busy days

I've spent this entire week in the office extracting some sense from my field notes. The hope lies in the observations recorded in these notes, in my field notebook. I seek muse in the messy blue or black lines in this notebook and search for what I have already seen and felt and smelled: the need for something extraordinary to happen here, to these children who deserve it; the need for a flash of white lightning to strike ground and jolt the seed in the hard land and let it grow, to survive and stand as example of the good will and smarts of that lightning and all those who are part of this. Who says it has not happened already?

These are hard aspirations indeed and must explain why it has taken me a week to write nothing but a few phrases in mixed language (Castellano and English) that detail not-much.

Wish me luck! I already tire of the office routine and yearn for the "campo" where I cut my teeth and soul learning to learn and playing to play, always dirty and dusty. Let's do hope that this time in a cubicle in Lima, Peru, will yield something good; will open the doors for honest evaluation of past efforts and agressive aspirations for the future.

The school year winds to an end and I too am happy to see the summer flow and to wear shorts and simple t-shirts. I will spend this short-sleeve capital on composing a symphony of flow in the waters of public pools where Collin and I will instruct the young ones in swimming and inspire water fun. Another dream come true, might as well confess another in hopes of having the same luck I've had here: med school?

hi!

There is a beautiful scene around me:

We all sit at our corresponding portion of desk working on our corresponding portion of good, and through the doorway behind me, one I barely pay attention to, light streams and so does music from an old megaphone posted above a street market concretely organized behind our office, made of shacks and stands cemented by hot and cold, and dirty and clean food. And blaring from this megaphone is the beautiful "criollo" music of Peru, melancholic and always proud of the motherland, sounding first within a small circular metal space that aggressively expands into air leading the sound, the voices, sometimes unclear, but always strong, to reach me and move my heart. What an experience!

I never imagined being in Peru—to hear the guitars and the "caja" make melody and harmony with voice—to sweat below the ecuator, under clouds that bless the land. I've flown over that silky, silver cover, broken at times by magnificent and jagged mountains, products of strong and fearsome quakes.

This work is hard but also beautiful. I've been on the edge of drunkenness with Paul Farmer; delighted in a genius cuisine, too often eclipsed by rice and potatoes; learned some of the orthographic rules of Castellano; contracted diarrhea; done research; pissed people off; made others laugh; given more hugs than ever before; given my blood to fleas, my sweat to the polluted sky, and my tears to Elaine. I've fallen in love with a land that poses a tremendously stubborn problem but a wonderful invitation to engage and dance along the many rhythms of the southern hemisphere.

And so how do I conclude this impromptu post, written in an office, on a street, in a place far away from you? By making you feel that I am close, much closer to you all than I have ever been.

patas arriba

poem

I thought of you when I ate this morning at an outdoor street market
all the veggies were poor and dirty
and I thought that it is unjust for people to have to eat lower grade food
and I wanted to take a picture of the hand holding the spoon feeding the mouth of the man next to me, filthy and black
eating soup
I ordered what I thought were mushrooms but discovered to be organ
and some chunks of fried meat with golden and crispy 5 o'clock shadows
I left for fear of vomiting
but it only cost S/. 3.50

PEF and the volunteers

Here we are from left to right: Collin, Chloë, Paul Edward Farmer (PEF), Holly, and yours truly. We each consumed two Pisco Sours and talked of "eating shit for the poor." Good times.

field trip with "promotores"

The team of "promotores" is pictured here along with L. and her little one. The males are overwhelmed by the females. As seems to be the case throughout, women dominate the field of community development.

Here we are on the "trompo."

dead dog

I discovered this dog lying dead in front of his keeper's home. The day before, I discovered him dying under a heap of trash. After freeing him and speaking with his owner I learned that he, Punky, had gone missing for a week.

So why is there a picture of a dead dog on my blog?

I have been told that it is a disturbing image. Yes it is.