Adios

            At first she was an enigmatic creature. But, by catching her off-guard with my Spanish and incessant wandering throughout her puzzling streets, I have broken through the maze of Cusco. The dim alley lamps, cobblestone roads, clay roofs, plazas, fountains, and cathedrals have been embedded in my brain. Host family members, fellow travelers, Spanish teachers, and the orphans have been embedded in my soul.

After two weeks of volunteering, I have put in forty hours of work—work being the worst term to describe my time with the kids. Two days ago, the last day with los ninos, I felt that I was finally able to connect. Through my persistent reminding of their possibilities, they have begun to see it plausible to swipe away the black shadow in front of their bright futures. My favorite kid of the group, a defiant eight-year-old named Carlos, told me that one day he would visit me in Los Angeles, as a business man, and would bring me Hot Wheels—the blue carrito I gave him clutched in his right hand as he assured me of his plan. To see through the perspective of Peruvian children who have nothing but hope, no guidance throughout the large, mysterious world around them, has made my life in Monterey Park (with a cell phone, computer, new car, Playstation 3, and a flat screen TV with High Definition) seem so privileged. Give, give, give, and give, I kept telling myself on this trip. To the children I gave toys, candy, and, most importantly, my friendship. They may grow out of the toys, and gobble up the Crunch bars in record time, but they will always have my amistad—as I will theirs.

Thank you to Cusco, Peru and everybody I have met along the way.

August 9: Okay, a small donation

Gates to the orphanage 

At the rotation of the wrist, steaming water fires out of the showerhead in most American homes. It is now an almost intuitive movement for us, something we do not pay much attention to. I have taken it for granted. The kids at the orphanage must feel the sharp mountain water every morning, and a kid who suffers from autism (constantly drooling and urinating on himself) must go through three showers on a daily basis. With a cracking voice and watery eyes, her soul finding its way through her wind-burned lips, the house mother pleaded for a 25 sole—about ten U.S. dollars—donation to provide hot water for the next two months. “Me da pena lavar los ninos con agua fria,” she said. “Me ayudas?”


“Claro,” I answered calmly.

August 8: Incan Empire

Empowered by teenage ambition and with the help of some ignorance, two other United Planet volunteers and I began our trek to the gates of Machu Picchu at three in the morning. The early departure from the city of Agua Caliente was justified by the promise of being within the first 400 people to enter the ruins. Making it under the quota meant achieving the desired entrance stamp to climb Waynapicchu, the iconic mountain that perpetually watches and protects the great city. The hike could not have been made without the help of my two-inch F.O.R. South Bay flashlight (a token of gratitude for playing and, in this case, fortunately, losing in a CYC basketball tournament) as the faint glow of the stars did not offer enough luminosity. As if my body was crying from exhaustion and sleep deprivation, I had soaked my entire outfit with sweat in the 36-degree mountain air. We reached the entrance. My group had made it.

After a tour by a Peruvian lady who had obviously memorized the English translation of her lecture—oblivious to the fact that she was leaving out key prepositions while explaining the agricultural and urban sectors of the city—my two fellow volunteers and I made our way to Waynapicchu’s trail head. We flashed the stamps that we had lost sleep for and began our hike into the sky. Knowing that my dirty Nike running shoes were sharing the same footsteps as the Incas propelled me up the seemingly eternal staircase of the mountain. At the top, I stumbled to the edge and extended my arms—for a couple seconds feeling the ancient energy of the valleys and mountains very much alive around me. The spirits of the early culture lifted me into the atmosphere, guiding and accepting me into their eternal home.

August 4: The mediator

Even though I have befriended many of the kids, keeping them from dismantling each other is quite difficult. Today, at the orphanage, I broke up three fights. Then I broke up two more. It got to the point where I was anticipating brawls and was quickly conciliating the disputes. But after all of this, the kids settled down—enemies suddenly became friends. Damn, I was confused. During these fights, the orphans discharge their pain and frustration. They become possessed by the anger they have bottled up inside. I told the most troubled kid—Carlos—that it did not matter who started the fight. Hitting back is the easy way out. “Tienes que ser el hombre mas mejor,” I counseled him. He looked at me with a blank stare. I have seven more days to fix this.

August 3: Volunteering

Cusco is the impenetrable and beautiful woman, and I am burrowing my way through alleys and cryptic streets to find my way to her heart. By the time I get to the airport for my return flight, I will be cradling it in my palms.


Volunteer work, Spanish, cooking, and salsa lessons, a Machu Picchu visit, a city tour, and unabridged freedom. My schedule for the next two weeks has been laid out for me. Yesterday and today have been completely booked with activities—two visits to the orphanage I am working at (a change to my original plan to help out at an after school program because the children currently are on vacation), a spectacular welcoming dinner, and spending free time attempting to conquer the city. Ridiculously smart and hospitable, the orphans I am working with have already reshaped my outlook on life. They have nothing, accept for each other and the hope that one day they will break free of their predetermined capabilities—these capabilities not bestowing the opportunity for success, their situations being the instigator to live an existence of no substance. My job is to give perpetual hope and assurance to these children. After the first two days, I feel that my presence has given them the chance to continue dreaming and aspiring. Today, I told one of the orphans that hard work would get him to wherever he wanted to go, and that his situation meant nothing. “El mundo es tuyo,” I told him. Meaning, “the world is yours.”

August 1: Hola Cusco

The walls of the surrounding mountains, a needle-sharp wind, and the smiling face of my host family’s mother—Dina Alvarez—greeted me as I finally landed in Cusco, Peru. We promptly found a cab; a go-kart sized Yugo, suitable for the size of the average Perueno. Swerving in and out lanes like a drunk criminal on the run, our taxi driver managed to drop us off at the Alvarez house, after what I felt to have experienced two or three heart palpitations. I met the family, Siccaya, Alfredo, and my roommate, Evan, as well. The family members are incredible, recognizing me as a worthy Spanish-speaker and allowing me into their lives. Evan, a twenty-five-year-old white boy from Augusta, Georgia, who speaks as much Spanish as the heavy duty socks currently warming my feet, is great too—his accent instantly making him an outsider, but so likable. 

 took Evan, me, and another traveler staying at the house (an Australian girl named Sara) into town after lunch. Everything is handcrafted, the streets are made of uneven and slippery brick, and mosaic domes on top of churches are like the gods’ cereal bowls flipped upside down. After absorbing the town, Siccaya let us join in on one of her favorite recreational activities—watching and betting on cock fighting. I watched as owners tied crescent-shaped blades on their rooster’s back leg. Blood erupted and spewed everywhere, and the crowd screamed with joy. New, ridiculous, cheap, Cusco is spectacular.

July 31: How about that ride in?

Stuffed between a middle-aged Panamanian man who seemed to be suffering from the black lung and a grandmother who needed a seat-belt extension in order to meet government safety regulations, I sat. I sat here for a six and a half hour plane ride from Los Angeles to Panama; forced to eat my micro waved Ravioli with my elbows tucked in, piercing my intestines. So I decided to crack open The Shadow of the Wind by Carlos Ruiz Zafon, a recommendation by my father, and it hooked me. I zoned out and only heard the sounds of the book—viciously turning to the next page to satiate my yearnings. Before I knew it I was off the plane, transferring to my Lima flight (the second to last plane ride before I arrive in Cusco), finding a seat, and reading again. The story describes a boy’s finding of a rare book—The Shadow of the Wind—in the “Cemetery of Forgotten Books,” a book whose author lived an enigmatic life. The boy, named Daniel Sempere, expresses great interest in solving the mystery behind this author—the creator of the book he first fell in love with. After another three and a half hours, I landed in Lima’s airport, my current location. This is where I will spend the night. I now wait in the food court, my bed is my bag, and I will sleep by the familiar signs of Dunkin’ Donuts, Papa John’s, and McDonald’s—they really do rule the world.