On sandboarding

When I was younger my parents took us on a family trip to Inks Lake State Park. My brothers and I are close and I was at the age when whatever big brother did, little brother did too. Therefore, it should have come as no surprise that before the day was through I found myself clinging to the upper branches of a tree towering twenty some odd feet above the surface of the water, still rippling from Michael's dive. 

“There no easy way out of this one,” I thought as my parents watched patiently below…smiling.

I was hoping for a last minute, “What do you think you’re doing, get down here right now!”

Instead, a single command burst forth from the crowd lazily floating along the bank of the lake.

“JUMP!” 

“If Michael can do it so can I,” was my final thought as I stepped off into my 1.12 second free fall.

My final thought should have been, “Tuck your chin in and look at your feet.”

—but a good old fashioned belly-flop is funny to watch, granted you’re not on the receiving end.

So really, I served in the best interest of all the hecklers assembled that day.

During my fall, I learned something important about myself: That I loved it. I loved the feeling of my stomach in my throat, the tunnel vision, my body going a little numb, the adrenaline shakes and shivers afterwards. That moment you say to yourself, “I can’t believe I just did that.”

So when my friend Lucciani asked me if I’d ever want to go sandboarding, I didn’t even hesitate 1.12 seconds before answering yes.

About fifteen minutes north of Chimbote lies the small town of Coishco encircled by a small range of dark rocky mountains. One of the mountain faces is covered in bright sand and opens out onto the valley of Santa below, a prime spot to practice the increasingly popular extreme sport. 

A panoramic view of Coischo to the left and the agricultural valley of Santa to the right.

 Lucciani and his best friend Fernando have been sandboarding for about fifteen years and have traveled as far as Ica in the south in search of great sandboarding spots. 

My friends Lucciani, coming back from a run, and Fernando who is straight chillin'.

What’s really fascinating about the boarding spot in Coishco is that the dunes rest above the site of an ancient Pre-Incan burial ground. Lucciani and Fernando have a lot of pride for their country and are working to bring attention and awareness to the fact that this historical treasure is literally blowing away right before their eyes. No one seems very interested in hearing them out. 

A shard of pottery.

 What this means for me is that I get to discover and touch things that normally I’d only see under glass or with a vulture-eyed librarian breathing down my neck (no offense to librarians in general, just the vulture-eyed variety).

A small piece of brittle woven cloth.

 Coming from a guy that bugged out over handling a tattered piece of scrap paper used by W.B. Yeats in the archives of the Harry Ransom Center, I felt like Indiana Jones himself as I sifted through the sand for pottery shards. I mean, the scrap paper was only from the '20s. All I lacked was a whip and a mummy hand ominously rising up from the earth and I could have died happy then and there. 

Hopefully I didn't accumulate any bad juju.

 It was actually pretty sad once we started coming across sun bleached bones exposed to the elements. It doesn’t matter what the tribe believed, I have a lot of respect for death and the culturally significant rituals surrounding it.

 I felt heavy hearted knowing that hundreds of years ago these people were probably buried with ceremony and reverence only to be unearthed by the driving wind and sand. But that’s the way things go I guess. 

 It would be really awesome to see some kind of movement to excavate and preserve the site, though.

Fernando said that the mountains are full of gold but of the type that requires an expensive and destructive extraction and refining process. We can only hope that the burial site draws the attention of archeologists before it draws the attention of money-makers. 

As far as sandboarding goes, I found that the most difficult part is actually the climb up. Boarding is a full body sport requiring balance, coordination and strength for sure.

What this photo doesn't capture is all the huffing and wheezing.

 However, there’s nothing more comically frustrating than running up a mountain of sand like a Loony Toon only to find that you haven't really been moving forward at all. But once you finally make it to the top, it’s all downhill. And the ride is a lot longer than 1.12 seconds. 

I'm still an amateur, but at least this isn't a clip of me face-planting.

 

 

Moments like these...

I can still vividly remember interviewing for a spot as an Incarnate Word Missionary a little more than a year ago in San Antonio. Sister Dot and a young woman named Clare, who was the interim director at the time, sat across the room from me, both appearing cordial and genuinely interested in what I was saying as I introduced myself and spoke about what had attracted me to the program and why I might be qualified to be a part of it. 

Sister Dot, a tall graceful looking older woman, nodded peacefully as she sat relaxed in her seat, but her gaze never strayed far from my eyes—which would have been intimidating if she weren't radiating positive vibes at almost tangible levels. Clare, young and hip looking with a nose ring talked about the program excitedly. They asked questions which I answered. I asked questions which they answered. I thought it went well, and seeing as how I'm here, they felt I was right for the job. 

Looking back now though, one of their questions remains with me to this day. 

Essentially they asked:

"You know, you may go into mission, you may work and work for the next two years and you may never see any of the fruits of your labor. Are you okay with that?"

I said that I understood and I was fine with the idea of possibly never seeing any concrete outcomes from any of my service. That I understood how real change requires long term goals and patience. I believed that then, and still do now.


—but sometimes it can get more than a little discouraging when you're actually here living it.  When you stop and wonder to yourself, "Am I even doing anything?"

I have seen many fruits of my labor, thankfully. Sometimes manifested in the form of new friends. Other times in a new opportunity for Pushaq Warmi. Or maybe through a nice email from someone I love a lot.

About the time I started really recognizing and (more importantly) appreciating moments like these, I realized that it isn't so much about seeing the fruits so much as the labor that went into bearing them. 

The labor and love that goes into moments like these:

The Get-You-Caught-Up-On-My-Life Post

.....

You started thinking that maybe I’d never post another blog?

Well here I am, posting another blog.

Now, I know it’s been a long time (Huh, four months, what?) so there is a lot to catch you up on, so no time for excuse making or apologies!

Moving forward. 

Kelli and Emily, the two missionaries who spent a year with us returned to the U.S. It was sad to see them go, but it was exciting knowing that they were going to get to see friends and family that love them and missed them a lot. The transition and readjusting back to North American life has been difficult for them at times, but they are doing well so far.  

Kelli-welli Nelson

Eminemily

Clare, a 22 year old girl from New Jersey, came in their place to start her two-year commitment with the IWM program. She’s really awesome and we connect on a nerd level so we have some mutual interests (e.g. LOTR) which is cool.

When Katie runs out of Q-tips. Clare seems supportive.

The only downside is that Clare is allergic to cats. If you’ve been keeping up with my past blogs or have access to my Facebook account, you’ll know that our three cats became a really important part of my missionary experience, and therefore just how serious this is.

Hail to the Cheif!

We found the wobble cats a home in the garden of Hospice, the care center for terminal patients, where Katie works. They have plenty of space to wobble around in, and Hospice has a full time cook that has been spoiling them with scraps and leftovers. And they live close by so we can visit them whenever. Some clips of Pisco and Bailey in their new home:

Oop Ooop, almost...There ya' go...awwwwww

Bailey freaking out.

…and my little baby Fidea?

"I'll behave I promise!"

 Seeing as how she’s lived in the missionary house longer than we have, we didn’t have the heart to turn her out onto the mean cold Chimbotano streets.

So she spends the day outside in our back yard and we bring her in at night where she sleeps in Katie’s room. While she’s still coming to terms with her reduced privileges (no more counter top food snatching or midday furniture scratching) I think she’s glad she didn’t get the eviction slip like the Wobbles. I know I am. Clare has been understanding and patient about it all, itchy watery eyes aside, which is pretty groovy on her part.

I'm not her favorite human at the current moment. 

“Wait…what is it exactly that you’re doing down there again, Kyle?”

Good question!

I was working with the nutrition program Sembrando Infancia in the small town of Cambio Puente, but now my work with WGC has turned into a full time operation.

The women’s group that I had been working with is a “group” no longer! Pushaq Warmi is a full fledged asociación , albeit with training wheels. 

Pushaq Warmi participating in a protest against the violence in Peru.

Here is a breakdown of what has happened and what is going on.

Ten women completed a three year leadership program.

During an immersion trip to Chimbote, Women’s Global Connection, the NGO that I work for met these ten awesome ladies and helped them form a women’s group.

Then I came along, a giant (literally) mumbling goober who spent the first three months giving them the good ol’ smile-and-nod. I’ve since learned a pretty decent amount of Spanish – I’d say I’m in the normally functioning human being category now – and now consider myself an actual asset to the group.

"Yes, I understand what is going on in my general vicinity...."

Tere, the director of WGC, who also happens to be the greatest boss I’ve ever worked for *cough-more cholula-cough* :) visited twice with two separate immersion teams to work with Pushaq Warmi. She has been a big inspiration. Coming from an International Relations background I was a little skeptical in general about the work of Non-governmental organizations...I just didn’t see how NGOs and Non-Profits could have that much of an impact working outside of the government framework.

My time with WGC has completely changed the way I think about all of that and now I can say I understand the importance of community empowerment and sustainability. I can now say, with confidence, that true solutions must start at the grassroots level to be successful in the long-term. My opinion, anyway.

Pushaq Warmi is focusing on two main goals:

1. Helping to increase the capacity (knowledge and skills) of women in and around Chimbote.
2. Developing an economic project (a small business) to help fund workshops for these women and to provide some economic relief for the women of Pushaq Warmi.

After focusing solely on giving free workshops to women in our area on a variety of different topics (health, rights, computer training, how to make yogurt, self-esteem…) they’ve realized that it can get pretty expensive being a Non-Profit.

At the time I thought I was blending in. 

So with the help of Tere and an impressive team of professors and volunteers from the University of the Incarnate Word (I’ve still got my Rattler pride, calm down) we’ve been working on a business model to help make all the work of Pushaq Warmi sustainable.

By sustainable, I mean that hopefully by the time I leave if everything goes according to plan, Pushaq Warmi will be self-sufficient. They’ll be making enough money to pay for all the expenses associated with giving workshops to help women in the area.

A workshop on self esteem

Also…we’ve scored ourselves a radio program every Thursday morning on a local Catholic radio station that reaches hundreds of thousands of people. Pretty sweet, right? We essentially have thirty minutes, live, on-air, to share information. From programs on Economic Violence: men controlling or abusing their partners by controlling the household income, to Niños de la Calle: children who work or perform on the streets for money, Pushaq Warmi has been working hard to raise awareness on important issues facing Chimbotan@s today.

In the recording cabin at the radio station.

I’m excited to move forward on the business plan and continue helping with all the great work Pushaq Warmi is doing, and to prepare for the upcoming WGC immersion trip towards the end of November.

Other than that…I have to say that time is flying. I can’t believe that I’ve been here for more than a year already. I miss my family and friends a lot for sure, but my Mom, Dad and little squirt of a brother will be visiting me over the Christmas holiday, so that’s something to really look forward to.

Thanks for all your prayers and support and if your reading this, for not giving up on my blog! 

Now, for random pictures of my life over the past four month:

...and not a single llama was tamed that day. 

Katie, her best friend Erin and I in Cuzco.

Our lives have been spared....for now.

We went on a pilgrimage with our parish to the site where some Franciscan missionaries were murdered during the terrorism in Peru, then rescued this dog.

The church theater group here at St. Francis put on a play about the life of St. Francis for the anniversary of our church. I played Francisco's disciple and I even had a line, "Francisco! Francisco!" I nailed it.

Katie and Clare riding a bulldozer across the street when our street flooded. Ahh....the things that'd never happen back in the U.S.

What happens when you take a hundred pictures in less than an hour. Also, indescribable Machu Picchu.

We didn't know you can't do this anymore. Good thing the security guard couldn't see into the future. Also pretty sure the female  photo-bomber to the left was pretty disgusted by our American tomfoolery.

                                               She owes me one. 

My little buddy.

A bubble of spit dribbles down Jesus’ chin and soaks into his already damp bib as he struggles to fit his hand around the large rock I hold in mine. His right hand opens and closes in frustration, mimicking the motion his left hand refuses to make.

It’s the biggest rock he’s ever tried to pick up during our exercises and although he’s struggling, I know he can do it.

The soft-ball size stone is actually a chunk of brick made of dirt and sand that’s fallen off the knee high wall of an unfinished house where Jesus sits.

So really, it’s not as heavy as it looks.

The challenge is for Jesus to use his hand correctly.

We’ve only been using small stones for this exercise and he’s figured out a way to pick them up only using his fingers. He avoids using his thumb by pressing it into his palm.

His clever method technically gets the job done but he’s not gaining much in terms of motor skills.

He does get points for critical thinking.

I smile when he realizes the chunk of brick renders his four-fingered move useless.

He looks up and me and shakes his head, No.

“Yes, you can.”

No, he shakes his head again, smiling.

“Yes.”

He lowers his head and stares intently at his left hand. It shakes as he forces it open, his thumb jerking as it slowly begins to stretch. He places his thumb on the brick first and then wraps his fingers around it. His fingertips turn white under the pressure of his grip and he gradually lifts the rock out of my hand. The rock hovers in the air for a few seconds before it slips out of his grasp and thuds in the sand at our feet.

“See.” I say.

He raises his arms into the air, laughs and nods his head, Yea!

I pick him up off the recently built wall and sit him down on a nearby boulder to replace his shoe which I took off for his foot exercise.

The small community on the sandy hillside above Cambio Puente has changed a lot over the past months. Many families are in the middle of replacing their bamboo and estera houses with brick and mortar, and after seeing the aftermath of the fire in Chimbote, I’m glad. I just hope their squatters’ rights are honored and they’re not building in vain.

Jesus has changed a lot too. His hair is cut short and he’s gotten taller, making him look more like a young boy than a wild, long-haired toddler.

And he’s more curious now than ever.

I shake the sand out of his shoe before slipping it back onto his foot. It isn’t long after I start tying his shoe that he’s trying to grab the laces from my hands. He points to the laces then puts his hands on his chest, I want to do it.

“Okay, here you go,” I say as I hand them over.

After four or five tries and a few demonstrations, he’s able to get the “over-under” part down. I hear footsteps crunching in the sand nearby and look up to see his aunt walking by, smiling and shaking her head at what I’m showing Jesus. Now that this part of Cambio Puente is developing, some of Jesus’ extended family has moved to the area, meaning that I never find him home alone anymore.

I congratulate him for doing so well on his first try and quickly finish the job.

You’d think I was Harry Houdini the way he stares wide-eyed at my hands. He smiles and nods, That was cool.

In that moment, I realize how fortunate I am and also how much I take for granted. I’ve never realized how meaningful a simple act like being able to tie your own shoes can be. How much independence it gives you.

For his last exercise we sit on the boulder, side by side, and I begin to peel a mandarin. He gets excited and starts to reach for the fruit.

“Hey…” I say blocking his greedy hands with my elbow, and he quickly arranges his legs and puts his hands on his lap.

I hand him the first slice which he tries to grab with his right hand.

“Not that hand, Jesus. You already know.”

He smiles sheepishly knowing he wouldn’t get away with it. He carefully takes the slice in his left hand but drops it into the sand. The second and third slices follow suit.

“We’re not going to eat any of it.” I say and we both laugh.

His laughter is quickly replaced by a look of determination.

The fourth slice passes from his left hand, to his right and then into his mouth.

Juice squirts onto my arm as he chews. He laughs. Juice, spit and what looks like bits of his oatmeal breakfast run down my arm.

Without thinking, I wipe it onto his pant leg.

As he sits, happily eating another slice, I struggle with the fact that I wiped the juice onto his pants and not my own. The image of my sweaty Saturday morning of washing clothes flashes through my mind.

Still, I feel angry at myself, and more than a little guilty. I don’t know why. I know it isn’t that big of a deal. It’s just…moments like these make me realize what a long way I’ve got to go.

Later, before I realize what he’s doing, he hugs my knee. His soggy, oatmeal covered bib leaves a large slimy patch on my jeans.

I have to laugh.

I walk him back to his house where his aunt and younger sister sit de-kernelling dried corn. I look back once as I make my way down the hill to catch a car headed for Chimbote. Jesus, who is standing at the brick wall, waves with his left hand. 

On hoop jumping.

It’s 4:31 pm. One minute after the building should have closed.

Still, we’re huddled around the engineer’s computer screen while she scrolls through the bylaws of Pushaq Warmi.

I hear some men pace quickly down the hallway, one angrily mumbling under his breath as he passes the open door of the Small Business Office which has only recently been crammed into a vacancy at the Ministry of Produce and Fishing.

It may not make much sense, but it’s in a better position than the Center for the Defense Against Female and Familial Violence on the third floor of the public fish market where the stairs are slick and slimy and the smell is unforgettable.

Even though the sun has already begun to set, the air in the second story office is still muggy and warm enough that everyone is glinting with sweat.

I’ve lost track of two things: how many times we’ve visited this office and what it is the young pregnant woman sitting across from us is an engineer of—they only ever refer to her as La Inginiera.

My hot, sticky mood wants to say that she’s shown a remarkable talent for engineering red tape…but in reality she’s done a lot to help us through the process of formalizing Pushaq Warmi into a legally recognized association.

La Inginiera’s growing stomach has helped mark the time. I remember our first meeting when the slimmer version had to shut and lock the office door behind us as a crowd of fishermen began forming ominously in the lobby. The large plate glass window in the stairwell, spider webbed with cracks from a baseball sized projectile makes it clear the popularity of the Ministry of Produce and Fishing is touch-and-go at best. Unless the projectile was directed at La Inginiera, but as she sits with one hand on the mouse and the other protectively resting on her now sizeable stomach, I find that hard to believe.

Sandra, the group’s president sits unfazed. She’s worked too long and too hard to worry about anything other than the approval stamp.

Pushaq Warmi (poo-shack war-mi) is Quechua, an indigenous language, which roughly translates to “Woman Guide,” and was chosen as the name of the group I work with through Women’s Global Connection.
            Right now there are ten women in Pushaq Warmi: three teachers, two nurses, a vendor, a natural healer, a handicraft maker, a cafeteria owner and a woman who runs a small gym. All of them, mothers. They came together through a three year leadership course at an institution called La Casa de la Mujer or the House of the Woman. With the help of Women’s Global Connection, they’ve been able to create a group that is dedicated to helping women throughout Chimbote better themselves through workshops on various topics.

“Today is going to be the day,” I think to myself as La Inginiera shuffles through some of the paperwork that Teo, a maternity nurse and the treasurer of the group, has handed her.

            Pushaq Warmi has been working relentlessly towards becoming a formalized group recognized as an Association by the Peruvian government. Until they are, even the name Pushaq Warmi is up for grabs. Sandra won’t stop until it’s written in bureaucratic stone.

            La Inginiera points out some corrections that need to be made.

            The clock ticks audibly as Sandra asks if they can make the changes now.

            Her secretary leads us to another office where a man allows Sandra and Genoveva, the professor of the group, to quickly make the changes.

            4:40 p.m.  

Already the guard is shutting the steel gate. 

The man at the computer turns out not only to be an employee of the Ministry of Production and Fishing, but also a part of the Small Business approval process.

 I’m still not sure how it all works, but we’ll need his signature at some point.

            Genoveva asks if there is any way they can finalize the process then and there.

            “Well…it’s very late,” he answers her, looking at his watch. “We closed at 4:30,” he says as he gestures to the clock on the wall behind him with his thumb.

“Come back tomorrow.”

I can see in their faces that, at this point, their frustration has been replaced by determination.
            Oh, they’ll be back tomorrow alright. 

 

Here is a video I made for Pushaq Warmi a while ago to show at their first workshop in Cambio Puente. 

Someone from our diocese here in Chimbote made this video about the fire that destroyed the settlement of Sanchez Milla a while back.

Right now, thanks to all the donations, especially from the Incarnate Word Sisters, the Posta Santa Clara has been able to start a new project which will help a lot of families affected by the fire.

Hope your cat speaks English.

One of the ways I know that my Spanish is improving that I'm able to pick up on the little things now.

For example, I recently heard a friend mention in passing that "Un gato tiene siete vidas," or "A cat has seven lives."

After asking my friend to repeat the saying, and after double-checking with some other friends, I found out that, in Spanish, cats only have 7 lives, not 9. They were equally surprised to hear that cats in the U.S. have 9.

So, sadly our Peruvian cats have two less opportunities to bounce back than their English speaking counterparts.

Good to know.