Tuesday, November 18, 2008

Disorienting Ducks

Lima disorients me. Cardinal directions, seasons of the year, conversion rates and world order crash around in my head as unruly as the nighttime waves on the city’s beaches. When I think the Pacific Ocean is to the West of the Continent, LimeƱos say its South of the city; just as the exchange rate reaches 3 Soles to the dollar, I discover I don’t divide well by 3 in my head; and each time I devour a savory Papas a la Huancaina or a delicious Ceviche, I forget that I am consuming these culinary treats in a nation not so different from Bolivia and not so far from a 40% poverty rate as they would like to believe.

Sometimes I have “Lima disorientations”. Those ones come from a general sense of Lima’s strange place in the world and even within her country: such a developed city for such an impoverished nation. Recent weeks saw Bolivia-style protests in five Peruvian provinces, but with virtually no affect on the disconnected capital. The only action I’ve seen was on the bus when my driver almost hit a motorcycle. (After exchanging profanities, the motorist got off his bike and walked to my driver’s window where a fistfight broke out and I had to move from my seat behind the driver.)

And sometimes my disorientation comes from taking in a new lifestyle, job, and country. I spend a few minutes every few days deciding if I need to scream at all the Peruvians that don’t know how to wait in a line, or just accept, what in the moment, feels like a tremendous injustice. – That’s a “cultural disorientation”.

But those aren’t the only ones I’m having of late. Sometimes I have the life ones. The “life disorientations” have to do with bank accounts, and bottom lines. The life ones happen when there are clashes between what I say and what I do; between what I want to be and who I want to be. They happen when I can’t tell if humility was kidnapped, pride was beat up, or if reality just stole the show. And the life disorientations mix into all the other disorientations like Bacardi Dark back when Mark Wahlberg was Marky Mark, and they spin around, something fierce until all I can do is pray the same crappy prayers about them over and over and hope for an answer.

And I found my answer at my least favorite place in Lima: the US Embassy. I love America. I took American History three times in school and I taught it to GED Students. I cried watching delegates from each state proudly stand up in the convention to say crazy things like, “Aloha from the Pineapple state, the Dems from Hawaii cast x votes for her native son…” -as if it was proof that democracy works and everyone gets a say! But I do not like going to the embassy. It's larger than the state department in Washington and has more security than the Green Zone. I mean what are they doing in there? They always confiscate my iPod and my Gatorade bottle and they call me “Seeen-yore-ah” until they realize I’m American – its just awful. And I don’t even have to wait in the long line. I get to go in the short line. The long line is for Peruvians who want a visa. And they look nervous…even the wealthy businessmen who’ve been to the US before look nervous. The long line has a special embassy guy come over and shuffle them along and measure their passport pictures. And being in the long line, means you better have worn comfy shoes, because needing to impress or not, you’re gonna be there all morning.

I knew about the two lines, but I didn’t know that across the street from the embassy is the “waiting room”. Almost all those nervous people in the long line have someone who loves them, crossing their fingers across the street on the curb. There are no benches or grass, just a dirty ole corner with a lot of hopes and well wishes. And on this last embassy visit, instead of standing in the short line I stood with the hopefuls on the corner and I waited. At first I observed the others, then I got tired and sat down, then I got excited because I realized my bus goes right by there (embassy, home and beach – what a route!), and then I tried to read, and then I put on my glasses and squinted to see if I could see who was coming out the revolving turnstiles. But with all that waiting, eventually the spinning started and I gave in to the disorientations…the Lima ones, the culture ones and of course the life ones and when it got to be too much, I started the crappy prayers. And that’s when God slapped me and as my head swung back, I almost shouted aloud: “I don’t care about those crappy prayers today. Today I care about the same thing that everyone else on this dirty ole curb cares about." And it was the best answer ever to realize that in the disoriented spinning of my priorities, the circling ducks really are in a row and the really brave hope-duck is head of the line.

1 comment:

Ian said...

fisticuffs on the morning commute = awesome!!! Twice I saw a bus that was driving too fast and swerving out of its lane rip the entire front bumper off of an innocent car. Insurance information was exchanged, but the potential for violence was disappointingly non-existent. Santiago Chile and San Juan Puerto Rico ain't nearly as good as Lima for witnessing drivers of public versus private transport versus