Marci Soifer

So...the news from Lima. Well, nothing I have got this time has a thing to do with States of the Union, the Super Bowl (go, go teams...who is playing anyway?), or 7 inches of snow (sorry to hear that, Michiganders). But, I do have a couple things that are worth a read...this is a long one.

An interesting week at Deporte y Vida...

My days at Deporte y Vida had a range of moments, from huge successes to great failures, realizing strong connections to struggling to remember the names of any children at all, and the ever classic constant laughter to flashes of boredom (the kind that are breif, but still make you really examine what you are doing in a third world volunteer placement that bores you...not supposed to happen). As aforementioned, I have joined the second grade class, and the teacher greeted me on Monday morning with excitement. On Monday, we would work on Spanish grammar. So, after a few minutes of watching the kids use their unsharpened colored pencils (that is all they seem to have) to copy from the small, stained chalkboard, I spoted the child who needed my help. Her name is Angela and she sat in the very back corner, squinting her giant dark eyes and momentarily jolting her very small (compared to the other kids) body in the air for a chance to see over the other kids. When I approached her and asked her a few questions, her dull stare immediately illuminated that this little girl had absolutely no clue what was going on in her class. I sat next to her and word by word, sometimes letter by letter, I helped her work on the assignment. I do not know if she understands or retains my explainations, and she has literally a 3 second attention span...so there were many moments when I had to literally put her pencil on the correct line in her notebook to get her to notice where we were.

When we had nearly finished, the teacher approached us and glanced down at the work Angela had completed. She gave her a high mark, a 19/20, and smiled at us. I threw my hand in the air, and told Angela to give me 5. As Angela reached her hand up to meet mine, I turned to the teacher and whispered in her ear, this work is hard for her. The teacher, who normally is a very nice woman, said to me in a voice much louder than a whisper (aka, absolutely audible by others in the class...including Angela), yeah, she does not know much. I sat down next to Angela, uncomfortable, and put her pencil back on paper, in order to add the last details to her assignment. I was left wondering if Angela has some king of learning difficulty.

Tuesday was the last day at school for my teacher, and by Wednesday, I realized that the new teacher was going to run pretty much the same show. Angela gets ignored, the other kids shout out answers as they please, the cutest little girl Wendy, who sits in the corner and wears a dress everyday, would still be the favorite, and the assistant teacher, a 15-year-old named Jose who looks like Yoshi, is still allowed to sleep on the bench in the back. I gravitated toward Angela all week, and by Thursday, I was forcing her to sit in the front of class, hoping that perhaps her being able to see would increase her chances of grasping the material. I was wrong. She struggles with math, with grammar, with questions, with penmanship, with spelling...pretty much anything we do. She even struggles to tell me how old she is, which I recently found out is only 6-years-old (and yet, she is in this second grade class with 7, 8, and 9-year-olds). However, my Angela tutorials seem to be attracting the other struggling kids (and there are a small handful, and one of them has an eraser, which makes her a comodity to all the other kids...including me and Angela). So, I may have found niche in class.

When class ends, I am still running up short. Free time for the kids has turned into time for Marci to run around and see who will play with her, or wants her to play with them...which way is it supposed to go again? Well, on Wednesday, the kids got to watch Finding Nemo, and while the case for the movie was in Spanish...the film was in fact in English. Well, none of them speak any English, so I got requested to translate. This did not go so well. I really just changed every sentence into...he is scared because his son is small and lost, and he says he needs to find his son. The kids were not impressed. I laughed. A lot.

After this run of bad luck, I decided to excuse myself from the movie and take out the English teaching numbers and letters that I had prepared with my markers the night before. Today would be meaningful if it was the last thing I ever did. I taped them on the wall nearby another group of kids in another corner of the school, and asked them who wanted to learn some English. They excitedly shouted, ME ME ME! So, I started to pronounce numbers and sang the alphabet song, and the kids all repeated, and were even engaged. I taught them a game which consisted of my starting a nearby tennis ball in a circle of kids and with each toss, every person needed to shout out the numbers in English, and then we would do the letters of the alphabet, in order. Their faces look decievingly excited, because by the time I reached 2, the assembled circle had dispersed. The kids were heading in different directions and corners...and I assumed that meant the English class had ended.

During free time on Thursday, the kids wandered aimlessly again, and the other volunteer at my placement turned to me and said, we should teach them a game...like Duck, Duck, Goose. I gathered a group of kids, took a stab at the explaination, and when the kids stared at me with blank looks, I knew that this game does not exist in Peru. Somehow, Jose, or should I say, Yoshi, understood what I was saying, and helped me explain to the kids what was going on. They got it, but they did not like that the other volunteer and I were calling out the words, duck, duck, and goose. They asked me to use Spanish, but I unfortunately sould not really remember the words. I told them to use plato (which means plate, and the Spanish word for duck is actually PATO), plato, paloma (which means dove...not goose). So, if you ever run into a Peruvian in the States trying to recognize the American game, Plate, Plate, Dove, please say hello and let them know that I made a small error in my translation.

I would not be surprised if you ran into a Peruvian who loved this game, because before I knew it, this game was the biggest hit to come to this school since erasers. Seriously, we played for two hours, and the kids wanted to keep going. This was the biggest success that I have had since I arrived, and it was amazing. The smiles, and the laughter...the teachers all came to watch the (at one point) 30 kids assembled in a sweaty, happy, giggling circle. It was perfect.

I could not go to work on Friday, because the kids were out on a school sponsored trip to a nearby pool and I had to go to the US Embassy. Some of you may have heard this story, but basically, here is the deal: my passport has a defect. I lost my passport long ago, when my father died, and got it replaced a few days before I left for this trip. When I recieved my replacement passport, I glanced at the picture, recognized myself, and put it in the cupboard in my kitchen for my departure. Now, when I swiped my passport in the E-ticket check-in machine at the Detroit airport on my faithful departure day in December, I was surprised to find that for some reason, Continental Airlines thought that I was male. Sure enough, my passport notes my gender as male. Yes, yes, laugh it up. Very funny. And, at that moment, when the Continental Airlines woman told me that I could not leave the country on an invalid passport, I not laughing at all. Since Halie is still working for Congress, I asked her to do some quick research, and found out that I could indeed leave the country, but would need to get a fixed passport for my eventual return at the US Embassy in Lima. Fabulous...I love hanging around complicated US bureaucratic systems while I travel. But, I had no alternative.

Friday was the faithful day...I ventured to Monterrico, the most high class neighborhood of Lima, to find the US Embassy. The building surprised me...large, and a little bomb shelter like. Apparently, when George Bush came to Peru a few years ago, there was a bomb planted outside the Embassy...so perhaps the Americans believe the intimidating exterior is a necessity..? The building towers over the massive amount of photo processing shops on the opposite side of the street, and sits on a land mass without any other neighboring building for many feet. Made of a dull gray and green cement pattern, the building is totally flat in the front, with an organized distribution of windows facing outward. And, of course, the entry...a set of 2 enormously tall (think 2 and a half of your height), blue, wood patterned (but really steel) doors, complete with the US seal embranded across both doors, mid-way up.

I walked up to the first security post, completely run by Peruvians who did not speak English, but did recognize the words, passport services. As soon as I uttered those words and flashed my blue passport, I was allowed to pass right through the line. At this first checkpoint, I was able to walk directly past the nearly 150 Peruvians standing in line at 8:30 on a Friday morning. And, if I had to put my money on it...I would bet that those Peruvians have been standing in that line waiting for a visa or green card for days, or maybe years. Sadly, it is so difficult to be granted entry into the United States (unless you are an English speaker, married...or can prove that you are not trying to go to the US to get married, and have a rediculous amount of money). At the second checkpoint, I presented my invalid passport again for an immidiate passing, and again noticed a line of about 50 more Peruvians.

The third checkpoint, still outfitted completely by Peruvian men with M16s and no English skills, was inside the building, and I proceeded to a small office complete with posters of the Statue of Liberty, the Capitol building in DC, and Mt. Rushmore with messages in Spanish. The room had three Peruvian men sitting on benches, five small Peruvian families (with only a mother, father, and one child...small families are rare here), and two other single-looking Americans. I noticed them all, and took note of how well-groomed the Peruvian children inside this office looked compared to the kids I have been working with. One little girl had her dark hair swept up in a neat ponytail over her pink dress, and sat with arms folded enough that she was just exposing her gold bracelet and ring over her crossed legs and patten leather shoes. I cannot remember that last time I saw gold jewelery...let alone on a child who could not have been more than 9-years-old.

Alas, I took a number and joined these people on the benches, thinking that the air condition must be the draft in the room (I had forgotten about AC). Waiting...waiting...waiting...for about 35 minutes. Finally, number 77. I heard the English numbers, and rose with the knowledge that this interaction, unlike most others I have had in the last 7 weeks, would be in my native tongue. I greeted a professional Peruvian women (behind her, I noticed two American men...the only Americans I saw at all during my time at the Embassy), with a flashy, Embassy of Lima badge and blue lanyard around her neck. I told her my story and expressed my frustration, to which she laughed. I was sure glad that the error of the US Passport Agency was so comical to her. Fabulous.

After some forms, a run across the street (literally, the opposite side of the street from the US Embassy is lined with passport photo places...weird), and of course, a bit more waiting, I was finally told that a new passport will be created, needed to be picked up in three weeks, and carried around (in addition to my current document) for the duration of my travels.

Friday afternoon, I joined the entire staff of my house (drivers, office manager, cooks, night guards...everybody) and a few other volunteers in the traditional Friday afternoon soccer game. Did you know that I am good at soccer? I did not either...and I am not really, but I scored a goal! And, I am already gearing up for next week. Our team lost, but...I am going to work on that.

After a shower and a quick trip to synagogue again (nice trip...less eventful with the elderly congregants and Rabbi Guerrimo Bronstein this time), I joined the other volunteers at a large park near my house. The park was hosting the National Pisco Festival, a celebration of the domestically produced Peruvian brandy, and as we are in peru, we felt oblidged to participate (you may remember Pisco from my trip the coast and Ica). I have not taken such a liking to Pisco, unfortunately (considering really...everyday is National Pisco day here), so everyone else drank, listened to salsa, and hung around the park. When the festival closed, and the employees from myriad tented booths stopped their eager distribution of samples and glasses overflowing with the trademark margarita tasting Pisco Sour, we headed over to our local pub for a few more drinks. Somehow, by the end of the night, we ended up dancing salsa and merengue (yeah..I learned) from a radio in the small back room of the pub with the entire staff. It was one of those, I live in Peru, moments.

Oh Peru.

Thanks for making it to the bottom of this one. I hope you are all well.