No Respect for the Sound of Silence

March 27, 2008 at 4:05 pm (Dateline: Huancayo)

A good night’s sleep is hard to find on the road in Peru, and sometimes even at home.

When we first moved into our apartment, I was worried about being able to fall asleep to the sounds of the city, especially the taxis and microbuses that stream by our building on Larco Avenue, honking at all hours, as if to keep themselves awake. In that first week here I remember talking about whether we should move to a different apartment. Then we discovered a fan in the closet, and with that turned on at night, there’s just enough white noise to take the edge off of the traffic. Larco Avenue is now the least of my worries.

I should own up to being a finicky sleeper. I like a dark room and complete silence, and so maybe my expectations are unreasonable. But let me tell you about a few of highlights of the year, and you can decide where the line should be drawn.

During a service visit in Piura last November, we stayed at a hotel with a good reputation, fronting on the central plaza. All went well until 11 o’clock that night when someone directly below us cranked up the music. As it turned out, it was karaoke night, and the karaoke bar was located directly underneath our room. Who knew? The hotel staff matter-of-factly assured us that the music would be over in an hour or so. Not to worry. Around 2 a.m., I carried a suitcase to a room at the far end of the hotel, trying to get away from drunken voices with no hope of carrying a tune, with no hope of wearing out.

One of the worst deprivation stretches came just this past week when we were in Huancayo, staying at Susan’s Hotel along the main street, Avenida Real. The first night I woke up at 3:30 a.m., thinking the TV was turned on in our room. It was a room across the hall. So I got dressed and went downstairs to ask the attendant at the front desk to please ask our neighbors to turn down the volume.

The second night was fine. The third night I woke up around 12:30 a.m. to a fierce knocking and insistent calling, “Antonio, Antonio.” I waited a few minutes, but the knocking continued. So I got dressed again, and in the hallway found a woman next door trying to get into her room. The same attendant was there as well, and he apologized and explained that the woman’s son had apparently fallen asleep in the room, and he had the only key.

On the fourth night I kept my shoes by the door. Sure enough, around 2 a.m. I woke with the room around me vibrating. It was the strangest sensation. It seemed as if a machine somewhere close by, maybe surrounding the room, was about to explode. I got dressed and went downstairs to find my friend at the front desk. He followed me upstairs and seemed as puzzled as I was by the sound; we split up and walked around the hotel in the semidark, the second floor, the third floor, the fourth floor, trying to pinpoint the source of the loud vibration. He found it: the water heater was acting up.

I was ready to head home to Lima, but there was one more service visit to go. The next night, I found myself sharing a room with two students, a stone’s throw from a river flowing deeper into the jungle. The only thing I heard that night was the glorious sound of surging water. One night to go. Though Casa Blanca offered more than 100 rooms, a complimentary breakfast, and a touch of elegance in a swimming pool, I seemed to be the only guest that night. It was just me and the attendant at the front desk. I was too tired to swim, and was ready to sleep by 10. And then, in bed, I heard a sound — a television set. In this hotel of three floors, with dozens of rooms on each floor, the management had placed the only two guests in adjoining rooms. I got dressed and went down to the front desk. The attendant apologized and said he could place me in another room, but with an added surcharge, or he could ask the people next door to turn down the volume. As tired as I was, I went for the polite request option, but without much hope (in fairness to the couple, it was only 10 at night). The most amazing thing was that I never heard another sound that night, and slept almost as well as I had along the jungle river. Maybe, just maybe, my luck is turning.

P.S. One of the most disturbing nighttime noises we’ve ever heard was back at home in Lima earlier this year. Around 4 a.m. we were awakened by the sound of a body hitting something hard like pavement. Then immediately we heard bawling moans, like that of a small child with an otherworldly tone. At first we thought someone was hurt on the street out front. I hurried down from our second-floor apartment to find the security guard at the front door, arriving at the same time as a woman who lives upstairs on the fourth floor. She said that her cat had fallen from the kitchen window and landed on the cement pad of our laundry patio, which is accessible only from our kitchen. We hurried back upstairs and opened the door to the patio. The cat came to her, apparently no worse for the fall. The only thing broken was the clothes line.

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Catholics vs. Evangelicals: Tracking the Spirit

March 17, 2008 at 7:07 pm (Dateline: Chimbote)

My bags were packed for the midnight bus ride home to Lima, at the end of a service visit with two of our Goshen students. I was sitting in a place called the gringo room at Our Lady of Perpetual Help in Chimbote, looking over some of their books. This is also the room where the parish feeds the many volunteers who come from the U.S. and Europe to serve for a day, a month, a year, or longer, in a coastal city where poverty, like the sand, seems endless. As I was reading, in walked Father Jack Davis, the lead pastor.

Father Jack, also known as Padre Juan or Juanito, is a fount of wisdom and a tireless advocate for the poor and dispossessed. He’s also not afraid to mix it up with authorities when he thinks they are compounding, rather than easing, problems in the community; only that day he had criticized the mayor of Chimbote over frustrations in the building of a parish youth center.

He took a seat in one of the comfy chairs, ready to rest a bit. And then he told stories. He talked about his friendship with Gustavo Gutiérrez, who grew up in Huánuco in the central mountains of Peru and came to Chimbote to lay out his case for a “preferential option for the poor” and a theology that might serve as “liberation.” Father Jack talked about the time that he met Mother Teresa in 1982, and, in Peruvian style, immediately embraced and kissed her (only later to realize that no one kisses Mother Teresa).

Father Jack was born in Devils Lake, North Dakota, in 1943. As the biography An Ordinary Man: An Extraordinary Mission puts it, he has spent more than 30 years “living and working with the poorest of the poor in a desert place where tourists are warned there is little to see and the stench is terrible.” (In truth, a little more stench would be good; the fishing industry is so depressed that too often the processing plants here sit idle).

He first came to Chimbote in 1971, a year after an earthquake leveled most of the city, killing thousands. In the years that followed, he supervised the building of a parish dynamo, with a network of services that has extended into all parts of the community: soup kitchens, after-school tutoring, hospice care, drug rehabilitation centers, homes for the homeless, a wheelchair manufacturing enterprise for the unemployed — and the list goes on.

More than once as we sat, he said, “It is not God’s will that people be poor.” That reminded me of a Christmas letter that he sent out years back, inspired by a photograph of an old man seated outside the convent, repairing shoes: “His determined struggle to make a living helps me to remember that Jesus, the Son of God, became man to show us how to live, that Jesus was born poor, lived humbly and patiently taught us, his disciples, to make his kingdom present on earth — a kingdom where justice, peace and love will reign through our daily witness of his message.”

I sensed an opportunity to ask a question that has been on my mind for months: which of the two main church branches, the Catholic or the Evangelical, is more faithful in this time to the call to make the kingdom present on earth? As soon as I asked the question, I knew how silly it was, as though there should be some zero-sum competition between Christians.

And yet, in fairness to the person who asked the question, it often feels that way. We have students living with Catholics and students living with Evangelicals. In journals and in conversation, the students let us know about the real divide between these two faith groups. The Catholics, clearly, have the power, and not just in terms of parishioners. The Catholic Church came to Peru with the conquistadors; the Catholic Church was present when Francisco Pizarro took the Inca chief Atahualpa prisoner in Cajamarca (in part on the pretext that Atahualpa had thrown a Bible to the ground). Along with Pizarro and his band, the church from day one enjoyed the spoils of the conquest.

Centuries later, the Catholics lay claim to the grand churches that anchor every main square in every town. Meanwhile, the Evangelicals hold their worship services in smaller halls, and their Bible studies in homes. But what they lack in physical resources, they often make up for in fierce conviction. Students are often surprised when they first hear Evangelicals speak of the time when they “became Christian” or “found the Lord” — in other words, when they left the Catholic Church to become Evangelicals. And students are impressed by the charismatic intensity of some Evangelical services, in which worshippers are “slain in the spirit,” falling to the ground at a pastoral touch. In certain Evangelical circles, our students can personally confirm, Bible studies are held almost nightly.

When I close my eyes and think about Catholics in Peru, Father Jack and his mission come to mind. When I think about Evangelicals, another friend comes to mind. He studied evenings for years at a seminary while fixing toilets and stacking chairs at that same seminary during the day to support his family. Only weeks ago, he said that he and his family were moving to Huancavelica, where a quiet and proud Andean people remember between caught between the Shining Path and the army, where there was no win-win-win or win-win or win, where the theme then and now, he said, is paucity: few who can read, few who believe, few who can pay the bills. He told us that one of the churches to which he will be assigned has had four different pastors in the last year. Still, having heard the call, he is eager to go.

Our lecturer on religion, Professor Fernando Armas Asinn, told us that the 1993 census counted 89 percent of Peruvians as Catholic, with Evangelicals making up the bulk of the remainder. More recent estimates place the Catholic majority at about 81 percent. But only about 12 percent regularly attend Mass, he said, so the majority would be considered “cultural Catholics.”

So what did Father Jack say, when asked which branch of Christianity is the more faithful to the call of “liberation theology”? Well, he never actually answered the question. He went on to tell a story whose theme was that our gift, and our burden, is to “see the face of Christ in every person.”

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Mejores Ingredientes. Mejor Pizza. Speed Garantía.

March 6, 2008 at 10:30 pm (Dateline: Lima)

Ordering a pizza back home in Goshen is challenge enough: “goodeveningwelcometopapajohnscanitakeyourorderplease?”

Here in Lima, the pizza managers talk just as fast, with their own set of zippy questions. If it weren’t for the pizza, we would never make these calls. It’s a very unpleasant experience. Questions are rapid fire. Visual cues are absent. But the Papa John’s pizza really is good, the closest we’ve found to the taste of pizza back home. (As they say, “Mejores ingredientes. Mejor pizza.”). So what to do?

You might think we should just go in person to order. That would make things easier, but Papa John’s is at least a 15-minute walk from our apartment, longer with pizza in hand. But today, as I was riding a bus near the pizza shop, I decided to take the next-best step: I walked in, introduced myself as a loyal customer, said that I experience mild anxiety whenever I order pizza over the phone, and asked whether they could tell me exactly what information they need to know to complete each order.

I had my pen and pad of paper ready. But the young man at the cash register talked so fast that I could barely write down the questions. Here’s what I got: “su número telefónico” (your telephone number); “su dirección” (your address); “más referencia” (something to help them find your apartment); “su appellido” (your last name); and “cuanto va a pagar” (whether you’re paying in dollars or soles, and the denomination). Wow. And that’s not including anything about the pizza itself.

Before I left, I did ask for a menu to go. As it turns out, pizza is becoming a universal language. The king of pizzas at the Papa John’s in Miraflores is called “The Works,” and includes some ingredients in what we would think of as English (pepperoni) and others in Spanish (aceitunas negras, or black olives). For 22 soles, or a little over $7, you can get a pequeña pie (6 slices); for 43 soles, the grande (8 slices); for 49 soles, the familiar (10 slices); and for 55 soles, the fiesta (12 slices).

The menu also mentions two great incentives: on Tuesdays, you can get a second pizza for only one sol; and, if your pizza is not delivered within 30 minutes, on any day of the week, you get two pies for free.

Now just down the street from Papa John’s is a Pizza Hut. This time I walked in, identified myself as a customer who gets nervous ordering pizza over the phone, and asked the woman at the cash register whether she could please write down the questions that they ask. She did, and in the order that they are asked:

1. Cual es su número telefónico? (phone number)

2. Cual es su dirección? (address)

3. Que sabor desea? (pizza you want)

4. Con cuanto va a cancelar? (how you’ll pay)

I recognized in No. 4 a question that had caught me off guard in the past. In a country where change is an endangered currency, the pizza delivery guys (and we’ve only seen guys) want to know what bill to expect.  It’s also nice to know what questions to expect when calling in an order.

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When One Summit Is Just Not Enough

March 1, 2008 at 9:01 pm (Dateline: Cusco)

We found ourselves on top of the world on a Thursday, taking in Machu Picchu in all of its glory. Even though we were there during the rainy season and had packed our ponchos , we had sunshine all day long. There were other tourists, but not so many as one would find in the summer months.

Because we arrived midmorning and stayed until late afternoon, we also had plenty of hiking time. Just about everyone in the group climbed up Huayna Picchu, an outcrop that rises more than 1,000 feet above its neighbor Machu, which itself is 8,000 feet high. The stone steps up Huayna Picchu were punishingly steep, even with steel ropes to hold on to, but the view from the rocky platform on top was well worth the climb. A few energetic students also managed to fit in walk to the Inca Bridge around the side of the mountain and up to the Sun Gate, the entry point to Machu Picchu for those who come by the Inca Trail.

We returned to our hostel in Ollantaytambo that evening, had supper, and went to bed early. Our guide through the Sacred Valley, Elvis, had told us we should be ready to leave for Cusco at 3 in the morning, to ensure that we would not have trouble getting through, since a strike was planned that day to protest a national law that some local residents said would give developers too much freedom to build near Inca ruins and other historical sites.

Supporters of the strike decided to show their backing far from Cusco, on the roads outside of Ollanta, with rock piles intended to slow, but not stop, traffic. At one place, we came across a tree, easily moved. Approaching the outskirts of Cusco, we confronted a much larger pine tree blocking the road; a group of travelers — in buses, cars, trucks, taxis — made common cause and finally moved the tree.

Not long afterward a group of young men who smelled of alcohol and looked as though they had pulled an all-nighter came racing at the caravan of vehicles. They quickly opened the valve stems on our bus to deflate the tires, and then moved on to the vehicles behind us. While the bus driver agreed to stay behind with most of our luggage, we set out on foot for Cusco, in a misty drizzle, joining dozens of campesinos, who walked with a quiet resignation and sometimes heavy packs on their backs. All told, it was probably close to 7 miles till we got to our hostel, with a breakfast stop midway.

Later that day the transportation strike ended, led by cabdrivers who were eager to get back to work. Clusters of workers, including members of the construction union, held rallies into the evening. That night, we got our luggage back, and Cusco seemed its old self, open for business, especially catering to the tourist class. There were even hints that the city had regained a sense of humor. While we assembled in front of the cathedral for a walk to a pizza restaurant that evening, a young boy with a tray of cigarettes for sale kept trying to tell us that his product “es bueno para la salud.” Cigarettes good for your health? Even he had to smile.

The folks back in Lima are still not smiling about the strike. Peru’s minister of tourism and trade said this week that a meeting of Asian tourism executives would not be held in Cusco in May as planned, because of the upheaval. Radio commentators and newspaper columnists are all trying to make sense of Cusco’s apparent belligerence. Only last year Machu Picchu was named one of the seven modern wonders of the world; tourism is the primary source of revenue in Cusco; more people than ever want to visit the region. Why risk putting an end to that momentum?

One reason is the uneven distribution of tourism and other dollars. As several cab drivers patiently explained, prices for basic commodities like cooking oil and essentials like gasoline have been rising, but wages for many workers remain stagnant at best. When told that rich foreigners might build fancy hotels and restaurants near sacred Incan ruins, longsuffering workers are easily stirred to protest.

And then too there is Ollanta Humala, the leader of Peru’s Nationalist Party who narrowly lost the presidential election to Alan Garcia in 2006. Some commentators see his hand orchestrating things. Garcia essentially won the Lima vote; Humala had overwhelming support nearly everywhere else.

Humala may be without a portfolio but he makes administration and business leaders nervous. In mid-May, Peru will welcome more than 60 world leaders for the European Union-Latin America and Caribbean Summit. Garcia no doubt sees this as his moment to shine, and to present the best face of Peru, a stable democracy with a muscular economy.

But Humala, whose friendships run leftward to Hugo Chávez in Venezuela and Evo Morales in Bolivia, is organizing a counter gathering, “The People’s Social Summit.” Plans call for discussing extreme poverty and environmental protection, but strikes or demonstrations might also be part of the agenda.

Prime Minister Jorge del Castillo said that the government would not try to block Humala’s summit, and that the presidents of other countries could participate if they wished. “There is democracy and freedom in Peru,” he said. And, he might have added, there is a divide, a deep divide.

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