RIP Mimi Possum

This post is a way of sharing the creation and destruction of Mimi, a possum, who met her end at the bottom of the West Asheville Bridge. This seemed like an appropriate place to tell the story. 

Mimi began as a wire frame made of coat hangers snagged from the dry cleaned clothes in my mothers closet. 

It was a crude frame resembling something like a wingless pterodactyl.

It was my first time using paper mache since 5th grade art class. Fortunately it isn't complicated, just messy. Slowly it began to resemble a possum. 

I decorated Mimi with black ribbon and a pink tail and voila! Stuffed with goodies, a few accessories added and she was ready for the party!

  

Mimi enjoyed pizza and Wedge beer with dear friends and family. But sadly, as a pinata her destiny was destruction. John and Dan brought her up to the West Asheville Bridge where she would take one last look at the city she was born in.

Friends, family and stray children gathered to participate in her destruction.

And that friends, is the story of Mimi born after 25 hours of labor and died on my 30th birthday, May 5, 2014. Many thanks to John and my parents, friends who made it out and friends around the world. RIP Mimi. 

Disclaimer: no real possums were harmed in the making of this party and The Wedge Brewery is not responsible for pinatas lowered off the West Asheville Bridge. 

my end is the road...

I can picture my parent's house. The image is crisp and clean. White light shines down on a neighborhood with clean and spacious streets, large lush lawns and neat, pretty homes, big and bigger. I see my childhood room, breakfast at the kitchen counter, driving to the store for groceries. There's not much resemblance to my life of late.

At home it won’t be dusty; the streets won’t be barely larger than a railroad track. No one will juggle for money at the stoplights. Stray dogs won’t be sprawled out on sidewalks and poor little children won’t be found selling candy outside the shops. There won’t be a Senora selling tamales or papas heladas on the street like there is now outside my office.

Potable water, hot and cold, will flow from taps everywhere. Gas will come from a pipe in the ground. Homes will be heated in the cold weather.

I’ll buy chicken at a supermarket, and I won’t ever take a taxi. People won’t think I’m different because of my appearance. Dirty blond hair and green eyes won’t give anything away.

There is a lot to look forward to, thinking of home. As smoothly and as naturally as I fit into a Peruvian way of life when I arrived last November, I will slip right out and into an American one. I can speak my language. I’ll fall back into my culture, my thing, the way I’ve always done it.

It is a sad transition and I dearly hope to return to this country one day in a way more suited to give back to the community some of what they have given to me.

When I came here, I spoke no Spanish. I was lost, beaten into defeat from circumstances beyond my control. People were there to take me in, teach me how to speak their language, eat their food, and travel their streets.

I guess the opportunity to make a list like this, to be able to compare and know so many different places in the world has been the educational experience of my lifetime.

I am so grateful of my opportunities around the world, of this blog that has been with me on a journey through love and learning, friendship, loneliness and heart-break. Through home-sickness and real sickness, truly through the best times of my life and the worst, for every single thing I am grateful.

I’ve made all kinds of decisions these past few years, I suppose some were smarter than others, but one thing I’ve never really been in control of is this longing to discover, to see things with my own eyes. I’m learning that there’s treasure everywhere, and the desire to keep digging it up is tattooed to my spirit. As long as I keep following my heart, it will keep leading me to more treasures.

Thanks for reading.

EM

Party Time In Cusco!

Sitting in the passenger seat of a minivan on the way back from the airport, fresh clients in the back seat, eager to see Cusco and Machu Picchu, the usual schpeel was spewing from my mouth . It’s best to avoid alcohol, cigarettes, fatty foods, your first night. The weather now is typical, usually clear and sunny during the day but cold at night. Layering is a good idea. 400,000 inhabitants. Inca foundations. Yes, Cusco is a safe city. I take taxi’s from the street every day. More blahblah about altitude sickness and emperor Pachacuteq.

Driving along Avenido del Sol, a main drag into Cusco center, I noticed the street was suddenly lined with the red and white striped flag of Peru. It was as if overnight the rainbow flags of Cusco that had gone up a month ago in every nook and cranny of the city had been replaced.

Jose Luis, my main driver, explained what happened. While June was the month to celebrate the region of Cusco, July is the month to recognize national history and pride, with the celebration of Fiestas Patrias, Independence Day on the 28th. So far however, aside from riding out the bustling tourism, July has been the dead quiet after the storm of last month’s portrayal of tireless energy and celebration.

Colorful parades raided the main streets on an almost daily basis, and the fever was difficult to ignore, not that I was trying to. Peruvians dressed in traditional costume, and marched and danced to the beat of brass bands. The month kicked off with the Fiesta del Corpus Christi, another chance for Peru to celebrate its faith with giant parades and parties.

I spent the day with the family of a friend, chewing sugar cane and playing with the kiddies while her mom prepared a feast called Chiriuchu. Eventually dinner was served and I looked down at my portion which amounted to an enormous plate stacked with chicken, guinea pig, seaweed, tortilla, queso, chorizos, dried corn, lamb jerkey, and caviar. It was one of the more memorable meals of my life.

While at work we tried to go on with business as usual, there were regular strikes, road blocks, delayed flights and general mayhem. On my way to work I usually cut through the Plaza de Armas. In June this meant detouring around huge crowds and parades, or stopping to watch small children practice a traditional dance to piping flute music, because it was too cute to ignore.

The madness came to an exciting culmination almost a full month after it began on June 24, the anniversary of Cusco, Inti Raymi, one of the largest celebrations in the country. Unfortunately, I missed the morning festivities because of a few transfers but I did make it up the mountain to Saqsaywaman, to see the ruins and the surrounding hills crawling with people, celebrating their heritage, and the beginning of longer days.

All the usually June energy was in addition to the World Cup craze that dominated the lunchtime scene, leaving the streets virtually empty and the bars packed from 1-3 most afternoons. The game was on everywhere; from menu del dia’s to barber shops to offices. Last Sunday, it came to an exciting finish with Iniesta’s winning goal and though we are thousands of miles from the winning country, Spanish flags quickly popped out in the square wrapped around ecstatic tourists, who went on to paint the town red and yellow, while I switched to coffee.

Personally, I’d began the month feeling pretty weak and defeated, longing for home. By now, however, I feel strong (so strong I can move gigantic stones like the Incas), normal even. A visit from Annie came at just the right time, and we had some adventures in the Sacred Valley, cramming in collectivo’s between Senora’s and huge bundles of produce to explore Pisac Ruins, Ollantaytambo, Moray and the salt flats of Maras.

I’ve got some exciting trips planned for the coming weeks when Erin’s here so I’ll keep posting. By the way, happy birthday to my brother who’s currently lounging in the Philippines!

Beso.

(Photos from top to bottom: Annie's shot of the Plaza during one of the many parades, On top of the mountain near San Cristobal during Inti Raymi, Some of the thousands of potatoes on display at the Huancaro fair, Me moving giant stones in Ollantataytambo Ruins)

P.S. If you made it this far, perhaps you are also interested in my photos of Animalitos de Peru on Facebook.

The Time I Got Malaria in Peru (y no, no fui a la selva!!!)

It all began when I woke up very late in the night, the morning of May 16 in a feverish state of delirium. It had been so long since I’d even had a fever I didn’t think to take my temperature (I robbed my PC med kit before I left Africa) until a couple of hours of sweating and kicking. Sure enough, fever was going strong.

When I woke up the next morning, I felt fine enough to just let it go. It must have been something I ate, I thought. Two days later I was having a Spanish class when I started shivering uncontrollably. I taxied home to my bed and went into another feverish episode.

That was when I started thinking something was wrong but I was still too naïve and stubborn to think a doctor should be involved. I bought some antibiotics at the Pharmacy and stupidly tried self-medicating.

When two days later, I had another episode, the next morning I finally went to the Doctor. He took me to the clinic, and they tested me. “It’s not malaria,” said the doc. “But you do have an infection in your blood. It’s Salmonella.” I went home with Ciproflaxin and some Paracetamol wondering what I ate that could have given me Salmonella. I’m pretty liberal about eating street food so I wasn’t that surprised, though the symptoms didn’t seem to match up. I wasn’t vomiting and I wasn’t having diarrhea.

Like clockwork, the following evening I got the chills. Shivering uncontrollably my Parisian neighbor, whom I’d only just met took me to the clinic in a taxi. “Ca va?” he asked every so often, clearly worried this girl he barely knew might keel over beside him. “P-p-p-pas trop,” I replied in between chattering teeth.

Once at the clinic, it was a whirlwind of bed covers, IV’s, blood samples, nurses taking my blood pressure while my heart was literally at a rate of 135 beats per minute. Hours later, when I finally calmed down from my episode, the nurse walked me into the room where I would spend the next six nights. Shortly after the doctor came in to declare that I did indeed have Malaria. Apparently they didn’t notice until they examined my blood taken during a full blown episode.

The following days were a blur of nurses and doctors barging in to change my IV bag, take my blood, move the needle in my arm, check my blood pressure, feed me, and quiz me about the places I’d visited in the past year. It was regular Spanish practice at least; now I have decent hospital vocabulary, at least for a patient: will you raise the bed please? My head hurts. Can I have a sleeping pill? When can I leave? Etc.

I regularly had to declare the places I’d been and insist that I hadn’t been to the Peruvian jungle, generally speaking the only place in Peru where Malaria is prevalent. At one point I even heard one nurse say to another, “Ella dice que no fui a la selva.” As If I wouldn’t know if I’d been there or not.

I was in an almost perpetual state of mild fever, that caused pretty uncomfortable headaches, with the occasional more severe episode of teeth-chattering chills and horrible body aches. My blood pressure was unstable and I was intravenously kept hydrated, given anti-fever stuff and pain meds.

The food was boring: apple maté, toast and soup with a slight variation for lunch, plain chicken. I dreamed of pizzas, meatball subs, and Carolina bbq. It was lonely and miserable being so far from home, friends and family. I watched approximately 80 hours of Friends, Two and a Half Men, Dawson’s Creek, 90210, Parenthood, House, Law and Order, Mercy, Grey’s Anatomy, Desperate Housewives, Smallville, The Office, Family Guy, 16 and Pregnant, CNN, Jersey Shore, Teen Cribs, Project Runway, that show where a family gets a new home, American Idol, So You Think You Can Dance, Lost, movies, etc. It was enough TV to last a lifetime.

Finally my anti-malaria meds started working. On the fifth day at the hospital, my red blood cell count was climbing and my fever was so mild I could barely feel it fuzzing up my head. The doctor discharged me on the 6th day and I greeted the sunshine as if crawling out of a cave after a year. I felt a little woozy leaving my room but I kept my mouth shut so as not to endanger my hopes for escape.

Today I feel pretty good, though I lose energy fast; apparently I’m anemic. I’ve gotten some fresh juice and a couple of good meals in me which feels great. I also spent a fortune on iron pills, powdered milk, and other vitamin rich crap. The doctor says in two months I’ll be back to normal but I’m determined to recover much quicker than that. I’m taking a long sabbatical from TV even though that means I won’t find out who gets shot on Grey’s Anatomy.

Many thanks to everyone who responded to my cries for attention on Facebook. Virtual visits aren’t that bad a substitute for the real thing. In the meantime, I promise never to get malaria again.

One positive note about this situation: I never had to do one of those bloody, prick your own finger, Malaria slides and send it in a bush taxi to Conakry. I guess those months of crazy Mefloquine dreams were worth it after all.

It’s pretty unbelievable to think I have now had intimate experience with this disease that plagues the third world killing millions of people every year. I’m lucky to be privileged. The odd thing is they tested me before I left Africa and in Peru, I never went to a single region with variable or high risk for Malaria. Where and when that little bugger of a mosquito got me remains a mystery.

Much love from Peru,

Em

P.S. I still collect post cards. My address here is:

Calle Q’era norte 253
Pasaje Hurtado-Alvarez, B-1
Cusco, Peru

Elections Coming in Guinea

Like a weight on my shoulders, Guinea, which has been nicknamed the ‘forgotten country,’ has taken the opposite role in my life, as the ‘unforgettable country.’ Even less than a year ago, I was an eager member of G-18, gearing up for a two year service, studying forgotten math techniques and technical French vocabulary with Monsieur Diallo to prepare for two years teaching high school math in Yende Milimou.

It is hard to go back to the place I was in last November, in Tubaniso, Mali, heart-broken, destructive, and grieving. Maybe my quick decision to come to Peru was an attempt to run as far away from the source of my troubles as possible. I couldn’t face a transfer, that would have been similar but not the same. I couldn’t face home which I’d only just left. So I came to Peru and I found a life here. I learned Spanish. I learned how to survive in a new foreign culture. I got my life together, made new decisions and today I am happy and healthy.

So why can’t I put Guinea behind me? With exciting news of a nation on the verge of their first set of democratic elections and Peace Corps making plans to re-instate the Guinea program, calling in Peace Corps Response Volunteers and Re-instatements from COSers like me, suddenly my stomach seems all twisted upside down and around. The wound re-opens and the old emotions just spill out. I can feel the call of Africa as if it's a love of my life.

So what does a person do? What do you do when the thing that broke your heart invites you back into its life?

Please remember to help Guinea by following these June 27^th elections and praying for this unforgettable place at the edge of the world.

Livin la Vida Cusqueña

Semana Santa in Ayacucho. Friday street murals.

Cusco has been home for a few weeks now so I thought I would share a bit of what life is like here. In keeping with the tradition of remarkable and historic cities such as Avignon, Prague and York, Cusco is a beautiful city to call home. It is the historic capital of Peru as it was the capital of the Inca Empire, and until the Spanish came, gold and silver decorated just about everything. Looking out from my kitchen window, I can see across a small ravine to the bohemian district, San Blas with its homes scattered up and down the hillside. The tiled roofs remind me of southern France. I live in the neighborhood of San Cristobal named after the ’White Jesus’ overlooking the city like Rio’s Christ the Redeemer.

I have a room in a big boarding house that resembles a log cabin. My sweet tiny room is quaint, with a backdoor to the garden. I have my own bathroom with plenty of agua caliente. I might have resigned myself to being a smelly, dirty hermit otherwise. The house is quiet and so is the neighborhood, a short hike above the main square and a few hundred steps down from the back entrance to Sacsayhuamán, the ruins of a zig-zaggy fortress outside the city. Most mornings, I climb out from under three wool blankets, throw on a coat and my tire slippers and shuffle down to the corner to buy breakfast, usually fresh rolls and an avocado. Hiking back up to the house, I eat breakfast sipping mate de coca. On lazy mornings, I don’t have to be at work until 10.30 so I can lay in bed reading or playing guitar, or grab a coffee to go and sit in the square and people watch.

Other mornings, I’m meeting clients at fancy hotels and taking them to the airport, all before 7am. My job is fun because I get to meet the people that come through Cusco and be a guide or go-to person during their stay here. They can call me at any time which can be frustrating when someone calls on Sunday morning to ask if they can change their train tickets to Machu Picchu. But I much prefer spending time with real people than with my computer in the office. When I’m not doing airport/bus/train transfers I’m in the office until 6. It’s dark and getting chilly when I leave, the city lights are lit and the streets are bustling with eager tourists.

The center of Cusco is small enough so I can go to the central market for fresh fruit and veggies, go to the office, or meet clients at their hotels on foot. The cobblestone streets wind up, down and around agencies, restaurants, churches, museums, hostels, bars, etc. The streets are alive with tourists, locals selling dolls, post cards, jewelry, etc. any time of day. You can buy tamales on the street for 25 cents and get a liter of fresh OJ for a dollar at the market or eat wood-fired pizzas and juicy alpaca burgers for 10 bucks.

Everyone who visits Machu Picchu comes through Cusco, meaning the city sees one million tourists a year. There is adventure ready to be had here with festivals fast approaching in the calendar year and ruins in virtually every direction. I have plenty of time to explore and have already planned some exciting trips for when friends visit! In the meantime, tomorrow I am headed for Copacabana, Bolivia to cross the border and renew my visa. For a few nights I will be sleeping on an island on Lake Titicaca, the highest lake in South America and the Incan birthplace of the world. My backpack on my back, greeting the ancient spirits of this extraordinary lake, I can’t think of a better way to celebrate six months in South America!

Es una vida Hermosa! Chau amigos.

Lima --> Ayacucho --> Cusco

It's been a memorable ten days as I packed up my life in Lima and prepared for a new beginning in Cusco, with Ayacucho Semana Santa in between. I'm mostly just going to post what I wrote about Semana Santa for the LAFL Blog. I want to add, however that thanks to great people, both Los Gorriones kids and Señoritas, great friends living and volunteering in Ayacucho, and my travel buddies, this was an amazing vacation and a breath of fresh air. So it was with renewed energy and spirit that I took the long journey to Cusco. It really is a spectacular destination and I feel lucky to have this opportunity to know Cusco differently then in my previous visit. But I'll write more on that later. For now, here's some of what made this past week great...

Waving bright red bandanas and wearing red t-shirts on Saturday morning, an eager crowd awaited the arrival of the Pascua Toro, or Easter Bull in Ayacucho, announcing the beginning of the final day of Semana Santa that would end with an extraordinary procession outside the Cathedral at 5:30am Sunday morning. Though the celebration had lasted all week, standing amidst the people, they showed no signs of weariness. In fact, many were already celebrating the grand finale with morning ice creams, popcorn, and cerveza’s. Without introduction, the people ahead of us suddenly scattered to allow a beaming cowboy break through towing a wild bull behind him. In gleeful screams, we tried desperately to catch glimpses and take photos of this famous bull pull. Within seconds they’d flown by us and we were left to wait for more.

In total, I saw three Easter Bulls run wildly past, though there may have been more. Delighted with the stunning performances I’d witnessed on Friday, I couldn’t wait to see what else Saturday had in store for the thousands of people who traveled to Ayacucho to celebrate the Christian Holy Week. All day Friday, local artists had labored on the streets of the Plaza de Armas, creating stunning murals out of colored sand. Their hard work was short lived as the evening’s touching procession, in stunning candlelit darkness, marched the Señor del Santo Sepulcro around the plaza leaving behind dusty remnants of the beautiful art sacrificed in the name of religious fervor.

I’ve spent a good deal of time in Ayacucho, and I can honestly say that it is one of my favorite destinations. It is a mixture of tranquility and activity and Semana Santa was no exception. On Saturday afternoon, to sneak away from the crowded city center, my friends and I took a short combi ride to the Wari ruins, just 30km from Ayacucho. Exploring these beautiful ruins and the quiet paths linking them riddled with cacti and fresh tuna fruit, you’d never know of the fiesta taking place just a short distance away. Not wanting to miss the evening celebrations, I was back in Ayacucho in the late afternoon, and after a reviving dinner was joining in with the music and dancing that would last all night. Like huge statues made of construx, scattered around the square were reed towers that erupted in exciting fireworks displays throughout the night. Big brass bands played around the Plaza so that when one band grew tired of playing cumbia and samba we moved on to another corner of the square where a new band was blasting horns, guitar and drum beats into the night.

The excitement and fervor kept the crowd moving and though I’d taken a short nap, when my friends awoke me to rejoin the festivities, there was an even bigger crowd then when I’d left just an hour ago awaiting the famous procession which wouldn’t start until 5:30 in the morning. Tired faces waited patiently near the Cathedral, people slept on the sidewalks and small children played on the street beside their parents. The final fireworks tower erupted in announcement of what we’d all been waiting for. Tired eyes fixed on the Cathedral as the famous brilliantly lit pyramid seemed to float out of the doors of the Cathedral supported by the hands of 200 people and began to circle the Plaza in what is known as the Resurrection Mass. It was truly a remarkable finale to this exciting celebration that will ring forever in my mind as an extraordinary Peruvian cultural experience.