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.

As I have learned, following a week of getting oriented to my new program, job, and group of volunteers, it is necessary to break away and spend a Sunday morning wandering and writing. Alas, I sit in an poorly illuminated, tiny internet cafe crowded with dusty PCs, wooden desks held together with duct tape (the tape I think I last saw holding up the color war signs at camp), and Peruvian men with dreadlocks (at least three of them). I am in Miraflores, one of the nicer neighborhoods of Lima, and looking forward to a morning of wandering and getting my bearings. At 1:30, I have plans to spend the afternoon at a center for female domestic workers, to teach English and provide company to the women and girls on their day off from working as underpaid nannies or maids for the wealthy of Lima.

Things here have been picking up. The city is massive, and seems to go on forever. Just when I think that I have heard a neighborhood named before as one I should check out, or one to add to the, DO NOT GO HERE AT NIGHT list, I find out about a million other places. The restaraunts number many, the streets and highways go on forever, and it takes me significant time to travel from place to place. I can get peanut M & Ms in the grocery, which looks like any enormous, impersonal grocery you may wander into in the States (and has proven to be a place, just like in the States, where I can wander through aisles and examine products for hours...but I try to hold off here). I am still in Peru however...do not be confused. I even had an anti-US government spouting cab driver yesterday, which is always interesting.

I am getting used to working at Deporte y Vida, although I am stuggling to figure out how I fit in exactly. I get that I am there to answer the, In your country...blahblahblah, question which the kids seem to throw at me pretty consistently. However, this place differs from the prison in that it is systematically run. The teachers keep the kids disciplined and sitting through the supportive schooling in the early morning, and coral them into activities for the latter portion of the morning. I joined a second grade class, thinking that the teacher seemed interesting and the kids were cute (and desperately needed help with math...2+5 never seemed so hard). However, even that seems challenging, because the teacher just wants me to teach her English in the middle of class, or tell her about what different parts of the United States are like (and let me tell you...she was shocked to hear that Manhattan is an island). So, I am hoping that once we can get passed the intial excitement of my arrival and the teacher sees that I am particularly concerned with the kids, things will run an improved course. For now, I am tolerant, and seeking out alternative ways for me to help. I am thinking about creative English teaching activities during free time or...any ideas? I have an hour and half, no space, few supplies, and hoards of attentive kids (if I can pull them away from the same old soccer game, rolling around a couple toy cars, dance class, and the antiquated two laptops where they crowd around Super Mario Brothers). Friday was a little different because it was the day when all January birthdays school-wide were celebrated with games, snacks, and dancing. While I had fun, I continue to be unsure of my place in the workings of this facility and the lives of these children.

I had a very interesting experience on Friday night. Because this weekend marks the three year anniversary of the death of my father (today is infact the exact day) and I had arrived in the big city of Lima, I decided that it was about time for me to check out the Peruvian Jewish population. I had two choices of synagogues to attend, since there is both a Conservative shul and an Orthodox shul. Since I was mainly going for something familiar and the chance to meet people, I selected the Conservative shul. As they have apparently suffered much anti-Semitic violence (not in the most recent past), I needed to fax my passport over beforehand and carry it with me on Shabbat. My program director walked me over on his way home.

We approached a large, cement, unmarked building, which I would have never been able to ID as a synagogue if he had not been with me. We knocked on the thick glassed tinted window next to the massive, steel door. A small women, of about 18 years popped outside and engaged my program director in a Spanish conversation. He pointed to me a few times, and while I was not really listening, I assumed that this was the part when he was introducing me to my new Spanish speaking friends. All of sudden, she turned to me, and in perfect English, asked, where are you from in the States? I replied, shocked, and asked her if she speaks a lot of English. She explained that she went to an American school in Lima, as most of the members of the synagogue did as well, and a lot of people spoke English inside. I was relieved to hear this news.

I parted with my program director and this 18 year old women at the door, and headed inside. After going through my second steel door, I finally had reached the inside. The halls were long and the ceiling high. I wandered around a little, to find a few classrooms and small corners, just like in my synagogue at home. Eventually and easily, I found the sanctuary. The sanctuary also looked very shul-like, complete with rows or chairs for about 400, a small balcony, a bimah (pulpit), stained glass windows with Hebrew letters, and an area in the center of the ground floor for the Rabbi to stand facing the ark (place that holds the torah on the bimah). I sat down alone, and waited for the service to begin.

A handful of people shuffled in, and I must say, I kind of recognized them. Now, I did not actually KNOW any of them persay, but a lot of the people looked familiar. Sitting in the first row was a series of 3 elderly couples, complete with men with thick rimmed glasses that stretched from the forehead to mid-cheek and women sporting their hairsprayed, dyed brown hair helmet. Running in and out of the door was the 10-year-old girl dragged to synagogue by her parents, and her 13-year-old boy sat asleep next to their parents, ignoring the service his family assumed would help him prepare for his bar mitzvah. I immediately zero-ed in on the mix of people, noticing in the crowd of elderly and young families that contrary to my preconceived notion, I might not meet my Peruvian boyfriend there.

One woman sitting nerby befriended me, and we spoke for a little while in English. She told me that most of the Jewish population of Lima originated in Buenos Aires, and that it was a dwindling group. Her children all made Aliyah to Israel, and that was a growing trend. She also explained to me that she does not frequent synagogue, but it was the weekend of her husbands (again, no apostrophes...sorry) yarzeiht. I told her that it was also the English anniversary of my fathers death, and she told me that she would think of me when we all stood for Kaddish (the prayer said for the dead). I thanked her, and returned the expression. And, the yarzeihts listed in the weekly pamphlet were classic Jewish Peruvian names...like, Juan Brodstein.

The service was nearly the same as a service that we would have any Shabbat at camp, or most of the services I remember from the Conservative minyan at Hillel. It was mostly in Hebrew, which I appreciated, as I followed along with the easily recognizable tunes and identical words and tuned out the sermon and announcements in Hebrew. And as I stood for the Kaddish, I kept thinking that my dad would have been impressed that I made it all the way to this synagogue in Lima. And, probably a little proud too.

When the service ended, a nice man who only spoke Spanish approached me to find out who I was and what I was doing in Lima. I told him about my volunteering, my father, and my desire to become a part of the Jewish community in Lima...for the next six weeks. He was excited, and as he put me in a cab to go home, he told me that he would look forward to seeing me next week. I smiled, because I would look forward to seeing him as well.

I spent yesterday wandering throughout downtown Lima with Heidi, a friend of friends who happens to originate in Ann Arbor and was passing through Lima. We had never met before, but spent the day eating, talking, and passing through plazas and over random street corners. We got through the intial, who I am and why I am in South America, and talked about the people we had in common. Only at the end of the day did I explain to her that this weekend was special to me, because I keep thinking about where I was three years ago, and how my family is all together in New York...without me. And as I said goodbye to her (and nice to meet you) and got in a cab at the end of the day, I really felt like I had spent the day with a close friend. I had only heard of her prior to those six hours yesterday, but for some reason, I really enjoyed the time of throwing around names, speaking English to someone other than another volunteer, and exchaging funny travel stories. It is amazing how people can identify with so little when in a totaly foreign situation, and especially at a time when one yearns to identify with anything familiar.

I will spend the rest of my day at the center for the domestic workers (and will fill in the details on the blog later) and journaling around Lima. Today is a day like any other in Lima. But, not quite for me.