The Ocean

My trip to Peru held many new experiences. One of them was the fulfillment of a personal dream of mine: to see the ocean.

Yeah, I've never been to the ocean, at least that I can recall. Plenty of lakes 'round here, sure, but they aren't the same thing.

It was the Monday we went to the other children's home and the holding tank (and also the day Dad and I went mountain climbing). Actually, we'd seen the ocean earlier in the trip when we visited a more ritzy part of Lima to eat lunch, but it wasn't up close. We watched from a distance while a couple people tried to surf, and shivered sympathetically every time they fell. But Monday we got up close and personal.

First we drove through the yards full of shipment containers. The less pleasant ocean-related smells seemed to gather around there. The area where we disembarked was a clean little park, complete with small grassy lawns and a statue involving a cannon. The shore was all rocky and kind of steep at points. My lake tourist-side kicked in and I immediately started watching for sea shells. Some people in the group started skipping stones or trying to catch fish, and others spent most of their time getting too close to the water and having to outrun the waves.

I think one of the coolest parts about that visit was just listening to the water. The view certainly wasn't that great, what with us being near a port and there being so many ships blocking the horizon. There weren't many seagulls like we get at home, so that did help a little. But the sound of the waves in and of itself was amazing, especially when the water receded: the sound of so much water rushing over the rocks, shifting them and pulling them and dragging the smaller ones back down. It wasn't a roaring, like how waves are usually described, but more like a...shushing sound, almost. (Susurrus, anyone?) It was one of those sounds that can be difficult to describe, like the wind in a hemlock* forest (which remains one of my favorite nature sounds). I wish there was some way I could have recorded it well. On that stretch of rock-covered beach, the sound probably was loud, but it didn't have that powerful quality like thunder.
We all wandered the beach for a while. I got a pocketful of shells and a couple neat stones. Many of the shells were stained a greenish color, and where worn smooth by the water. I ended up sharing them with Allenna when we got home, because she likes seashells and I could say I picked it up at the ocean.
I did double-check all my shells to make sure they didn't still have residents. It's not so much bugs that make me squeamish as the slimy, oozy, blobby creatures like slugs and things that live in shells.
There were other people there besides our group, though not many of them. I was kneeling down looking at rocks when a little Peruvian boy stooped next to me and picked up a tiny star fish. Excited by his find, he immediately leaned over to show it to me, exclaiming enthusiastic things I couldn't understand. I nodded and smiled and declared, "Muy bonita," which may not even be correct. Suddenly the boy was more curious about who on earth he was talking to than about his starfish. He took one hard look at me, realized I wasn't Peruvian, and scrambled away.
Our trip to the ocean turned out more profitable that just a collection of shells and fossils. Some in the group had been handing out tracts to the other visitors, and a couple ladies ended up getting saved right there as a result. That occasion served to remind me of the real reason we were there.
Years ago I noticed that I have a habit of staring at the ground when I walk. It's probably in part because I'm so clumsy and I'm trying to avoid anything that might cause me to trip. However, when I noticed this habit, I decided I should probably correct it, or I'd end up walking through life too focused on the dirt and miss everything else. I still have to make a conscious effort some days to lift my head and make eye contact with people and admire the flowers and look at what's ahead of me.
At the beach, I spent most of my time staring at the ground searching for tiny seashells which I could stuff in my pockets and admire as trinkets. I wasn't handing out tracts or even saying "hello" to the other people there. I barely noticed them until that little boy wanted to share in his discovery.
We get the same way in life: so focused on find seashells and watching our footing that we forget or ignore the people around us, and we forget that there's something ahead of us that we should be pressing for.We wander around, lost in our little world and careless to the rest. In the end, all we have to show for that are some shiny, broken, fragile little shells even the sea creatures don't want.
Putting myself in a new environment jolted me enough to wake me up to this reality, but already I'm off that "spiritual high". I'm not worried about losing the somewhat manufactured excitement and enthusiasm, but I am worried about losing or forgetting a true passion for people.

I enjoyed my visit to the ocean, but I'm disappointed that I missed the more important thing that happened there.

The Mountain

I realize that up until now my posts about Peru have been more about themes from the trip and not single stories or what we did day-by-day, as I'd originally intended. Turns out it's easier for me to organize my thoughts going with this new format, but in this post I am just going to give one story: the day I climbed the mountain (with Dad).

When we first arrived at the children's home (5 bloomin' AM), I was so groggy I couldn't sort out conversations on the bus from my own half-asleep hallucinations. I seem to recall that it was as we were pulling up in front of the home that someone made a comment about climbing a mountain. 

It was a generally accepted idea that our first full day would be spent relaxing, sleeping in, having brunch, and hydrating to avoid getting sick. However, most of us were up and functioning (at least basically) by 10:00. We were all warned to take it slow, but some silly person revisited the notion of going hiking, and the majority of the group adopted this notion.

The home is set uphill at the edge of a decently-sized mountain which leading into the higher peaks of the surrounding range. Before lunch more than half of our group was scrambling up this mountain.

I really wanted to go, but I was feeling cautious, not sure how I would handle a climb after so little sleep following an exhausting and thirsty day. (They do not give you enough water on planes.) I had a bit of a headache and deep down knew I was still tired, so I curled up on my top bunk with a journal and dozed in the sunlight. As I didn't see much real sunshine for the remainder of the trip, I later appreciated this.

However, I still wanted to try that mountain one day or another. A couple of the guys in the group hiked it together some of the mornings before breakfast, and I asked Dad if we could do the same. We were going to go Saturday, but plans got changed when so local officials started yelling at us and we didn't know what they were saying, and then Sunday was church day, obviously. So Monday it was.

I will say that on Saturday we went to visit some ruins and I did a little practice climbing. That was very neat, and good experience for me. I was unusually brave on this trip, and pushed myself farther than I normally do. Good thing, too.

I set my alarm on my watch for 7:00 on Monday. Breakfast was served at 9:00, and I figured 2 hours was plenty of time. I forgot, however, that I had never switched my watch to the correct timezone (never could figure out how). So at 6:15 local time I was knocking on the door to Mom and Dad's bedroom. Dad was up pretty quickly, and we set out into the pouring mist.

"You know it's just after 6:00, right?" Dad asked.

"Is it? That explains somethings...." Like how the sun was barely up.

I went armed with a bottle full of water, a Clif bar, and some crackers, all of which I stuffed into Dad's backpack. I had on some denim capris, some cheap Wal-Mart sneakers, layered shirts, and a sweatshirt, my hair in a ponytail.

The adventure before us was nothing like we were expecting, and it provided some excellent character building exercises and also some father/daughter bonding time. The early hour, the altitude, the adrenaline, the exhilaration, and the fear messed with my head and made me feel particularly philosophical and poetic. Thankfully I kept my mouth shut most of the time.

We had been told by the previous hikers in our group that the easiest way to get down was to go all the way to the top and take the trail there back down and around. I had no idea what the definition of "the top" was, and pretty soon we couldn't see very far for the fog. We could hear pretty well: chickens, dogs, some vehicles, the occasional goose, perhaps a sheep, and sometimes the falling rocks we kicked or tossed down.

10 or 15 minutes in, we sat down to catch our breath, and I nibbled my bar. Dad made some comment about how he wondered what the path down was like, because he certainly wouldn't be coming back this way. I wholeheartedly agreed.

The terrain changed from thin dusty sand over brown rock to rough, craggy granite with patches of moss. I wished aloud for a pair of decent climbing gloves. Earlier I had recalled Heather mentioning a spot where it got kind of scary, and I think we found it when the trail narrowly snaked along the edge. It was probably a good thing we couldn't see very far.

I think we took another short break somewhere around there, when we found a relatively level area. My hands smelled moldy, but that was the worst of my complaints. However, I learned that, at least mentally, it is significantly more difficult to stand back up after sitting down on steep, rocky ground.

From that point we pressed on. About an hour into our little trek, we started wondering about when we would find the trail down. We knew - or guessed - that it was near one of the peaks; which one remained to be seen, quite literally. Every time a peak rose out of the fog, I wondered if it was the right one, but then I'd see another one appear when we reached the previous.

At last we came to a point where the trail seemed to disappear. Sometimes before that point we could see marks where other people had gone before, but here there was nothing to be seen. I looked up, Dad went back down and around: zilch. Was this it? There was no obvious trail down.

After some debate, we figured we might as well start down. Perhaps we'd meet the correct trail on the way. There was no way we would be going back the way we'd come.

Dad took the lead. He had started that way, and at one point we switched for a little while. I was happy to follow his lead now. As soon as we stepped over the crest of the mountain, the sounds of the city below disappeared. The only sounds now were ours, though we made plenty of them.

Trusty solid ground became a memory, and every foot- and hand-hold was tested to ensure integrity. All the fun was gone, and now we just had to focus on the next move.

About that point, Dad and I made an agreement: there were some things Mom never needed to know.

In short, I learned how to control a free slide when no other option was available; my favorite phrase was "oops, sorry" when I kicked loose rocks that hit Dad's hands and feet, but thankfully not (to my knowledge) his head; I stuck to the four-point rule: three limbs and my face in contact with the mountain at all times. Sometimes we crabbed along an edge, hugging the sides and testing the reach of our arms and legs. A few times our only trail was the course of a previous landslide; once, near the end, it was a footpath for dogs. We came across a lost shoe, and a couple hundred feet later we found its mate. For a very long 3-4 seconds I had no foot- or hand-holds and was not in a controlled slide: some of the most terrifying seconds of my life.

Near the end, Dad reminded me of the possible danger of scorpions. Good thing he hadn't mentioned it earlier, because from then on I scrutinized every nook and cranny.

The aforementioned dog path took us back to the upward trail. Around the same time, the hum of the city returned. A path we had earlier determined was much too tough and dangerous to take down became a laughing matter, a breeze, a stroll. Suddenly we had our pick of paths to take, we could move vertically, and we could trust where we put our feet.

We took one final break, sitting down and enjoying the view, now that the fog had cleared. We saw my youth pastor jogging on a soccer field. Some dogs, indignant that we were on their turf, barked at us from a nearby backyard.

Finally, we started on the home stretch. One of the men from the group had come out of the dormitory at the home, coffee in hand, and watched us.

Dad and I resumed our conversation we had abandoned during the last tense hour. We were almost back.

Then I got too

confident. Conquering a mountain will do that to you. Literally two minutes from the bottom, I lost my balance and slipped.
I caught myself hard on my hands. Our coffee-drinking friend confirmed that my "Ow!" echoed. Dad paused to check on me; I'd slipped and automatically mumbled "ow" a number of times before, but that "ow" was usually out of surprise.
This was a real "ow".
The heel of my left hand was scraped and already red from blood that had welled up, though it didn't gush. Dad launched into a first-aid lecture as we finished our decent.
Looking back, I should have made up some heart-lurching story about how I got that "battle wound". Of course, I told the boring truth. And then cried in agony while some hand sanitizer did it's terrible job and said wound was properly cleaned. I seriously think I almost passed out.
We arrived, clean and on time for breakfast, and people said, "Oh, you climbed the mountain?" Ha! Did we ever. They were casual about it because they...well, they did it the right way. "But I, I took the road less traveled by." We had our own unique mountain experience, even if no one ever learns the details.
It was determined that we didn't follow the path far enough. Yeah, we'd worked that out on our own. No one was very clear on where the actual path could be found, though it sounded like we'd gone a little too far up that last cliff and missed the path that led around.

Looking back, I can't believe I managed that little adventure. At the time, there was no other option, so I guess my brain went into survival mode or something; I certainly wasn't thinking normally.

As we were making our way down, right before I fell, Dad made a comment about how I was even more like Bilbo Baggins. I'm assuming he meant something about mountain climbing in general, though it might have been an allusion to an Unexpected Journey. Certainly it didn't involve dragons, dwarves, or treasure hunting.

I don't regret doing it. The experience of trail-blazing and putting my rock-climbing abilities to the test is one I'll remember for a while (considering my indoor rock climbing attempts never amounted to much).

Unfortunately, I won't have a decent scar to commemorate it. Mom and Dad kept checking the status of my wound, worried about tetanus and blood poisoning and severe scarring, but a few days of antibiotic ointment and band-aids and then letting it sit in the open air and it healed disappointingly well. In the end, I might have some boring discoloration.

(I did have one of the girls scrutinize it on the bus ride. She grabbed my hands and I winced, and she noticed the scrape. She poked and prodded and muttered "ow" over and over until the nanny next to me told her to leave it alone.)

And that was my and Dad's mountain hiking adventure!

The Girl in the Corner

On Monday the 29th, we visited the holding tank. But before that we went to another children's home. The path to get there took us down a narrow alley and up a dark, winding flight of stairs to the fourth floor of a rundown building. We stepped through the doorway and were greeted by what felt like a crowd in the small quarters. Before us were a bench and a small table under a window; to the right, a staircase leading to the roof, with clothes hanging in the sun; to the left, past a washing machine, was the darkened kitchen, with cupboards bare of all but onions. On the wall directly to our left was a mural covered with handprints and names, and a phrase that was something like "Clean Hands and Pure Hearts - We Are All Children of God" with a Bible verse. Past that was a closed, broken door leading to a bedroom.

You could see patches of hazy sky through holes in the roof. I'm not sure how truly it was a roof, at least over the living room area. 

We said hello and then passed out bottles of fruit juice and packets of cookies and crackers. Bro. Mike had intended to come armed with bags of rice, but due to the holiday most of the stores were closed.

The matrons of the house, two older ladies with bent bodies and wide smiles revealing missing teeth, presided over a group of around 10 children, though "children" isn't strictly correct. Most of them looked to be in their late teens or early twenties. There were also a few with mental disabilities. The young people here were the ones no one wanted: rejected, unloved, abused.

One of the people in our group gave a gospel presentation. The one of the ladies who runs thehome stood up to tell their story. She and the other lady both had children of their own, all grown and some gone off to America. They both had been abandoned by their husbands and had to raise their children on their own. Now they raised more children here. They had to trust God for everything, living day to day and truly understanding the power of prayer. The wall with the mural had a story, too: that section of wall had collapsed, and another group from the states had built a new one.

Their story reminds me of George Mueller, the missionary who built a children's home and trusted God to provide for it. He never knew where their next meal would come from, but it always came.

The group sang a song before we left. Bro. Mike translated, but I don't remember all the words. The part I did catch was something like "you gave me a home and a name because I am a child of your heart". That visit is one example of how I went looking to bless and came away blessed instead.

However, there is one other part to that story. While the gospel was being given, Ms. Peggy noticed a girl sitting in the corner, her head hanging in shame. She didn't respond when Bro. Mike asked who wanted to be saved. She just sat there quietly.

Afterward Ms. Peggy approached to her and talked with her. I didn't hear the whole story, but the girl (maybe my age or a little younger) had just come from a different region of Peru and probably prostitution. She was ashamed of that old life and felt she didn't deserve God. Bro. Mike said he could tell she had trust issues from being hurt before.

I believe she ended up accepting Christ as her Savior. I pray God helps her get past her past and find hope and a new life in Him. Some people don't agree, but a sin like prostitution, voluntary or not, is no worse than lying, no better than murder, no greater than stealing. The person who lies to avoid punishment stands in as much shame as the prostitute, and God is the answer for both of them. This girl was helped to see that, and given hope to lift her above it.

After that children's home, we went to the holding tank. I've already told you a little about the girls there. What we learned after we'd met them and talked with them was that one of them had a 2-year-old child. I don't know which girl. It doesn't really matter. I mentioned that most of those girls had histories of human trafficking and abuse. The oldest there was 17. You could see how they were hurting; how they all longed to be loved and accepted and how some were too scared of being hurt again. We told them about a Friend who would never abandon, who would never reject, who would only love and forgive.

I mentioned the church drummer in a previous post. His story is along the same lines. I never heard all of it at one time, but he has a past involving drugs. He's a big, strong guy, and it's not hard to see how he might have been a tough, even dangerous person once. But spend any amount of time with him now, even if you can't speak the language, and you'll see how he's not that man any more. He's kind and friendly and happy and exactly the kind of person you'd want watching your back as you navigate the more dangerous parts of town.

One the bus that one day while he and the intern were talking, he asked her to help him learn to say something in English. He wanted to know how to give his testimony. All he asked to know where a few simple words, but they tell it all:

I once was a drug addict; now I am a child of God.

That's all there is. Nothing else matters; not the dark stories of the past, not the technicalities, not a religious process. That's hope, pure and simple: God taking the broken, the unloved, the rejected, the hurting, the bitter, and giving them hope through forgiveness. He paid for every sin, and they're all equal in His eyes; we're all equally broken. There's nothing we can do on our own, no works that can save us, no human we can look to for rescue. It's not that difficult. 

Some think it's too good to be true, that there must be some exclusive clause, that they've done too much. That girl sitting quietly in the corner, her head bowed in shame, felt she had done too much to ask God for help. Ms. Peggy reached out to her, loved her, and handed her a lifeline. That, for me personally, was one of the biggest moments on the trip. It's what we went for, but it's also what we should be living for every day.

Culture Shock

One of the things you hear a lot about concerning international travel (and, it seems to me, especially travel related to missions) is culture shock. 

culture shock: noun

a state of bewilderment and distress experienced by an individual who is suddenly exposed to a new, strange, or foreign social and cultural environment

I'm sure we all pretty much know what "culture shock" means, but I like how this definition is worded.*   :) 

I can't say I really experienced culture shock, at least going into Peru; I'm not even sure I truly had jet lag. I'd heard enough stories to be at least a little prepared for the culture of Peru, particularly the driving.

Some of us gringos (and I mean that in the nicest sense) were freaked out by how Peruvians drive. I actually found it enjoyable. To Americans it might look dangerous, but it's anything but reckless.

Picture this: a loaded bus roaring down a dusty mountain road at 70 kilometers/hour**, weaving in and out of traffic, passing slower buses and "motor-taxis" (which are basically a covered backseat attached to a motorcycle) and slowing only for speed bumps (which are so common they become unremarkable to most people). The horn and the outside arm of the passenger riding shotgun are the most frequent traffic signals. Superior size earns right-of-way, and if there's a space just wide enough for the vehicle to park in, it'll get through without slowing.

I know some people in the group where grinding their teeth and holding the back of the seat in front of them with white knuckles, but I loved it. As Dad described it, it was like a dance. Everyone worked together and it all flowed effortlessly. Horns are a method of communication there, almost a language of their own.  The appearance of reckless and angry drivers was scarce, and I think I saw a grand total of one accident in all the 10 days we were there, and we did a lot of driving, mostly around Lima. Bus rides were a daily routine for us. Only once did I actually get a little nervous, and that was when another bus appeared to almost T-bone us as they pulled forward to pick up more passengers.

That was only one taste of Peruvian culture. Another is the dog population. They're everywhere, and come in every size and color possible. They're as common as deer in Michigan (actually, more so, I think). Eventually a person could tune them out, too. During the parade on Saturday a dog made himself comfortable in the exact center of the road, and the parade marched around him. For a while we had a running tally of how many cats we saw, and it stayed around 3 until we came to one market (ironically there was a gypsy art show and market there). The only other animal I noticed were birds; mostly pigeons.

Peru struck me as a very colorful place. Peruvians enjoy bright colors and get away with painting their houses all manner of shades that would be hideous here in the states. There, it's almost beautiful. There are also a number of bright flowering plants wherever they can be made to grow. The people dress the same way, with the same bright and perky flair. As I think I mentioned before, they do dress well no matter how poor they might be. 

Take away the houses and the people, though, and you're left with a barren, boring landscape. That can have it's own kind of rugged beauty if you're viewing it from the right angle, but it also gets kind of bland sometimes. I'd like to see the other climates of Peru one day. My opinion of it is a big limited, I have to admit.

There was also was danger factor whispering at the back of our minds. Keep your purses close, hold your cameras, don't walk alone, stay with people who know the area. It's the same way in big cities here at home; I think we just hide it better.

The biggest culture shock, as I knew it would be, is the poverty. It might not come out in people's faces, but you see it in the living conditions. We're spoiled and think we can't live without this or that, but they know just what they need to survive, and it's considerably less than our commodities. It seemed like they were people more prone to being happy and content, and perhaps it's because they don't demand as much as we do to define their happiness.

People, especially people like me, tend to romanticize missions a lot. It's all thrilling adventures and bright new worlds and interesting people in our heads. But working alongside missionaries, even for those brief 10 days, was a reality shock. A friend who went pointed out how we're reminded of the human element: they still have to work and cook and go to school and pay the bills. That nitty-gritty, ordinary routine makes up the bulk of what they do every day. It might be another world, and though they're working to do what God called them to do, they also have to survive.

Sometimes it takes culture shock to clear our heads so we can see that. They're doing exactly what we ought to be doing: not just surviving, but working for God. We all have the same mission; we don't have to get a visa and travel to a foreign place to be useful. It only feels more important over there because it's new and exciting and challenging and feels like hard work because we're out of place and have to adjust; but eventually that wears off, and we're stuck calculating how much rice we need to feed the orphans or how much more support we need to finish building the church.

The real culture shock is coming home. We Americans can rush around just as well as a Peruvian bus driver, but we do it without making eye contact; with angry hands laying on loud horns; with no thought for anyone but ourselves, because our silly little business is all that matters. The daily grind of the American dream tends to drown out the true reality of what actually matters. It's a wake up call going to another culture and seeing it clearly, without the veil of gadgets and work schedules and extra-cirricular activities; if we aren't careful, all of that will lull us back into a spiritual coma when we get back to our safe, comfortable lives.

Missions trips tend to leave people experiencing one of those thrilling, empowering "spiritual highs", but those don't last forever. What happens when the dust clears and we have to get back to our lives? Does it become a "cool trip" and a few stories to tell, or do we make sure we're impacted in a way that changes our direction instead of glancing off our private bubble of comfort and apathy?

I experienced Peru in a wonderful way, and from an average human standpoint, it was a neat, enlightening experience. But I also experienced something deeper that stirred me like a wake-up call. My eye did indeed affect my heart, but I have to make a conscious effort if I want that affect to change me.

* Here's another fun one: depaysement: when someone is taken out of their own familiar world into a new one.

** I'm still not clear on how fast that is, but it sounds fast. We may have actually gone faster on the mountain roads where there was little to no traffic.

The Language Barrier

When we were passing out tracts one day near the Presidential Palace, one of our group members handed a tract to a police woman. I wasn't nearby, but as he told the story, the police woman asked him a question in Spanish, and he told her, "No habla Espanol." She asked (I'm assuming in English, though it might have been through one of our translators) why on earth we were there passing out tracts without being able to speak the language.

An excellent question.

The moment I stepped off the plane in Lima, I asked myself the same question: why, oh why, hadn't I studied Spanish a little more? And I kept asking myself that question the whole trip.

I also witnessed how true it is that immersion is the best way to learn a language. The longer we were in Peru, the more I remembered from my two years of Spanish class and the more I was able to pick up. When we didn't have a translator to accompany us, I ended up helping Mom and Dad as much as I could with understanding what prices the vendors were giving. I'm pretty good as catching words and sorting them in my brain. Most words I filed away under "to look up".

I had the presence of mind to bring my Spanish/English dictionary with me, and that was a huge help (until one of the boys at the home stole it and wouldn't give it back, claiming it was his). 

Still, I only knew enough to squeak by, and barely that. I couldn't even have a conversation with the kids, much less the adults. If I wanted to say anything, it had to be through a translator.

Two days in a row we went to a nearby school. The first day, in the morning, we met with and talked to elementary and middle school kids, and the second, in the afternoon, with high school students. The first day, I had the opportunity to give a short testimony. I was super nervous and wasn't sure what to say, but I'd watched some others in our group (we'd split into three groups to save time) and knew I had to have a turn. Take note of the word "opportunity". I had to remind myself that it was a great opportunity, not a burden or something to avoid.

The nice thing about having to talk through a translator is the knowledge that said translator will sort out your rambling and make sense of it. That was my only consolation.

After our three groups had cycled through all the classrooms, we met outside on the court/assembly area/entrance place and got to spend some time with the kids. Mostly, they wanted our autographs.

I wasn't expecting that.

If you didn't have a pen, they'd steal one from a friend. Their workbooks provided the paper. You just had to scribble your name and the next one would be there in a second. Some of the kids were so excited, they didn't really pay attention to who was signing their books. Near the end, I was mostly pointing to my name and then pointing to myself. "That's me, there."

Halfway through, I decided I needed to leave some sort of note alongside my name. I knew the phrase "Jesus loves you" = "Jesucristo te ama". After some trial and error (mostly my English-speaking brain wanting to spell out "Jesus" and "Christ" as I know them) I got it down. I hope the kids saw it and took it to heart.

The next day, we gathered all the kids for one large assembly. It was the end of the school day and they were getting ready to go on break for their Independence Day, so this saved time. Some of the guys (including our youth pastor's son) gave testimonies, and then our youth pastor presented the gospel. The kids listened really well, and you could see on some of their faces that they were taking it to heart.

Afterward, we were approached by a number of kids who wanted to practice their English. Mostly they said  "thank you" when we gave them candy and tracts and waited anxiously for our "you're welcome". A couple girls came up to me and Mom and asked my name, and then hers. I introduced her as "mi madre", and they excitedly corrected, "your mother!"

In some ways, however, language wasn't a barrier. Some of my friends and I have this habit of turning any road trip over half-an-hour into a sing-along. Said friends, including my sister Heather, were present on the trip, and we quickly reverted to our old habit. 

This led to our being invited to sing a special (or three) at one of the churches we visited on Sunday. First we sang a version of "At Calvary" set to a different tune, but then we picked a couple familiar hymns. When the congregation started humming along, I was content. They might not know the words in English, but they knew the tune, and so knew what the song was about. That was a connection we shared, though we couldn't speak to each other. In that moment, there was no language barrier.

At the church right by the children's home (because we also went to another one) there is a drum player. He's a really cool guy in general, but then he's musically talented. I heard him humming along while we had a sing-along session on the bus, and made an effort to pick hymns.

The children's home houses a few interns, and on a couple different outings they came along with us. One day, one of the interns sat with the church drummer and chatted a while. They spoke in Spanish (he's still learning English), and from what I could gather by the tone of the conversation, he was helping her with her grammar and pronunciation. (And I don't think it counts as eavesdropping when you can barely understand the language.) I had a moment of revelation when he said a word and it automatically clicked in my brain. That was a wonderful moment.

As some of you may have seen on facebook, we also visited what is known as a holding tank. For those of you who don't know, a holding tank is kind of like a half-way house between the streets and a proper children's home. It's one step in a long process of finding safety and security in a home, and many kids don't get beyond this step.

The one we visited was for girls. Heartbreaking as it is, it's generally accepted that they come from backgrounds of abuse and human trafficking. What's amazing is that, though they're obviously hurting and some clearly have trust issues, they're still so sweet and open and aching for love and acceptance. They touched me deeply, because theirs are the stories that so greatly lack of hope. They might never get placed into a children's home; many of them are too old, or nearly so. They don't know what's in store for them.

There's a lady, Ms. Peggy, who works at the children's home. After one of our girls said hello and met each of the girls there (9 of them), Ms. Peggy shared her story and the gospel. The girls, especially one, were so attentive and so eager.

I'll share more of their story later. What of it relates to this post is one of the girls. She was born in Korea but her family moved to Peru. How she ended up in that building, she never said. What she did tell us was that she knew three languages: Korean, Japanese, and Spanish. She spent a few minutes with Bro. Mike, teaching him how to say certain things in Korean and Japanese. She was such a fun person to watch and to listen to. Then she asked Bro. Mike how many languages he knew. His answer?

1) Spanish, 2) English, and 3) Southern English

I don't think she understood the joke, but we did.

Somebody asked how Bro. Mike and his family still had such strong Southern accents. Someone else laughed. "Because that's the only English they hear."

Again with the whole living immersed in a language: our youth pastor is from the South, and his accent used to be a lot more defined. Now, however, he's spent time among us Yankees. Bro. Mike and his family and Ms. Peggy all have Southern accents, and they remain pronounced. I think I was even picking up on a little by the time we left.

When we reentered the States in Miami, we all struggled readjusting to an English environment. When the employees at customs were native Spanish speakers, we instinctively wanted to respond in kind. To every "thank you", we muttered "de nada"; to every nice thing, "gracias". When we bumped someone or needed to get by: "permiso, por favor". And then we had to remember that the prices were in American dollars, not Peruvian soles.

Communication - or lack thereof, rather - was probably the biggest problem of our group as a whole. When I go back, I fully intend to go armed with a better grasp of Spanish. And I do intend on going back! (Also, it's common courtesy, to me, to know at least a little of the language of the country you're visiting, because you're the visitor.)

I love languages. There's something so fascinating about studying the structure, vocabulary, and roots of a language; of seeing how it relates to other languages and how it differs; and, especially in regards to English, how it develops. And I've discovered that the more you learn about another language, the better you can understand your own. My geek fantasy is being the lead linguist on the Starship Enterprise. Yes, I seriously just admitted that.

Another fantasy I developed while in Peru is to become a translator. Seeing how myself and my friends struggled to be understood and how the translators sometimes struggled to help everyone, it would certainly help. Of course, first I have to actually learn Spanish.

There's the end of the story, but I'm going to try something knew here. There's this thing called "participation". I know normal bloggers like it when their readership participates in their blog, so I thought I'd try, just to switch things up and because I feel kind of self-centered making everyone read these long, boring things and then leaving like you don't matter (and also starting far too many sentences with "I", but I'm working on that).

So here we go!

To my fellow "Trippers" (including those who went in previous years), how well did you cope with the language barrier?

Do anyone else have a silly fantasy related to Star Trek? Which office or job would you most like to have on a Star Ship? Or am I just weird? (Because that's completely likely.)

There and Back Again

It's taken me a few days to sit down and write this because I'm still struggling to process everything. Tonight at church most of us "Peru Trippers" had a little testimony time where we got to share about our experiences in Peru. I had such a hard time sorting through my thoughts. I kind of knew what I wanted to say, but I lost it as soon as I stood up. Thankfully, I didn't dissolve into tears. But there was so much more I couldn't find the words for. I still want to share all of that.

I'm planning on doing a series of detailed posts after this one, rather than cramming everything into one long, unorganized, rambling post. For right now, however, I'll do an overview of sorts. 

Practically everything I knew about Peru before this trip was what I saw in movies, read in books (though few fictional characters ever go to Peru), and heard from my family and others who have gone there on missions trips. I looked up Peru on Wikipedia after my trip, and I can tell you that short page doesn't even begin to describe Peru for real.

I didn't realize how little those stories would prepare me for the reality. I think we all tend to develop ideas and pictures of places we've never been based on what we're told or pictures we see. I know I do. Turns out all those images I'd subconsciously developed over the years were not even close to correct. I can't say I really had culture shock. I did wish I had dedicated myself to my Spanish studies.

We had a number of bus rides between the children's home and the city of Lima and its suburbs. During many of these, Bro. Mike, the missionary whose family founded the children's home, rode with us. He provided little educational lectures rather like a tour guide, acquainting us with Peru. I learned that Peru contains every kind of climate existing in the world, from snowy mountains (3 hours away from us they were having snow storms) to rainforests to deserts. The area with which I am now familiar is the "costal" area: rocky, arid, and among the foothills and edges of the mountains.

We arrived at the end of their winter and rainy season. "Rain" there is actually a fine mist. We rarely saw the sun and most days were cuddled up in sweatshirts. Once or twice I wished for gloves. One the warmer days, we Americanos locos went barefoot, and the nannies asked if our feet weren't freezing.

While we visited the ritzy areas of Lima on occasion, that area and class weren't our focus. We spent most of our time among the normal people, the "average" population (and I'm not sure how else to word that, but I don't mean it offensively). The houses are small and full of large families, the conditions are poor and often filthy, there are dogs every where (I mean everywhere).... But that's not what I'll remember. Almost instantly, I was impressed by the spirit of the people we met. They were happy, open, humble, friendly, kind, and even content. Yes, many talked of how they wanted their children to have better lives; but they weren't consumed with that. They work, they struggle to get by, they laugh, they love. 

Peruvians (or los Peruanos, as we learned) are proud. Not high and mighty proud. It's more like dignity. For example, they might be poor, but they dress as well as they are able.

While we were there, we got to witness their Independence Day celebrations (which we didn't even realize we'd be there for). The actual date was the 28th, which was a Sunday, but most of their celebrations took place on Saturday. Just down the street from the children's home was a parade which lasted a good four hours. It was mostly school groups, all dressed in costumes reflecting different parts and times of Peru's history and culture. You could see the patriotic pride there. 

From a tourist's standpoint, Peru might appear very religious. There are certainly plenty of churches, and I'd guess the majority of the population, at least where we were, had some sort of religious ceremony they went through. But it's not real. It is simply religion: a practice, a pattern, empty words and actions in an effort to earn one's way to Heaven. There's no relationship with God, no fellowship, not faith. That was one of the most heart-breaking things of all.

But despite that, the people were still so willing to accept our gifts of tracts and Bibles. They're hungry, and they don't deny that. Again, they're so open and so humble, willing to receive, quick to love, ready to help. The people we went to serve and to be a blessing to turned out to be an even greater blessing to us.
This is turning out to be just as confused and rambling as I feared. I'll try to work on that. Before I close, I suppose I should mention something about the plane ride.
I was strangely composed when we boarded our first plane. Referring again to things I learned from movies, I expected it to be bigger than it was. Turns out all those planes in the movies were the long-distance type, while ours, for two hours of travel, was considerably smaller. The first take off wasn't as terrifying as I anticipated. There was the initial felling of weightlessness and I clutched the seat in front of me (where, thankfully, Dad was seated) and probably went pale. Mom was laughing at me, so I guess I was a sight. But after we leveled out, I actually was able to enjoy myself. It almost felt like riding in a van or bus, until we hit turbulence (which we did while passing the Andes on our longer second flight). Turbulence still bugs me, but I'm cool with the rest.
And our 7 hour flight from Lima had personal TVs with a wide selection of movies. Though I was exhausted from a long day, I did watch one. Heather turned on Sound of Music, of all things.
So the thing I was most worried about turned out to be no big deal. Yay for me!
I'm going to go now before I make any more of a mess with this post. I'll be back soon.