United States, where there’s an incredible amount of opportunity. I know that’s a clich�, but it’s true.

At the same time, this place isn’t the center of the universe. I walked through the Lehigh Valley Mall to do Christmas shopping, and I was amazed at wide variety of products on display. There is so much freaking stuff here. But we generally only see the Batman action figure or JC Penney T-shirt in its final form; we know that the sweatshop workers in developing countries exist and we hear about rampant factory pollution in other parts of the world, yet actually seeing part of that reality upon which our dream of the United States exists is another matter.

A lot of people close their eyes or don’t even think about the places outside of this gigantic fish bowl we live in. I’ve never been that way. And after being back here only a week, having glimpsed what exists outside, I’m already ready to go back out and stare the problems and contradictions in the face.

It doesn’t matter whether I look or not. The world couldn’t care less. Even so, I like not only acknowledging that it’s out there with all of its deformations and imperfections, but also caring about it deeply. I can’t simply be complacent. At least, I haven’t become that jaded yet. And I hope I never do.

Location: East Stroudsburg, PA, United States

Images of Peru

Being Peruvian-American, arriving in Peru for the first time in twelve years was a powerful experience.

When I arrived here during spring break in October, seeing the landscape from the airplane, a fullness entered my chest, the same feeling I�ve experienced upon returning home after weeks at college.

It�s crazy that I felt that sense of homecoming, because Peru has never been my home. All I knew of the country at the time were photos, a long past family vacation, fragments of memories that my parents told me, and whatever else I could piece together from my relatives� experiences in the States. I also had whatever my family had been able to bring to rural Pennsylvania, whether that was food, music or whatever else, but I�d never been able to touch Peru itself.

So to drive by the oil refinery on the outskirts of Lima, seeing people living in abject poverty in shacks among the dirt, was to experience a sobering shock I�d never expected. Peru had before been an amorphous concept, but there I could plainly see a veritable face of the country. And it disgusted me.

Although the barrios of Miraflores and Barranco in Lima are beautiful (among the more developed areas of the city), I also saw other parts of Lima that existed in depressing disrepair: Ramshackle affairs of houses thrown together in a hell of urban sprawl. Life-threatening traffic on every street. Kids selling candy and doing cartwheels at traffic lights to earn money.

Since arriving here in late November, now my third visit to Peru, I�ve had the opportunity to visit Cusco, Lake Titicaca, Puno, Arequipa, Ica and Huacachina, and my perspective has developed substantially.

To be honest, I was shaken by Cusco and the floating islands of Lake Titicaca. The rampant tourism there — seeing suppliant Peruvians practically begging to sell their wares at every possible moment — made me feel embarrassed.

Was this really Peru? I didn�t want to believe it. I saw nothing of the self-sufficiency of Buenos Aires. It seemed Peruvians were a somehow a subservient people that went about perpetually on their knees. I know it�s terrible to think so demeaningly, but the number of citizens with this sort of foreigner-centered mentality far outnumbered those of any other disposition. The people of the floating islands even sang a song and danced about, like circus clowns, for us tourists.

But arriving in the city of Puno, I finally saw a different face of Peru.

Sam and I were just two annoying backpackers taking up too much sidewalk space in the crowded city. People hardly looked at as they went about their daily business. If anything, they cautioned us, “There are thieves around here, be careful.” But that was all. We weren`t the center of attention, and it was wonderful.

It was the same in Arequipa. I saw Peru existing of its own accord. The rest of the world seemed so far away, and I was really here.

Of course, Machu Picchu and the ruins were amazing, but that�s the Peru of the past. And if all foreigners leave Peru knowing only those ruins, some parts of Lima and the touristed areas of Cusco and Lake Titicaca, that constitutes an image of the country that in no way does it justice.

Location: La Avenida del Arco 189, Lima, Peru

Bus-Ride Dreams

Riding the bus through the mountains of Peru today, I saw the Pacific Ocean�s splendor underneath a beautiful setting sun. I couldn�t help but stare. This is a wonderful country to gawk at, and I�m glad I had the chance to pass through the endless sand dunes and sheer cliffs on the country�s shore.

When nighttime falls, the absolute darkness outside the windows still impresses me. No streetlights, no headlights, no signs of civilization. It�s the sense of the land being unspoiled by human development that I like, existing independently and unconsciously of us as if we didn�t even matter.

And when the fairytail-like twinkling of a new city finally comes into view, faraway, it fills me with a sense of anticipation for the experiences that�ll unfold there — the characters I�ll meet, the stories I�ll hear, the things I�ll learn.

This feeling of going to new places is akin to how I feel waking up before the sun rises, the realization that a whole life of unexpected moments exists ahead of me waiting to be discovered.

Being on the move, it�s easy to feel alive. Everything I see is so fresh. The downside is that those same places and people are so fleeting, and I barely have the chance to percieve them before they�re gone.

Currently in the town of Huacachina, another acquaintance on the road for me to glimpse for a short time, and only from the window.

Location: Huacachina, Peru

Discrimination – Getting Called Out in a Crowd

Cusco draws a lot of tourists. Expensive restaurants like Jack�s Cafe serve American-style burgers and hiking stores — due to the big attraction of Machu Picchu — swarm the streets near the central Plaza de las Armas. Many locals pinpoint foreigners to sell goods or ask for money. People actively pursue this so often that it becomes a headache.

A street artist waited for me outside a restaurant for an hour and a half with his portfolio. He managed to sell me a picture I didn�t even particularly like, simply because I felt badly for him.

After that, a shoe-shining man, seeing the leftover food I had in a doggie bag, proceeded to follow me and Sam halfway to our hostel several blocks away. He begged me for the food continuously. If I hadn�t already spent so much money on the painting, I might�ve given it to him.

Little girls on the street will look at me and smile. I�ll smile back. Then they�ll hold out a hand, saying in a sweet voice, “�Propina?“, which of course means that they�re asking for money.

People ask me for money so often that I don�t even know what to do with myself anymore. I just want to shout at them, “I can�t help the entire freaking world! I want to, but do you know how many other people I�ve helped today?”

And it�s ridiculous for me to get upset like this: I�m not the one begging on the street.

It�s in this context that, after visiting a church in the Plaza San Francisco, Sam and I were drawn to a street comedy show. A man had drawn a laughing crowd of 150 people or so and was shouting and acting obscenities. After one of his sketches, he pointed directly at us and shouted, “You! Whitey! Where are you from?“

Sam responded, the United States.

The comedian busted on him for a moment. Then he called me out, asking for my nationality.

I responded, the United States.

Everyone laughed and he joked about me, as if it that fact were impossible.

This was easy to smile at until the comedian grew progressively more incisive with his commentary. I don�t remember what he said exactly. He sarcastically mentioned people from the United States coming to have a good time in his beautiful country. He put on a blond wig of long hair like a woman�s, saying he now looked just like us. Everyone continued laughing.

He then said that us — these people from the United States — should give him money, right there in front of the crowd, or be disgraced. He approached us, holding out the wig in mock, exaggerated suppliance. Everyone watched in anticipation and the tension in the air was thick. Sam didn�t understand quite what was going on, and he was still laughing at the “joke.” Angry, uncomfortable and defeated, I reached into my pocket and gave him two coins. I wasn�t even sure how much they were worth.

“6 soles! Look, how generous! Thank you so much!” he said when he�d returned to the center of the crowd.

Even then he continued heckling us and abruptly Sam caught on and said, “Let�s get out of here.”

This scenario was still burning in my mind when we sat down at a poller�a (restaurant that sells almost exclusively chicken, fries and salad), less than 20 minutes later. Sam and I were eating quickly, having paid before sitting down because we had to catch a bus.

When Sam rose to fill up his salad bowl, a Peruvian man glared at me and said condescendingly, “Make sure he leaves tip. Don�t forget to leave tip.”

I was ready to freaking explode.

I scarfed down a few more forkfuls of food, shaking my head and getting angrier by the second. Sam saw my annoyance but I wasn�t even paying attention to him. Far past ready to leave, I tore 2-sole coin out of my pocket, held it up so the man could see and slammed it on the table-

As we were leaving, I leaned onto the table next to the man. He looked past me at the television screen, ignoring me. I said in Spanish while Sam put on his backpack, “I�m the son of two Peruvians, and he is one of best people I�ve ever met.“

“And I speak very good English!” he said turning his head.

I�m not sure what I�d wanted to accomplish. All I�d wanted was to combat ignorance or discrimination, I think, but what would the confrontation really get me? Nothing in the end. But I was so incredibly pissed at everything that had transpired before then that I wasn�t thinking straight.

“Don�t judge my friends,” is what I said, and I left the restaurant, shaking my head, a mix of emotions I�d never felt before swirling around inside me.

Thankfully, I�ve never experienced much discrimination in my life. If I have, it�s been inconsequential. So to walk around with Sam — tall, white and blond — while in Peru has been an eye-opening experience. People treat me so differently when I wander around alone, lending themselves more warmly to conversation, begging me for money less. Now I�ve been noticing the eyes watching us as we walk, and I stare pointedly back at them, wanting to say, “What is your problem?”

Things have been different since leaving Cusco, but those few days have been branded into my memory.

Location: Arequipa, Peru

The Porters

Wi�ayhuayna (“forever young”): the last setting-off point before Machu Picchu. A hubbub of hikers, porters and guides, the campsite was laden with tents pitched at different levels of the mountainside. Smelly adventurers with four days� worth of sweat lined up to wash at the restaurant-slash-bar, the only building with warm water, or any modern convenience for that matter, since we embarked on the Inka Trail.

It was a cool night. The 20-something hikers of our group waited impatiently outside the restaurant for William, our chief tour guide, to start the ceremony. A short man with a permanent good-natured but sardonic look on his face, he�d called us there to formally thank the porters, local men whose job on the trail included carrying tents, chairs, utensils, food, etcetera, as well as cooking meals and cleaning dishes, plus whatever other essentials were necessary on the trip.

Before long, the porters began to group in front of us, all thirty-one of them. It was the first time we�d seen them together at once. Of course we�d had the experience of walking beside them up the mountainsides as they carried packs many times larger than ours, and at that, much faster than we ever could�ve managed. We`d commented on how they only wore thin sandals for those hikes. We�d also realized how incredibly nice and supportive they�d been throughout those four days, and so we rightfully understood the importance of saying “thank you.”

But that moment was the first time that I could place a veritable face on the porters. There they were, some as old as fifty, others in their early twenties, some looking a bit abashed, others with the comfort of having been through countless ceremonies like this one before.

The tourists on one side, the porters on the other, it was impossible to not notice the contrast. The porters deal with long absences from home and health problems for their work. The trip never gets easy. And knowing that the Inka Trail was just a pastime for me left me feeling ashamed and inadequate in front of them.

One by one, William introduced the porters and their duties on the trip, sometimes a biographical detail. Children, grandchildren. Years on the trail.

Us hikers also, one by one, offered our personal “thank yous”.

The biggest take-away for me was that the porters aren�t to be pitied at all for their work. Moreover, they should be respected because they work a hell of a lot harder than I could ever imagine.

I can extend this mentality. Treating foreigners with a common United States mentality that we`re coming to somehow �save the day,� educate, etcetera, is really problematic. People deserve so much more than that.

Location: Cuzco, Peru

Machu Picchu.

Inside the dimly lit dining tent, the other 20 hikers rubbed their hands together, huddled up underneath their jackets while the wind blew briskly outside. We`d finished a grueling 7-hour climb that literally had us scaling the Andes Mountains earlier that day, and we greedily drank steaming vegetable broth from metal saucers, exchanging our experiences of reaching Warmihu�usca Pass (in Quechua, literally “where the woman dies” due to the rock formations visible near at the top), at an altitude of 4,200 meters.

Fernando and Vera — a Brazilian couple, each of them about 60 years old — were celebrating their 20-something anniversary on that second night of the 4-day Inka Trail. Hanna, a middle-aged Belgian woman perpetually wearing a colorful Bolivian hat and best described as a traveling hippie, had already been journeying across South America for nine months. For Emily and Sam, from Australia, it was their fourth month on the road. An Englishman named Mike was doing a 6-month internship in Lima, the capital city, and was taking a short break from his work.

Argentina. Chile. Brazil. England. Holland. Belgium. Uruguay. Australia. Canada. France.

Since arriving in Cusco, I�ve met people from around the world. On the hike alone, nine nationalities were represented, a motley assortment of adventurous and global citizens. For me, meeting so many different kinds of people is the most valuable aspect of going to other countries.

That we could experience the Quechua culture together on the hike to Machu Picchu is intercultural exchange at its best. There`s something to be said for the collective effort of scaling mountains in a foreign place, the end goal being to see and learn about an ancient city from a culture far removed from any of our previous life experience.

That said, I don�t think anyone was expecting the trip to be so intense.

This part of the hike had left most of us exhausted. Couple that with frigid temperatures, thin mattresses, slippery slopes due to the rainy season, etcetera, etcetera, and you have all the adverse conditions necessary for making strong bonds in a short span of time.

The hike itself was nothing short of amazing. The 4-day Inka Trail is the one of same roads originally used by the Quechua people during their peregrination, or religious journey, to Machu Picchu. Characterized by seemingly endless flights of stairs and unreal views of expansive landscapes from atop gigantic mountains, it was more than anything I could`ve expected, especially because the trail is so unforgiving: It requires real effort on the part of the tourist to appreciate the Inka culture in this way.

Near La Puerta del Sol (“Door of the Sun”), on the fourth day of the hike, I clambered up the final flight of stairs that would finally allow me to glimpse the city. Veiled by wisps of rising mist, the stone walls and buildings on the mountain below me constituted one of the most impressive sights I�ve seen in my life.

Words and pictures fail to capture what it�s like to be there. Understanding the nearly vertical climb at certain points of the hike up Huayna Picchu — the 2.720-meter mountain that rises over Machu Picchu — and the sense of vertigo that comes along with it, and standing at the top of a precipice inches away from a death-dealing plummet: You can`t get that unless you actually look down and see the drop in front of your feet.

Machu Picchu is one of the wonders of the world for good reason. It`s extraordinary.

Afterward, having taken the bus from the top of the mountain to the nearby tourist town of Aguas Calientes (“hot waters”), all the hikers gathered at the hot springs to relax after the long trek. The smiling faces of the rambunctious Argentines, the calm and collected Brazilians, the pop culture-oriented Australians — they seemed like those of old friends at that point.

There is so much left to describe about this trip that led us through some of the most impressive sights of Peru, namely the conditions of the porters who guided us, carried most of the camping equipment and cooked our food. They do this — really, really hard work — for a pittance compared to what I can earn in the States serving coffee at Dunkin� Donuts. But that�s the way the world works.

Sure, I can befriend people similarly privileged citizens from countries around the world, all the while learning a lot about different cultures. But no matter what, as valuable, wonderful and incredible as it is, it always leaves a bad taste in my mouth.

Location: Cusco, Peru

Cities and Landscapes

Traveling over the mountains toward Cusco, I thought the landscape existed on a larger scale than anything I�d seen before. I�d post pictures to demonstrate, but the image upload on the blog is currently malfunctioning.

I�d heard references to landscapes before, describing them as nature�s works of art. I finally understand what that means; it seemed like God himself reached down and carved the hills and mountains, splashed some grass to add texture and plopped trees into the scene for good measure. Like a canvas.

Now I�m in Cusco, and the atmosphere of this city couldn�t be more different than the atmosphere of Buenos Aires. Cobblestone streets, colonial buildings, churches. It�s interesting to see the contrast, which I�ll describe in more depth later.

The people are different here, too. I hate to generalize, but there�s something in the affective manner Peruvians speak that makes them seem nicer. I bought a roadside snack, meat speared by a wooden stick. A little girl, hungry, looked at me while we were in the crowd and asked me if she could have some. Small, soft black eyes. I gave her everything I had left. It�s hard to not let that look penetrate you.

Location: Cusco, Peru

Peru

I`m on a bus to Cusco, traveling east through the mountains after spending a night in Ventanilla. I`m using an onboard computer with WIFI with the company Cruz del Sur, the best bus service I�ve ever experienced (excellent, authentic food, arroz con pollo, for dinner, and even a game of Bingo to pass the time)

Soon, I`ll be walking the Camino of the Incas, or a 4 day hiking trail leading to the ruins of Machu Picchu in the heart of the Andes Mountains. This is after experiencing culture shock for the umpteenth time by returning to the country my parents left so many years ago.

The extreme poverty of the habitations around Lima still strikes me: ramshackle affairs of houses thrown together on dunes of dirt, hardly a walk`s away from oil refineries spewing smoke. I`m here with a friend I met at IES, Sam Hodges, and we`ve been discussing how those effects of rampant neoliberalism manifest themselves here like the gnarled flipside of a seemingly pretty coin.

Traveling is interesting in how it affects you, and when I say �you� of course that means me.

I gain a better understanding of the world, which is odd because that understanding amounts to a realization of how absurdly complex it really is, and how it becomes even moreso the more I see.

I`m going to post this entry before we lose Internet access; we`re climbing higher and reception will cut out soon.

I`ll say one last thing: the darkness outside the window is absolute. No streetlights. No buildings. Every once in a while, we see another car, though that`s not often. It`s a bit eerie how, when I look through the glass, there`s absolutely nothing out there.

Location: Andes Mountains, Peru

Last Night in Buenos Aires

I’m in no way ready to leave Argentina.

In some respects, I’ve allowed my life to fall to pieces while studying here. My academics have gone completely down the drain. I’ve reevaluated everything that I’ve ever worked to achieve, and to top it off, those ideas I once had are not just altered but completely broken.

It’s a beautiful thing, because I’ve realized that there’s more to life, so much more than what rural Pennsylvania has to offer.

This might seem especially melodramatic, even naive. But after participating in the occupation of the university, attending student protests and living in a culture that is so distinct from the cold atmosphere of the northeast, I wonder if I’m not steadily losing some part of my humanity back at home.

Tomorrow, I fly to Per�, back to the “homeland,” to see Macchu Pichu and travel aimlessly for a few weeks.

I’ll continue blogging as often as I can until the next semester begins, probably posting an abundance of photos and reflections when I get back to the States that I just don’t have the time to record right now. I like living in the moment as much as I can, and I think ultimately that dedicating time to that should amount to better entries in the long run.

Peace.

Location: Avenida Paraguay, Buenos Aires, Argentina

Three weeks

I have three weeks left in Buenos Aires.

In the plaza at the UBA today, instead of focusing on the 80-page reading in my hand, I couldn’t help but scan the scene: adolescents kicking around a decrepit soccer ball; guys with beards and bracelets strolling; gals with cigarettes in hand, chatting.

Friends kissing each other on the cheek to say hello. Later on, students shouting the words to the march of Juan Peron, accompanied by bass drums.

The rides home on the bus after my night class on Wednesdays. The women at the Laundromat, for whom I buy pastries in return for getting a discount on my clothes. The Peruvian restaurant where I go every Sunday for lunch. Another restaurant where I buy empanadas on Mondays and Tuesdays, empanadas that are as mediocre as they can get but I go there anyway because that means I can chat with the waiter there about life at large and goof around with her 7-year-old son.

I met a jewelry maker today on my way to class. He travels across Argentina, Brazil and Uruguay, a free spirit, and we talked about politics and, well, traveling.

I can’t believe I’m going to lose all of this soon. At the same time, I know it was never really mine, at least not to keep.

Four months isn’t long enough.