my greatest fear

I am afraid of debt.

I don’t know debt. I know that I am lucky in that way. Credit cards are paid off to $0 each month under my home economics plan, at whatever price, and the only debt hanging over my head now is the house, on a 30 year fixed, locked-in at 5.5%.

I am terrified that divorce will push me into debt, all because I am afraid to leave this house and try to start anew in another residence. I want the impact on the children to be the least possible, and I feel that maintaining the residence, their neighborhood, friends and school is important. Plus, I don’t live in a very resell-able home; it is a 45+ year-old brick rambler with plenty of problems that, although on just under 1/3 acre, is on a lot adjacent to a cemetery. That does not bother me; I grew up across the street from a cemetery, it helps with the Halloween décor and hey, the neighbors are nice and quiet. But such a location does bother a lot of people.

Some say that filing for bankruptcy in divorce is the best thing that has ever happened to them; they can start anew, cutting old financial ties. My pride in having worked so hard in managing finances so as to keep my credit report stellar and my rating high doesn’t allow me to see this possibility as a positive. Instead, for me it would be yet another failure--I failed at marriage, I failed the hopes and expectations of so many, I failed with the finances…let’s see, what else can I add to the failure list?

I am well aware that I married for security. It was perhaps the adamant decision on his part to give everything up (income, insurance coverage, a place to live, EVERYTHING) to go and get a master’s degree in Sweden as only that institution would do. No compromise, no thinking of the fact that life was different and that sometimes plans need to change a bit once married, like I had to do. All my plans and goals had to change to fit with his, only to have my existence completely ignored once he got what he wanted.

But let’s not go there. The heart of the matter is, I realized that the “security” for which I married was not, in fact, so secure as I previously had believed it to be. I learned that this could come and go on a whim. I don’t believe that I should be 100% supported, so I have always worked. But I could not work in Sweden. It was illegal on my visa. I could have stayed back in the United States during that time, I suppose. However, we really hadn’t had a chance to be “married” since we had been married, and I felt that I needed to go with him and actually give this a try.

Long history made longer--go get some hot tea or a beverage of choice, I'll wait...

Ready?

Okay, I'll abbreviate as much as I can: 

I was finishing my master’s when I got married in May 1999. July came and my father, who had undergone a horrible 14-hour liver surgery in January of that year and was not expected to live through it, ended up in another 13-hour surgery to conduct a bile duct bypass, as scar tissue had grown so hard that it created a blockage. Fly home to help, in the middle of heavy studying for master’s exams (literally reading at least 300 pages daily--in Spanish--hence I still can’t bring myself to read much). It was the last time I saw my father alive.

One more semester of teaching, classes and my exams for the degree, with calls from Mom saying that Dad had collapsed in a pool of blood, another 911 call in the middle of the night, master’s “hazing” by the tenured of the Department that had me in tears--I was miserable. I told the chair I couldn’t continue in the PhD program (it was a combined program) and, two days after I turned in all my final work, my mom called saying Dad had slipped into a coma. And he died. And then my world went into a tailspin, I got shingles, I had to return to teach the next semester as a visiting instructor since He was still 5 months away from finishing his tour in New Orleans and then returned to Oregon. That was Year One of marriage.

Year two began, literally, with Him leaving to go back to a ship. I worked at the local university but was there mainly to help my mother get back on her feet. My marriage almost ended then; we had little to no contact and I was a mess, feeling like I had the weight of the world on my shoulders and my “partner” left me alone to deal with it--not that he particularly wanted to have anything to do with my mother.

So for Christmas that year, the first anniversary of Dad’s death, we went to Hawaii, to His childhood home. With my mother. My sister was living there at my in-laws' home while finishing a residency requirement for PT, which caused even more strife between He and my family. Then we went from Hawaii directly to Sweden. In January.

Hell is not hot. Hell is cold and dark. That is what I learned in Sweden.

Classes began and I ceased to exist. He would literally return to the single-bed efficiency apartment (yes, I slept on the floor, in the entranceway, in the bathroom or in the study lounge) and, as the computer was at such an angle, he sat down upon returning and, back turned to me, stayed like that until 2 or 3 a.m., taking a break for the dinner I would prepare. Sex was the obligatory lay--let him do what he needed to do then he was back on the computer, back turned to me, default position.

So I left that room.  I tried to leave that life, but I didn't try hard enough.

I should have left before I got pregnant, but I didn’t.

I should have left when he threw a yelling fit at my mother and my sister in the middle of the street in Copenhagen, but I didn’t.

I should have left when he threw the table at me, but I didn’t.

My sense of security was destroyed and I was with a man who had no clue, nor seemed to want to get a clue. And I started to wake up.

Perhaps I have been in debt, truly, for the past ten years. I just never banked on it being this kind of debt.

vigil

Again, the nation is on vigil. What will happen to New Orleans?

I did not enjoy living in New Orleans. It would have been a horrible city in which to raise a family. I rejoiced when I moved away after almost three years there, in three different residences--one just off the Vieux Carrè, one uptown, and one off the Audubon Park.

But there are memories there. I was married there. I loved the music there. Jazz Fest. On Napoleon St. yelling for throws. Tchopitoulas. Mona's. Lola's. Jaquimo's. The natives who called you "Love" as if it were your first name. City Park. St. Charles. The Streetcar. Walks on the Riverfront. Saying you're a local every time someone comes up to you saying, "Betcha I can tell ya where ya got dem shoes!" Looking out over the levee and seeing the water level of the Mighty Mississippi higher than the roofs of the homes on either side of the levee. Laissez les bon temps rouler. Zydeco. Saying "He aksed me" instead of "asked me". The Spanish moss hanging from the old oaks, haunting Audubon Park. The invinceable belief that N'awlins is the City of the Saints and that it would never be actually destroyed...the storms come close but the Saints take care of the city. The Wedding Cake House on St. Charles. Carrolton and Claiborne--they intersect but I always would mix those two streets up. Ann Rice's house, and the goths that worship her. The cemetaries...

So much flooding back to me, tears, smiles, good and bad memories, so strong, yet again just as they did three years ago in the anticipation of Katrina. I have not been back since. I am not certain anyone is supposed to be there. I suppose I am not to decide that. I simply pray that those who must decide can learn to read the lessons of Mother Nature and decide wisely, in the best interest of all. For those I know who are natives and other friends who still reside there even following Katrina, my thoughts are with you all on this eve of yet another great storm.

'tis 5:00 somewhere!

I don't have any idea where offhand, but I really don't care. It's one of those days that I wish I had something much stronger than a bottle of chardonnay in my cabinet...

...and I don't even DRINK chardonnay, normally. I am a red w(h)iner.

*---*

Thursdays were always big party days. Even with morning classes on Fridays or, when in Ecuador and Japan, work responsibilities, that would not keep me nor any of my cohorts away from having The Time of Our Lives.

Why was this? Was it just too hard to wait until the final day of the week had actually arrived? Did we feel we merited a taste of the weekend a day early? As I was a pretty angelic child until I was within 6 months of being legal (which in my state was 21, not 18), I was a junior in college and just back from half a year in South America (where I was completely legal! And made sure I took full advantage of that fact), so most of my heavy coursework wrapped up on Thursdays--just a few things for my minors on Fridays.

In Japan the 宴会 enkai drinking party would begin rather promptly at 7:30, with a few sneaking sips of 酒 sake and carrying the telltale facial redness before the formal initiating 乾杯 kanpai blessing was given. First party: hot foods (天ぷら tempura, なべ nabe, perhaps some sort of 焼き肉 yakiniku barbecue meat or veggies depending on the restaurant) and often assortments of 寿司 sushi to help balance the 月桂冠 geikkeikan and キリン一番　Kirin Ichi-ban being served. Most, the weak at heart, never made it to the second party--カラオケ karaoke. The third party, for the strongest of souls, ended usually either with more 寿司 sushi or ラメン ramen and then we all stumbled home by about 3:30 or 4, to be ready to report to work by 7:30, just a few hours later to teach our class filled with forty (yes, forty. U.S. teachers cannot complain until the cut-off for students per class hits 40) young, inquisitive minds just dying to learn In-gu-ri-shu (um, that's English in Japanese English).

Of course, 誇張先生 kocho sensei The Principal got to sleep his 二日酔い futsukayoi hangover off in his office.

I don't miss the heavier party days, but it would be nice to have people with to sit on the porch and enjoy a glass of something with during these summer nights, to sit and laugh and try to solve the world's problems over a bottle of Malbec. Friends.

I do miss my friends. Everyone is pretty much on vacation now that it is summertime, and once all return, then fall and all of our hectic schedules begin again. My "vacation" technically ends today; self-employed, I give myself a month off each year when student business is the least, although I cheated a trite this year with an ex-student for summer school tutoring and working on my book a bit this week. But starting tomorrow, back to the grindstone.

I think I am ready.

So I raise my glass of (ew!) Beringer Chardonnay (no, I have absolutely nothing better on hand) and wish everyone a very happy End of July. May your day be one hell of a lot better than mine has been.

tequila shots and line dancing

I will not line dance *ever* again after doing tequila shots.

I guess I just need to concentrate on the steps, and I found that tequila most certainly inhibits my ability to, um...concentrate.

My senior year college roomie and I got together for one night of fun in Vegas. We worked hard that year we lived together, back in 1993 and when all was said and done, we balanced the hard work by playing hard, too. Secrets we share are those only she and I will ever know. It was a refreshing reunion.

A workmate of hers met us at a locals-only bar in Vegas. Yeppers--I was charged more for entrance just because I produced an out-of-state ID. Should've brought my military dependent's ID. Oh, well. Her workmate would not even hear of me paying, not only to get in but also for drinks. And for shots.

And so it went.

Haven't done that since I was 20-something.

Nothing out of control, mind you. I have never been one much interested in drinking myself into oblivion (that is my control-freak nature), but a buzz is nice. So I get out there for the line dancing lessons, in the back row--yeah, I forgot that the back row turns into the FRONT ROW always at some point.

Duh.

Left, right, turn, stomp, shuffle...the steps were simple enough but it required concentration and memorization--plus some degree of familiarity with the general steps would have been nice. I am a salsa dancer, not a line dancer. So I held my head high, did what I could and moved my hips well.

Well enough to get some attention.

One man came over to our table, after Mr. Shot Buyer had left for the night (we weren't out too late!) and asked me out on the floor. At least I could somewhat follow, and he had me spinning and prancing all over the entire floor. Enough so that neighboring tables clapped when I sat down and another came over and commented that it was the first time he had ever seen anyone in flip-flops dance like that...and NOT lose her shoes.

I blushed...I think.

He took my roomie out, as she protested and said, "Yeah, well, don't expect me to do THAT" and then came back and spun me around the floor a few more times.

He liked my glasses. He wore glasses, too. A sign of wisdom, perhaps? Or just bad eyesight? I suggested wisdom as a function of age. I don't think he liked that suggestion. (I have been out of the game waaaaaay toooooooo long.)

There are few more things I truly enjoy doing than dancing. I really love to go out and dance, no matter what the music playing. It was fun and then, alas, it was time to go home.

Just nice to know I've still got some moves.

at long last...pictures!

The puppies at La Casa del Gringo, with Geraldine.

The Maranga ruins of Ishma in Cieneguilla
where the spirits roam...

The Maranga people believed that the moon was their god. Here are twelve glyphs of the moon.

Some adobe covering the stony construction has broken away here, allowing a vision of what the Maranga people did to facilitate their glyphic communication and calendars.

Bird glyphs, perhaps that of the condor.

See? I was actually there!

The winding, single-lane rocky and dusty, cliff-hugging highway that takes you from Cieneguilla to Huarochirí offers magnificent views of the entrance to the Andean highlands.
Much farmland and apple orchards line the valley.
The Río Lurín gently carves through the valley that leads up to where the town of Antioquía is found.

The tiny pueblo of Antioquía is nestled in the Andes some 1500 meters above sea level (4,900 feet).The sky was a blue of the sierra, deep and radiant, and the sun shone with a brilliance and a force that made me realize how far up I had traveled from sea level.
One of the cutest babies I had ever seen. It was hard to get him to look over his mama's shoulder at me.




I loved the baño with the big blue tulip painted on the wall.

The ruins of Choquehuanca in Lima are beautifully illuminated at night.
The arch, Parque de la Amistad

Javier, the opportunist.

...ugh, sure looks like I had not, indeed, had a HOT shower in a week.

What is perhaps one of my favorites: "Respect yourself. IT IS PROHIBITED TO URINATE. Under penalty of fine. Respect others."

...which about sums it all up, does it not?

If you would like to see more, let me know and I will send you a link to my travel photo album online.

4. Javier, the opportunist

In El parque de la amistad, Friendship Park in the Surco district of Lima, I learned just how friendly the limeños can be.

There is a huge arch in the center of the park, covered in colorful mosaic tiles, around which wind a small river, a steam engine track and grassy areas you are not to step on as many little signs plainly state (No pisar el cesped).

School children from throughout the city visit this park, as do young lovers and perhaps the occasional tourist.

As for other gringos, I was the only I happened to see that day.

A trainful of fifth grade school children, all in uniforms, chugged by and waved, smiling.

I walked over to the Arch to take a look and try to get a picture. I noticed crosses on the top of both sides, and a police guard was standing nearby so I walked over, greeted him and asked a few questions about the arch.

I clearly had him stumped.

Instead, I was answered with, "You are French, ¿no?"

Why on Earth am I always asked that? Ecuador, Thailand, Japan...everyone thinks I'm French. "No, I am from the United States."

"But you speak Spanish so well." This conversation was, of course, in Spanish.

"Muchas gracias. Soy profesora de español."

"Ah, wow. You're a profa."

"Yes."

"Your eyes are green. So green."

I smiled. "Sometimes they change to blue. We United States girls can be that way."

His eyes grew very big. "Really?"

"Sure." I was ready to play a little with this cutie. I would place him at about mid 20's in age. A mere baby, really...ah, but oh so yummy.

"The arch opens at noon, in an hour."

"You can climb it?"

"Sure. How about I take you up there now."

So I followed him in, past the ticket booth and up the stairs. He insisted I go first. "Do you have children?"

"Yes, I have two, actually."

"YOU? No! Really? You do NOT look like it."

Okay, baby, keep it coming, I'm loving the attention. I did happen to be wearing my good jeans and my shorter t-shirt that showed that my jeans actually fit a bit too big at the hips and leaves my piko ring in plain view.

"Yep." Hmmm...didn't ask about my husband. Not that a wedding ring matters, but I always wear it when in South America.

"What's your name?" I told him mine. "And yours?"

"Javier."

Ajá. Just in the name so much was explained. I have known more than one very suave Javier in my life.

"You are so white. Your skin is beautiful."

I laughed. "In my country, it's summer and most would consider me tan now." Javier is extremely dark, a very beautiful mestizo heavy on indigenous color. And I am a sucker for dark eyes.

His hand gently guiding my lower back, a view I am most certain he greatly relished, we reached the top of the Arch when a fifth-grader ran to him and told him that one of the other students had descended down a blocked staircase. So Javier immediately turned all-business and, in a very police guard-like manner went down the stairs and fulfilled his duties by bringing the delinquent touring students back up the stairs.

I took advantage to get some photos from the top of the Arch then asked Javier to be in a photo with me.

An invitation he gladly accepted.

I was well aware of his left thumb caressing my skin on my waist as we posed atop the Arch of Friendship for the picture.

The children ended up providing my escape; they all wanted photos with the policeman as well, so I had them all gather round and got a picture of them with one of their cameras.

I approached to say goodbye and to thank Javier again for the private tour. He pulled me close and gave me a slow kiss on the cheek and embraced me before the sea of fifth graders in maroon uniforms took over his attentions.

At which point I managed to slip back down the stairs and away. Although a rendezvous in the stairway of the Arch would have made quite a story...well, it is the Arch of, um, Just Friends.

3. Humberto, the protector

Upon arriving at the Guaycán ruins Capac Ñam of the Maranga culture (1140-1400 AD), a rather tired looking man appeared out of a small guard hut to greet me. He introduced himself as Humberto, my guide for this tour through the heavily devastated arqueological site that is now under governmental control in an effort to reconstruct what has been discovered to be another piece of pre-Incan history that lay just in the foothills east of the capital city.

What has devastated this site to its current state? When standing amidst the ruins and looking around at the huge, steep, rocky surfaces surrounding the site, one becomes intensely aware of how easily a landslide caused by either torrential rains or earthquakes could dislodge immense boulders that would, with momentum, easily crush any stone structure in its path.

Unfortunately, Mother Nature is not the only force to negatively impact this arena. Up until very recently, these ruins have been an open ground for drunken parties and pillagers who pilfer the only unbroken remains--skulls, ceramics (at which the Maranga were most developed as their harsh living conditions in a very desert-like and rocky/mountainous state did not permit much in the way of agricultural development) and any other goods discovered in the many tombs throughout the area.

This was all explained extremely matter-of-factly, with a tone not of indifference but rather of "the past is the past; we now are working to ensure that this does not repeat itself and salvage what there is to salvage."

Humberto would bend down to pick up a stone, toss it and his pointsmanship was such that this stone would hit on what he wanted me to look at. If he slightly missed, he picked up another stone and hit it on the second try.

It was funny; the day before I had played a game at the river trying to hit a large stone in the middle of the Río Lurin and, after what must have been hundreds of river rocks thrown, I only managed to hit the large stone in the river once.

A brief moment of humble pie.

As our feet crunched over rock mixed with pieces of broken ceramics and shards of bone, Humberto and I walked silently for a few moments. Then he said, in a low voice, "Then there are the spirits."

The spirits?

Do, please go on, I urged silently, always a sucker for a good ghost story.

"The spirits here are not happy. They walk here, you can here them. Just last night, at about 11:00 while I was on guard down at the entrance, the only way anyone can get in to this site, I heard what sounds exactly like the steps we are making now. The crunch-crunch-crunch."

He fell silent, as if to further illustrate his point by the crunch of our footsteps over the rugged terrain.

"Yeah, I heard that and jumped out of the guardbox, thinking that somebody must be right here in front of me. There are always two of us at a time on guard; the other guard came out with me and we both shone our flashlights all the way around..."

Humberto acted as though he had a light and, squinting, turned 360º in a slow circle to show what he had done.

"...and there was nothing there. Only the footsteps continued. We were both stopped; nobody was moving. And they were heavy footsteps, not like any animal would make. The spirits are intranquil and, although I don't think they want to hurt us I do think that they are not happy with what has been done to their burial ground."

I can respect that.

As our conversation continued, I did find out that he is paid 100 soles a week--which is about USD$30.

30 bucks a week for working 48 hour shifts and having to deal with the spirits.

I think he should ask for a raise, is what I told him as I gave him a hefty tip for his tour.

He gratefully thanked me and then ducked back into his guardbox hut.

As an insurance policy against not having to claim "one restless and unhappy pre-Incan spirit" on my customs form upon my return to the States, I quickly and thoroughly made sure I had not a single speck of any ancient relic, bone, wood or stone on me before I left.

*-----*

By the way...pictures will soon follow to illustrate some of these places visited. I am working on a 35mm SLR.

2. Geraldine, the assistant

Appropriately, the Inn in which I stayed during my time in Perú is called "La Casa del Gringo."

The Gringo's House.

Cute.

Thus I could hardly resist!

While in communication with whom I had assumed to be the gringo, the owner of the inn, I was impressed with the natural and rustic appearance of the bungalowes he has in Cieneguilla, a district of Lima that lies to the southeast of the city in the mountainous foothills. The sun may not be shining in Lima but those from Cieneguilla boast of sunshine almost all the time.

Sunday was a day of relaxation and, when the sun broke through the heavy marine layer mixed with the thick pollution contributed by the over eight-million inhabitants of the city of Lima, I grabbed my book and went out to sit in the sun, soak up some all-important Vitamin D and read a bit.

Geraldine, the young lady who handles the reservations and, together with Juan, the management of the needs of the Inn's guests, appeared and, in the grassy area about fifty feet or so to my right, found a sunny spot into which she deposited a small kennelful of puppies!

Unable to control my "ah, so cute" reflex, I had to approach.

Geraldine and I sat in the sunny grass for over three hours, playing with those tiny puppies and talking.

She is a 23 year old young lady who has been working at La Casa for five years. She was born and raised in Cieneguilla, and has nieces and nephews attending the same school she once did with a few of the same teachers.

Although our conversation revolved around a variety of themes, Geraldine's greatest preocupation lies in the destruction of her native land in the name of "progress." She sees this destruction not only evident in the obvious mistreatment of the land, the tearing down of trees and the cementing of what little grass there is; but also in the values of the people and in the seemingly blind acceptance of the decline in quality of the food there is to eat and the air there is to breathe.

She made the point that her very intelligent sister (university-educated and everything) has no idea that carrots and potatoes do not in fact grow on trees or bushes. "How can that be when we are people of the land? This is how we were raised, this is what a Peruvian is in the soul. How can it be that she can be so smart but yet still know so little about what we are?" Geraldine postulated.

A good question.

She enjoys very much working at La Casa del Gringo. Walter, the owner, is a wonderful man who has had La Casa for fifteen years. Born of an Ecuadorian mother and a father from Piura, a city on the northern Peruvian coast, Walter and his brother were educated in English, not in Spanish. With that explanation, much came into focus, including some of the conversations had with Walter. "El gringo" is the male chocolate lab that was left behind by some gringos a while back, so he was adopted and the Inn was named after him.

Geraldine has great respect for Walter because he will not turn his back on neither his Peruvian heritage nor his deep respect for the natural environment. The Inn is located well off the main drag of town, in a very quiet area that backs up to the Río Lurin. The grounds are decorated with cactus and plentiful grass, shade trees and rosebushes. She said that he could earn so much more money as a fluent, English-educated man but, as he was born in Perú he is not eligible for the "financial benefits" that foreign workers might get. Instead, she said, he follows his dreams and his heart, and lives a lovely life.

The puppies were a month old, crawling all over the gringa's jeans and wanting to suck on my fingers. By the end of the afternoon, all seven had crawled up onto my outstretched legs, along with their two mothers (both had litters, and three puppies had died) and fallen into their late-afternoon siesta.

It almost broke my heart to have to wake them to put them back into their kennel. And, although I knew Geraldine had much more work to complete that evening, it was hard to acknowledge that our wonderful afternoon together had to come to an end.

1. Don Anibal, The Gentleman

An 83 year old gentleman who looks no older than perhaps 65, Don Anibal was seated in my window seat when I appeared at my row on the San Salvador-Lima leg of my arrival. I told him that I did not mind but, when attempting to stash my only bag under the middle seat I found that it would not, in fact, fit. Hence, in return for the change of seats, Don Anibal instructed me to instead place my bag under his seat.

And it was thus a lovely four hour acquaintanceship was born.

We were immediately served migratory and customs papers to have filled out for our passage into Perú and Don Anibal, in showing me into the only visible manifestation of his true age, apologetically asked me to do him the favor of completing his forms as he could not see well enough to answer the necessary questions.

He has children, grandchildren and even great-grandchildren in the United States and travels frequently so as not to let those descendents feel at all lacking in their attention from the family patriarch. He also has family in Lima so he does not feel that he is amiss in his duties but rather he sees the logic in his traveling to the family rather than having the family coming to him.

"It keeps me young. It is a state of mind, and it is a motivation for me to keep taking care of myself. Nobody believes me to be 83," Don Anibal said with great pride in his words and a twinkle in his eye. His secret? "Everything in moderation."

He is a retired businessman who lives in the district of Surco with his wife of fifty years. He is a man who enjoys sharing conversation, listening as much as speaking yet who has been intimidated from learning English by "teachers who just are not pleasant."

I, of course, told him he needs to take a class with someone like me.

He smiled and said that yes, it would probably make a big difference.

Our conversation made the four hours separating Central and South America fly quite rapidly. He has a lifetime of stories to tell, and it was a sincere pleasure to sit back, listen and learn from a man who is so wise. We conversed of just about everything, from politics to the values governing the raising of children to work and family. As the beaches of Chimbote came into view we both started to understand our time as companions on this leg of our journeys was to end soon.

We disembarked the plane, boarded a bus to the terminal and parted ways at the migratory control. As if old friends, Don Anibal embraced me and gave me a besito on the cheek and a blessing for a good trip.

Little does he know how much I appreciate having made his acquaintance.

Fujimori

I am not a political pundit, but someone I find an interesting figure in world politics is Alberto Fujimori. He is currently on trial in Perú for violation of human rights during his presidency, which is argued to have been more of a dictatorship than a presidency.

When trekking around the mountainous and altiplano region from Cusco south to Titicaca back in 2000 with a girlfriend, we noticed there was a great deal of local support for Fujimori in the upcoming elections against Alejandro Toledo, a man with indigenous roots who did, in the end, win the election. When inquiring to people about what made them favor Fujimori over Toledo, I was overwhelmingly responded to by one word: El sendero.

The Shining Path is a Maoist--and extremist--rebel organization that, in short, believes the path to true communism to be through a cultural revolution that would extend world-wide. There is a very sendero-esque group that has recently taken political control of Nepal.

The Sendero Luminoso began to show its public face in 1980 when, for the first time in years, the military force governing Perú permitted open elections. Ballot boxes were burned and, soon thereafter, dead dogs were found hanging from streetlights and the terror-filled battle for power began. The popularly-elected president at the time, who happened to be the great-uncle of a personal friend of mine, was wary of giving the military too much control to nip this in the bud as it was a dominant military that had ended Belaúnde's presidency in a coup before. So the Sendero gained strength, mainly in the Andean highlands, marking its force with brutal massacres that did not exclude women and children.

A Peruvian who has studied the actions of the Sendero in great detail for intelligence training in the 1990s taught me a lot about the Sendero. It was the children of the Sendero that would first lead the group into a community. The children would draw the attention of the citizens, who would come out and be met by the men, and then the women. The women are colder and more calculating, it was explained to me, than the men so they were often the masked killers as they were least likely to exercise mercy and would carry out much of the actual brutality.

The violence was not limited to the Andes. Over time it filtered into what had been popularly been considered the "untouchable" cities, with deadly car bombs in the districts I now visit regularly when I visit Perú. It is hard to imagine the terror that kept limeños off what are now such busily bustling streets.

How does Fujimori enter this picture? Upon election to the presidency, he established a forceful military power with right to fight the Sendero. The military, upon (apparent) orders from above, carried out various human rights violations, killed many more civilians than necessary and made themselves, in essence, look worse than the Sendero.

My informant was also behind the design and planning of the liberation of the Japanese Prime Minister's residence in Lima of 1997. Interestingly, I was in Japan at the time, watching everything unfold surrounded by a completely different cultural context--that of a horrified Japanese public who suddenly felt themselves almost as under attack as they had in the bombings of WWII, but this time without reason. The MRTA behind this seizure, a militant group similiar in ideology to the Sendero. The tunnels...the signals...everything in that liberation was so carefully timed, tunnels so painstakingly dug, the details of how they managed to drill without the rebels hearing the noise...amazing details...only (if I remember correctly) three deaths in the rescue.

Fujimori had the support of many because it was realized a very firm, dictatorial hand was required to put this group down. It is not like Colombia's FARC. The FARC are kidnappers with motives to raise funds for its survival, thus its involvment not only in the cocaine trade but also in the secuestros of high-profile individuals. The Sendero are killers. The only way to revolutionize is to annihilate and start clean with new ideology in place. There was no way to reason with them. Was Fujimori acting within his bounds in his military orders? Was he too firm of a hand? That will be for the judges hearing his case to find. I think that, when all is said and done, history will see Fujimori as the one who brought peace back to Perú. At a price, mind you, but there is a freedom and a peace that did not exist for over 15 years there. Can Alan García keep this up? We shall see. His economic policies are sure to reestablish a passionate fire amongst the Maoist groups.

What happened? When top Sendero officials were captured, the group went in different directions as "peace talks" were requested. Some wanted to go that route, others did not. The central driving force was gone. However, militant factions continue to exist. There is the Proseguir movement which sounds driven by many similar motivations as the FARC. Plus, there are a generation of children who have been raised with this Maoist mentality who are now coming of age and power. Captured senderistas are ending their terms and are being released. There is a degree of reorganization, with spotty activity in the highlands mainly north and east of Lima.

So where will I go in 16 days? Not into Huánuco or Ayacucho. This time I will stay closer to Lima but still head out to the highlands to explore. I had wanted to go to Trujillo but have been warned against that; even Peruvians consider Trujillo extremely dangerous right now for various reasons. The province also borders Huánuco region. Much in how I would love to explore Colombia or Venezuela, now is just not the time to go to certain places, and the State Department can only tell you so much with their list.

Ecuador de mi corazón

I have had Ecuador on my mind today.

This is perhaps due, in part, to the fact that I awoke to the news of a mild earthquake (a 5.-something) in the Guayaquil area. I was able to Google-map in on the epicenter and it was just a few miles from the neighborhood in which I lived; I think that, just because of the catastrophes of the past week I am a bit 'natural-disaster sensitive' at the moment.

I lived in Guayaquil for half a year in 1992. I lived with a beautiful family who adopted me as one of their own for the time I was there, I studied at the University at night and taught in a primary school in the slum of Mapasingue during the day. Fifth grade. One of my girls was kicked out when she got pregnant. Another younger student in the school died while we were there of leukemia.

Mapasingue, view from my 5th grade classroom

I remember being so angry. So wanting to change the world. So wanting to change their lives.

But it ended up that it was mine that was changed much more, in all that I was taught while there.

Today I learned that it is much harder to find people in the third world via the Internet than it is here. "Duh," you are probably saying. But those I am trying to locate are rather established individuals. My mami just happened to appear in an online newspaper article dated TODAY, May 27, 2008, eulogizing her as an exemplary instructor for young children and giving the care and guidance that the young so need in today's world.

I am so proud. That doña is my mami! So I sent an email to the author of the article, commenting on the content of his statements and explaining a bit of the story of how this woman had also been my teacher, but not as a kindergartener but as a foreign exchange student whose life this woman greatly influenced in a very short time. I lamented the fact that our contact had completely ended 10 years ago and said that I wanted to reestablish contact. And I requested that he might either inform me as to how I might contact her through the school mentioned in the article (a school I have had no luck in Googling) or to somehow pass my information to her so that she might take initiative if she wishes.

I also found my favorite professor from Guayaquil, Profesor Vargas, and sent him an email. I met him again when I visited Guayaquil immediately following my years in Japan; I literally went from Japan to Oregon, dropped my bags there with my parents and then hopped down to Guayaquil for about a week. I needed to create a clean break with Japan and immerse myself in Spanish, especially as I had not spoken Spanish in three years yet had just been accepted into a tuition-paid graduate program as a grant scholar--ugh! I had to remind myself that yes, I still could speak Spanish! So I went to Ecuador in a jet-lagged fog. I remember Profesor Vargas taking me up to Las Peñas, a beautiful, rustic, very artistic central of Guayaquil. It was a beautiful day.

However, I remember in reality very little about that whole trip; my entire world was in such shock from leaving Japan. Even though I knew I had finite time in Japan I was still not emotionally prepared for my departure.

I was proposed marriage by my Ecuadorian "cousin" who I had been out with a few times back in 1992. I think he wanted an "in" in the USA to give him an extra edge in the shrimp market. When I told Mami I had to practially beat Frederick off with a stick, she was shocked and ready to call his mother--I had to beg her not to, that I just laughed it off, but unmarried women in Ecuador are treated by their families in a very protected manner. I really ought not have said anything...but at least, in the end, we could all have a good laugh about it!

Now I would give anything to be able to find his name so I could find out through him how to contact Mami, who is his aunt. Of course his last name is different. So I have had no luck searching the camaroneras guayaquileñas today--and yes, I have searched all of them.

Richie--I would love to contact Richie. He treated me like a princess and I was able to contact him from Japan and let him know I was heading down back in 1997. He had just opened his own discoteque and was starting to settle down a bit and really enjoy Life. One night in 1992 Richie and Jimmy took me to the licorería, bought a bottle of rum and a bottle of Coca-Cola, and we drove up to the Mirador--the Lookout--over the city. As the city lights started to waver and spin I became aware of all the "fun" that was being had all around me, and then of the fact that my toes were becoming wet--yes, Jimmy had started sucking my toes. Could have been an erotic experience had it not been Jimmy--no matter how drunk, that just was never going to happen. The police fortunately showed up and we went on a drunken, crazy, wild car race down the hill and back to my home in Las Cimas...

I felt safer in Guayaquil, a horribly poor and crime-wrought city, than I did in pretty much any other city besides Cuenca. Due in part to familiarity, I suppose. I never was robbed or had anything slashed. Followed only once; I have what is called a "determined stride" and I think that has kept me out of a lot of danger. I had worse experiences elsewhere. In Quito, the people were different. I did not like Quito as much. Not as...um...warm.

However, it appears I have nobody anymore in Guayaquil. In Manta, in Manabí, yes. Oh, how I would love to go back to visit! Manabí has its charm and, as a coastal province is a very open population.

What a rambling entry this is. I guess this is representative of just how jumbled my thoughts are today. I opened my photos and the Young Prince and I sat looking at them. I was thrilled to hear him chuckling, sharing my sense of humor at having seen cows walking in the street, a monkey that swung down in the Amazon and swiped my glasses off my face, an iguana swimming across the swimming pool, blue-footed booby birds giving besitos on the Galápagos...this is why I took these photos, now I am starting to reap more benefit than I had ever expected! I showed him pictures of Mapasingue, of my children flying homemade kites make of newspaper and sticks off a ledge of a broken-down house, of a "schoolbus", of the classrooms that had nothing plastered on the walls, of the playground that was simply cement blocks set over dust. He stared so seriously at them, uttering an "Oh" that sounded so profound for his almost-four years.

It was as if he could understand the differences, at even a most superficial level.

Perhaps the understanding has begun.

I am feeling a very strong pull coming from Ecuador--the Ecuador of my heart, a country that is backward and poor (not as poor as 20 years ago, mind you...) yet that is so rich in lessons to teach and experiences to have. I am not certain as to why I feel this way so suddenly; my sixth sense usually informs me when something is dreadfully wrong.

I pray that is not so this time.

bird droppings and corresponding good fortune

I have found myself at three different points in my life, the most recent being yesterday, wondering if the belief that, when shat upon by a bird you are to be graced with good luck, is a semi-truth with roots in wives' tales...or a huge crock of, well, guano.

(By the way, etymology of the word guano dictates droppings not exclusive to bats but rather, with roots in Quechua--the Language of the Incas--to indicate any bird dropping, usually that of sea-living birds--sorry, nerd moment...but I did learn something out in the Ballestas of Paracas, see???)

Yeppers...just outside Buckies. Shat upon again. Right on the right shoulder.

Rather than this destiny being met with the dreaded "Ew, gross, Mom!" or the more infantile (and fitting for a three year-old), "HA HA HA HA HA!!!!" responses I was expecting, I was instead the object of great fascination by my children.

Oh, Mom, does this mean you are really lucky? How many times has a bird pooped on you? I wish a bird would poop on me. Did you see it coming? Did you see the bird? I wonder what the bird ate...

You get the picture.

After rushing into the Buckies baño to wash off this Mark of Distinction from my newly tie-dyed-by-hand-thank-you-very-much t-shirt I proceeded to place our order, then we sat outside and ate our Buckies treats that we, yes, biked downtown to enjoy (yeah, I'm still trying to save gas even if others have given up the fight. I'm stubborn like that.).

A lady we know then stopped to say hi, then invited us to swim today (we didn't end up having time, unfortunately). Then said that we could come at any time during the summer that we wanted, because she owns (not rents) in the complex where the pool is located and all we have to do is sign in saying we are her guests.

Dude. Major score.

And all occuring within nano-um-minutes of having been shat upon.

My honest side then kicked me in the ribs and I asked, "Well, isn't that a violation of some sort of ethical code or rules or something?" "No," she responded. "I own there, so I can say who goes on my name and who doesn't."

Oh. Okie dokie then.

Pros: It would save a lot of gas while giving us something cool to do--less than a mile from home and the kids can easily bike there. The closest pool is almost 2 miles down the major street--which isn't bad getting there but the operating term there is down. Which means going uphill all the way home is a completely different story with the Youn 3.75 year old Prince riding his own, um, self-propelled chariot.

And it would save a lot of moo-lah as well, even for an August-only membership at that pool.

Cons: We would be the only ones we would know there and I would not take advantage of this extension of kindness to "invite" others on my invitation. I just am too guilt-ridden (can you tell, born and bred Catholic?!) to consider that. And I would still feel like I was completely taking advantage of an invitation that perhaps was simply made in kind; it can be very, very hard for me to discern sincerity from niceties. I have an inbuilt defensive side, always cautious, always wary of fully trusting. This inhibits my very well-developed sixth sense, so much so that my sixth sense has been put on the back burner lately.

Anyway, digressing to the bird poop.

Was this all coinki-dink? I also succeeded in getting two screen doors installed yesterday, completing the front door this morning. The little monkeys and I had a glorious day filled with joy and togetherness at the Town festival with La Princesita demonstrating some really beautiful facets of her personality (no, I am not being facetious). I am so truly blessed...

...or just bird-sh*t lucky.

into the light

We had no power for eight hours this morning.

I never thought my dependence upon electricity could possibly upset my morning routine as much as I let it this morning. After all, I have lived in countries where we would have either no running water or no electricity--and a couple of times, both issues simultaneously--for days on end up to almost a week.

Yes, I could have lit the stove with a match and toasted bread on the grill instead of using a toaster. Yes, I could have opened the fridge only twice--once thinking well about all I wanted to remove from it, take it out and, when completely finished with everything that had to be returned to the fridge, open it again and stick everything in their places. Yes, I could have washed up with a cold shower (ugh--can do it but really, really hate cold showers when not in the Third World...at least there I feel like there is an excuse for the water being cold...).

But this was Monday morning. The day after Mother's Day, during which I didn't get to do anything I wanted to do because of torrential downpours and nobody else being willing to take the children for the day. So much for "custody" arrangements...

I got a broom for Mother's Day...

I call it my new transport...for a reason. (a-hem)

Don't worry. I *did* ask for it. (insert wicked cackle here)

Okay...back to the power. So at midnight-thirty I heard what sounded like balloons popping all up my street. I looked out the window--usually the transformers just go in one big BOOM but, with the heavy winds we were having I thought that perhaps something was blowing loudly down the street.

Then came the BOOM

and the silence.

I honestly expected the power to be back on by this morning, but it was not. It was still pouring down rain, so the only way to see if the elementary school around the corner had power was to drive by, as the office was still closed and not taking calls until 8:00 a.m. and I had no Internet access by which to check on anything.

How dependent I have become on energy.

So what did we end up doing? Packing up early and hitting the local 24 hour diner at 7:30 this morning for breakfast. The little monkeys loved it. Power was back on by 8:30, by the time we would have already had to have left the house, anyway. So I got home, got my hot shower, got the dishwasher running, started laundry and checked my e-mail.

All energy-dependent activities, of course. Ugh.

laughter and cat vomit

I need to laugh more. I know this, I have always been told this.

Once, in Ecuador 15 1/2 years ago I had a dear professor who told me that I have such a pretty smile, and that I need to smile more often.

I know, I know.

But it is something else when my 3 year old Young Prince begs me to laugh. Instructs me to laugh. He pretend-tickles me (because, of course, The Queen is NOT ticklish) and then tells me, "Now, Mommy, you have to laugh." When I am reading or hear something funny and just start laughing all of a sudden, he comes running to me and wants to cuddle with me, his face alit in a smile that makes his young dark eyes sparkle.

Okay, I'm getting the message.

*-----*

I am trying to figure out if my children are just strange or if it is all a function of endorphine-release, but when they are--hmmm, let's just keep it clean here and say sitting on the potty and finish the job, they become extremely amorous toward me. Perhaps it was always how I would sit there with them while potty-training and hold their hands, assuring them that it would all be just fine and making the potty a safe and secure place for them. Who knows. But after a really big whatever--#1 or #2 (we use actual terminology in our house, no pussy-footing around the issue)--they BOTH, if I am checking in on them, will embrace me or put their head into my hands and say, "I love you, Mommy." So funny.

But I dare not laugh at that. Don't want to start any reverse-potty action since I've done so well thus far!

*-----*

The Court Jester (aka the Cat) threw up all over the house today. Fortunately it was all on either tile or wood flooring, NOT on the carpet.

(deep breath, ick factor is kicking in...ugh)

So I get the first big puddle of grayish upchucked mush and expressed my intense disgust at that. The little things we do to teach our children not to be so self-centered. Then go on with Life, do a few other things then go into the living room to pick up a couple things off the floor, and --- eeeeeeew! another puddle.

What could I do? I just started laughing.

Is this what it has all come to? A constant cleaner-upper of Cat hurl? Lovely.

Of course, the sound of my laughter brought the Young Prince and La Princesita running to my side, where they stood, equally disgusted by the sight next to which I was kneeling.

Yeah, I need to laugh more.

As they stood watching me in awe of both my amazing kitty-hurl mop-up prowess and my ability to laugh while completing such a task, I asked why they were watching this gross stuff. La Princesita said, "I like gross stuff."

Wonderful. No wonder she's popular with the Kindergarten boys.

So I offered her a job as Assistant Hurl Mopper.

La Princesita, smart as she is, declined. "No, I'll just take care of the gross stuff when I am a mommy."

And that just about says it all.

JA JA JA JA JA JA JA!

V-day in Japan

Valentine's Day is not celebrated quite in the same way in Japan as it is elsewhere. It is merely a day during which women shower men with gifts of food, chocolate, drink and superficial shows of appreciation, perhaps crushes and/or love.

Women do not receive anything on this day. Instead, a mere obligatorily "reciprocation" and acknowledgment of the given gift of chocolates is granted the woman on March 14, called "White Day".

She will instead receive gifts of soaps, shampoos and body scents.

Bah.

Does this mean to say the men think that we stink?

Why do they get the chocolate and we get body scents?

Yet another reason to boycott the whole day, in my humble opinion.

Oh, and pass the wine. And, um, don't you DARE forget the chocolate.
(Soy-free, of course.)

mardi gras mambo

Yesterday for Lundi Gras and today, in honor of Mardi Gras, I wear my beads with pride.

I had millions of throws left over from my three years celebrating in the Vieux Carré. I used many to fill glass-bottomed lamps, a decorating tip that would make Martha Stewart proud. I have only one such lamp left.

I kept my largest white beads and use them now to decorate my Christmas Tree each year as a garland.

And I kept my four favorite throws that I received...and I never had to demonstrate any indecency to receive them. Each were given to me, the best ones of the four put over my head at the St. Ann Drag Parade that occurs each year around noon by a man wearing nothing but a few strategically-placed green, gold and purple feathers...and a mask.

So let's all dance another Second Line in honor, please.

Laisses le bons temps roulle!

super boooooooowl

Will I be watching? Yeah, mainly the ads. But there is something intrinsically exciting about the blatant exertion of testosterone-driven aggression between two packs of males...

(oooooga oooooga)

It does help when you understand a bit about the game, too...I learned just a trite from my Daddy.

Unfortunately, here in these Eastern Lands the televised game is on so late that I would only have hopes of making it to halftime. However, in Japan...HA! It was televised after the game had ended. You had to either 1. not understand any Japanese whatsoever, or 2. simply turn off all forms of media communication if you did NOT want to hear who had won before the game had actually ended; yes, half-time Japanese commentary always talked about why the game ended up the way it did, JUST so we could watch it "in retrospect" in the second half...

slighly defeats the purpose, ¿no?

And my pick?

The Patriots, of course!

Why?

One simple reason:

Tom Brady is HOT.


(what, isn't that enough???)

killings on the Galápagos

I spent four nights and five days on the Galápagos Islands in December 1992.

This was the voyage of a lifetime. In those five days my ideal of "paradise" was defined for me. As we landed and deboarded the plane, we removed our shoes so as not to transfer the harmful, non-native Guayaquileño microorganisms from the mainland to the pristine lands we were about to discover.

***

The past years have seen an increase in bad news for the Islands. Non-native species initially introduced for pest control are now overtaking what used to be native-only habitats. These native species are now threatened, a few have completely died out, as their eggs or young are food for the wild dogs, goats, cats and even monkeys. There are new insect populations that have been introduced in the past 15 years that before did not exist, which are damaging the flora; immigration is forcing over-fishing of the surrounding waters due to lack of other work on the Islands; and tourism is not being kept under control.

The warming of the waters surrounding the Islands is causing the death of many coral reefs and, consequently, much of the fish that feed off of those reefs or use them as their shelter. The Equatorial line runs right through the north part of the largest island of Isabela. Indeed, upon my return to Ecuador in 1997, I visited the beach town of Salinas one day to find the ocean water (just a couple of degrees south of the Equator) as warm as hot tub water. Talking to a few of the locals, they said that tourism in Salinas was at an all-time high that year as the waters have never, in recorded history, been so warm. (1997 was an El Niño year, hence the warm water; it was the next year that major hurricanes hit the Gulf Coast and Central America, including Mitch, and as I was living then in New Orleans, I was flooded in a tropical storm up to my waist on Broadway Street next to Tulane and, two weeks later, was fleeing a different Cat5 that was heading right for us but, at the last minute, turned and slammed into Mobile.)

Just today, the BBC Mundo paper online to which I subscribe described that 53 sea lions were just found on Isla Pinta, one of the 16 main islands that make up the archipelago, but that lies to the north of the Equator, with their heads bashed in. There was no apparent reason for this attack; they were not dismembered and it did not appear they were used in any way for body parts. They don't have natural predators on land and normally do not fear humans; I was, in fact, chased by one who I got too close to for a photograph back in 1992. Obviously, I got away...those sea lions can be HUGE.

Nobody can find a motive for the attack on these sea lions, which included 13 pups.

Survival of the fittest, indeed. Bah.

This saddens me terribly, as much as it saddens me to learn of the now paved streets that did not before exist, the disrespect shown to what was once one of the last uncontaminated spots on Earth.

***

When I put my shoes on upon boarding my tiny commuter flight back to Guayaquil, I knew deep in my heart that I would never again return. Once to pay respect is adequate; twice can be abusive, taking more of mine than what is mine to take. I would love to share this beauty with my children but, alas, it is no longer the wonder that it once was, and will never return to that state. I will forever hold the memories of counting dozens of shooting stars at night, walking through the dusty paths by starlight, hearing the distant bays of the few wild dogs there actually were in 1992 in harmony with the gentle lapping of the Enchanted Islands' unpredictable ocean currents washing up on the beach of Puerto Ayora, Santa Cruz.

中之条町 Nakanojo-machi in cold January

成人の日 (Seijin no hi) is a national holiday in Japan, the annual Coming of Age day. It is now observed the 2nd Monday of every January in order to create a convenient three-day weekend, but when I lived there it was always on January 15. This is the day that all young people who turned 20 years of age during the past year "officially" turn 20. They gather at a local Shinto shrine all dressed in formal attire, with women in kimono wearing white fur collars, and, all at once, ceremoiously become legal citizens of their country. This is the age these young people now can officially smoke, drink, and vote...priority given usually in that order.

The ceremonies are followed by parties (of course--this is Japan!). If you want to see beautiful native ceremonial dress, this is one festival day not to be missed.

Following 成人の日 comes the 鳥追い祭り Torioi Matsuri that brings dear Nakanojo some fame. This is an old festival dating back to Japan's early Edo period. All the celebrations begin before sunrise with the どんど焼き dondo yaki a huge bonfire into which the だるま daruma faces of the previous year are thrown and burned or bad luck with ensue. We also roast what appear to be big white marshmallows on tree limbs...but are in reality hard little balls of steamed rice, so if you're expecting to sink your teeth into a nice, hot, sweet, gooey marshmallow, you are in for a very sorry surprise. Instead, your teeth crunch through the tough outer shell that formed on the rice ball in the yaki and then you can barely chew the rice ball due to the intense stickiness and thick texture. Perhaps these are leftovers from the New Year's もち mochi rice cakes that were pounded out of stick rice put in a wooden container by heavy (very heavy!) wooden mallets. Many actually choke and die on this もち during each New Year.


Okay, so the だるま are those funky little creatures that are said to bring good luck, and have two eyes that are to be colored in. The first eye is colored when one begins a new endeavor, and the other when that goal had been realized. You are not to keep that doll into the New Year, however, so they are burned in the superstition that all the hard work will be somehow undone.

Then we chase the rice balls with cups of 甘酒 amazaki a sweet sake drink that's warm and perhaps akin to our hot chocolate...no chocolate, and although they say the alcohol, when heated, burns out, that is just not true, having started all three of my 鳥追い祭り celebrations out with quite the buzz by only 6 a.m. Ay, those were the days...

Then the fun begins at about 11 in the morning. The BIG Edo-period 和太鼓　wadaiko drums are pulled through town by the local young people (late teens/early 20s) dressed in festival gear. They stop at various points on the main streets in town (all closed off for the day to any traffic) and are beaten. In order to beat the taiko drums, you have to engage your entire body in the swinging of the drumstick, thus requiring quite a workout.

The purpose, you may ask? To chase the bad birds and spirits away in order to ensure a fruitful harvest in the New Year. Nakanojo is located in a rural, agricultural area of Japan--rice paddies everywhere. The country's largest crops of cabbage were just up the road from me, in Tsumagoi. We didn't want any bad birds ruining the fruits of labor! Let me just say that the beating of those drums would scare just about anything away, while perhaps awakening the dead in the process.

The unarguably best, most fun aspect of this festival, however, is the みかん mikan clementine orange throw. At various established stations throughout the town, mikan are thrown in a mad frenzy to the crowd below. Having been both at the receiving end, with my big plastic bag wide open to catch all the mikan I could in hopes I got some with a good prize attached (some had town sponsors giving away prizes from their stores--the best I got was a rug for my cold kitchen floor) and enough mikan to sustain me for the next few weeks so I didn't have to buy any at the store (which were, of course, at rock bottom prices because there was no demand--everyone got their oranges at the festival throw for free!) and the throwing end, when I could peg current and ex-students and co-workers and not feel guilty in the least, I can honestly say I preferred being the peg-ger than the peg-ee.

This festival continues for 10 hours, until 9:00 at night, at which time the drums are brought back to their various neighborhood stations and parked until the 夏祭り, the summer festival, and then the partying ensues. I was adopted by one specific neighborhood in the town, so I would go with those guys to a big dinner, a lot of drinking (of course, having been drinking since 4 or 5 a.m., this was for the heartiest...as I have full recollection of all of this, this serves as a testament as to how I spent my early 20s) followed by karaoke and, for the strongest of souls, ラメン　ramen at about 2 or so in the morning.


I cannot say I have experienced anything at all like this outside of Japan, and truly doubt I ever will. La tomatina de Buñol, Spain is certainly inviting, but as that is more of a free-for-all, it is very limited time-wise, and it is incomparable in that it lacks the ceremonious control and rules that create an omnipresent undercurrent in anything Japanese.

nice to know

Well, I now know that I do not, indeed, have to leave the States to get really ill on shrimp.

How do I really know it is shrimp?

The first time was in Ecuador 1992, and there must have been something really bad in there because I experienced horrible problems for a good month following getting really sick on some incredibly delicious shrimp had in the oceanside city of Salinas. When I returned to Ecuador in 1997, I did eat fish in a restaurant and, although not the deathly ill I was with the shrimp, it sure did not do well by my body.

The second time was in Thailand for the new year of 1996. Culprit? Yeppers, shrimp. Delicious, wonderful curry that I paid dearly for for three days.

Some trout put me under in the Peruvian Andes in 2000, that everyone else with me had eaten as well, but I was the only one to suffer so we thought it could have easily been a plate or fork that had not been adequately cleaned. Who knows. However, since that trip I've never had any problems in Perú.

Now I have had no problems with shrimp in Japan, shrimp I buy from the Korean market here closeby, in China, nor any fish in Europe or the United States...

...until last night. Everyone else in the house ate the same thing and nobody else got sick but yours truly. (sigh) I haven't felt this bad because of food (morning sickness does NOT count!) in years.

And just think...if I had been in Perú now I would not have eaten shrimp last night and I would sure as heck not be resenting Life today.

Is someone making a judgment call on my decision? Just a thought.