The Protest

My parents, being the best-est parents in the world, came to visit me for my birthday. It was a tight 3 days they were going to be here and as much as I wanted things to go perfectly, things never seem to go as planned in Huancayo. (As a side note, I have decided that I will always plan future vacations for more than 2 weeks). Not only did things not go as planned, but during the few days they were here, my parents and I experienced a series of firsts.

The Saturday evening my parents arrived, we had planned to go out for a birthday dinner, but it started to rain hard. It would be the first of three days in a row that it would hail golf balls in the afternoon. They say it was the first time it had ever hailed so much in Huancayo.

I had planned Sunday to be as Huancaino as possible, which is what my parents wanted - first, the patriotic flag ceremony in the main plaza and the parade that follows, led by the military's band. I've seen at least part of the parade almost every Sunday because I love that community feel when all the families come out, kids running around, buying paper hats and ice cream. So, my parents and I are out there, ready and on time to see the whole thing, but the flags are already up, no ceremony. Turns out, it was the day of the yearly "Marathon of the Andes." They had suspended the flag ceremony for the day to cheer on the exhausted runners who had started from Jauja.

On the Monday, the last full day my parents would be here, I had to go to work. I left early in the morning for Jauja where we were doing some home visits, finished as quickly as possible and was on my way home by noon so I could spend the rest of the afternoon with my parents. The only thing stopping us from getting back were a million huge stones, lit up tires, and tree trunks lying across the highway - the 2,500 citizens of Concepción (a city pretty up in between Huancayo and Jauja) were protesting all the garbage Huancayo was dumping in their little town. It was my first time experiencing a protest. We walked for two hours past all the vehicles, past all the road obstructions, past the crowd of protestors, past the police on the other side with their body-length shields, to the part of the highway where cars were finally moving.

Thankfully - although the protest continued through the rest of the week - my parents were able to get out of Huancayo safely and on schedule. Thanks for coming to visit, mum and dad!

A Thousand Miles

I have spent a lot of time lately, walking. I used to know a guy in Japan who would walk for miles and miles, just wandering, and I always wondered how he did it. How can someone not bore themselves to death just walking around the city for hours on end? He would come back from his walks and tell us how beautiful the cherry blossoms were in a certain part of town he had discovered or what kinds of shadows the sun makes on the hills as the sun sets. In Japan, I remember thinking, what a bore nature is. I wanted to be able to appreciate nature so bad, but I couldn’t find the time; I didn’t care to find the time to slow down.

So I’ve been slowing down here and walking from place to place, almost an hour each way. As of now, I am still consumed by the following three thoughts: “Holy bejeezus, this walk is taking forever,” “My feet hurt,” and “Am I there yet?” It’s just another example of how I am so stuck on the end result, on crossing things off of my to-do list, that I don’t know how to just walk anymore.

I’m not willing to leave things unorganized. I’m not ready to just let things be. As I walk, I realize how many houses are left unfinished. In Vancouver, I see unfinished buildings and the rush to finish construction, the rush to complete the perfection that the city is to be by the time the Olympics arrive in 2010. In Huancayo, I see unfinished buildings… as unfinished buildings. That’s just the way they are, sometimes for months or years as the family struggles to earn more money, sometimes forever.

And it makes me think of the thirty houses I’ve visited in and around the city of different types of families – different structure, different situations, different economic levels. But I’ve found that the majority of families live in houses that I would consider messy or dirty. To them, it’s okay that there are a million utensils in the kitchen out of place or forever without a place, it’s okay that all their mugs are cracked or chipped in some way, it’s okay that there are irremovable stains everywhere – in the tiles of the floor, in the cabinets, the dressers, the stove, the walls. It’s okay that their closet is actually a shelf with a blanket over top, tilted a bit and never perfectly covering the entire shelf. It’s okay if there are a million projects in-progress that may never be finished. It is a situation that would normally make me go insane, but I am learning to relax.