The Day from Hell

I am not sure where to start. The last few days have been discombobulated due to some extenuating circumstances. In short...my wallet was stolen. For those of you who don´t know what happened...here is a brief glance into the beginning of the worst day yet so far in Peru.

First, after realizing a few days before how unaware I really was while I was purchasing a cell phone, totally in Spanish, I have to force myself to go back to the store to clear things up. It was stupid of me not to ask if the guy spoke English, and so I went ahead in Spanish. It was clear that I didn´t speak Spanish fluently, but he never asked what language I spoke. Odd. Anyway, I buy the phone, mostly for the purposes of calling home at a reasonably low rate. This so-called promotion I was receiving turned out to be the most ridiculous calling plan I have ever heard of. I misunderstood one simple thing-the numbers I choose as my most frequently called, including one international, 5 Claro to Claro (the company) and 1 other cell phone company, must be programmed in advance, and then I must wait 24 hours for it to come in to effect, for the promotional rates to take place. I only learn this after speaking to the to the same salesmen again for another hour in the store. I have grown resentful of that store, and that man. I only learned there was a problem because it is a pay as you go phone...I put 100 soles, or about 32 dollars...which is A LOT of money in Peru...and after speaking with my parents for 20 minutes, it cut me off...creditless, powerless and furious. That turns out to be over a dollar a minute to call home...when it was only supposed to be less than 25 cents. So, long story short, I try to remedy this, again, in Spanish, and all I get is an I am sorry, I told you so...etc. I leave, pissed.

Then, I go about my business doing other things in the center...it´s hot and sunny as usual, and on my home, I buy an ice cream. I am headed home, which always takes a bit of brain power, as I often lose track of where exactly I am and how to get home...I cross the street onto the sidewalk, and feel something wet on my face. Ugh, a pigeon peed on me? Gross, and I take a napkin, step to the side of the crowd to wipe my face in disgust. I look up, and a woman walking in the opposite direction points at me and shouts ¨tu billaterra!¨ I look down at my tiny purse...and my wallet is gone. I am stunned. After a second to balance myself, I ask who, and she tells me someone in black pants. I look quickly around for someone scurrying away, but I just see people milling around aimlessly. A traffice police officer sees the commotion between us, and asks the woman who, she points, and he runs after him, her, or nothing. After a block, in the most populated center of the city, La Plaza de Armas, the tourist capital, my wallet has disappeared. I am hysterical, and police swarm me. I tell them what happened in Spanish admist my hysteria. I have never felt so ashamed and powerless in my life. It was less losing the money, the hassle to cancel cards, find a western union, than it was my embarrassment. It is difficult to explain, but I am sure anyone who has been a victim of pickpocketing knows what I mean...it just so repulsive and disrespectful. I have never been treated so poorly before...by a complete stranger. I realize shortly after the incident that a bird had not peed on me, someone had spit on my face. I had read in the Lonely Planet guide book about how common it is for pickpocketing to occur, and that someone usually spits to distract you. I never imagined it meant they spit ON you...it´s bad enough when someone spits right in front of you on the ground.

It has been a few days since all of this commotion, and as always, my mother managed to pull off the impossible by dealing with all of the bureacracy with the banks and the money. I could not believe how difficult it was to function with out money in such a time of need. There was no possibility of calling anyone, let alone internationally. I learned that day that the embassy is in Lima...and that no one has phones that can call Lima. Not even the police. I can´t imagine the police in the US not being able to use a phone to call Washington DC in some kind of emergency. The thought just boggles my mind. What they do have is a radio...which I presume can contact Lima that way. No one thought to offer that. Luckily when I finally made it home (long story short, the police escorted me to a VISA office, which was useless, and gave me an international number to call in Baltimore to cancel my credit card, and then home) I was able to use my room mates calling card to call my mother. The connection was atrocious. What a shitty day.

It is finally evening, and I think everything will sort itself out soon, but my nerves are shot. A few of us are sitting around the kitchen table chatting after dinner, and low and behold...the house starts shaking. I am terrified. What could this possibly be, I ask myself? I am dumbstruck. It is my first earth quake. We stand up, confused as what to do, and head towards outside. I can only remember something about standing in the doorway...but I think to myself, this isn´t going to work, there are too many people. Someone says, should we go outside? And we push each other to the front door...we are on the second floor. We only make it outside on the landing before it stops. There is a family with a few teenage girls starting up at us. They are freaked too.

I don´t know how strong it was, but there is a semi.active volcano off in the distance. The risk is very real, as Arequipa has been destroyed in the past by a volcano. Now people are nervous whenever small ones strike. The ambience after this tremor is difficult to describe...similar to conversations had after crying at a funeral. You have managed to pull yourself together, but are still shaken up and knowing that this wave of reality will hit again unexpectedly.

I hesitated to write anything in here about the tremor to save my mother and grandmother from further worry, but it was too strong of an experience to keep it in. After this day from hell, I realize how easily my rhythm of life can be thrown off, and how little control we have over the events in our days, despite a full sense of control.

I am doing better now, and have decided that I am not happy here in Arequipa, and need to make some changes. I hate the city, although I need it to have some control over my diet and my social life...I need to find a project I am passionate about. Time is ticking by so quickly. Nearly all of the volunteers here at present are leaving in the next week or so...which leaves the organization is dire straits...but I am afraid to take on the responsibilities in which I despise. One of my main problems is that I hate travelling on the crowded, horribly hot, dusty buses for one hour each way, every day, to help the children with homework in San Isidro for 2 hours. It just seems insane to me. While the children are doing their homework, others play loudly and distract me and the children...and still others go into a separate room with the psychologists to talk about their familial situations...and domestic abuse. It is pretty powerful stuff, as a nice chunk of the students have admitted to being abused in their home. To see that these families have more than one child, and that all of their children admit to the abuse breaks my heart. Often it is due to alcoholism. I can see how dangerous low incomes, tight budgets and alcohol and mix so dangerously. There are children in the program that hug tighter than you would expect, and still others are very uncomfortable with being touched at all. I don´t know all of the children´s names, or their stories, so for now, it is difficult to tell which ones are abused, and associate their behavior with this abuse.

It is difficult to see how stuck some of these children are. Their parents have very little money, and send them to the neighborhood schools. How could a child possibly grow up to further their education, or even more away from this village, with low budget schools, miserably unqualified teachers, and inadeuqate supplies. It is a rarity, I am sure. Don´t get me wrong, I feel passionately about getting these children the help they need for a successful life...but I just don´t know what it is I can do, or anyone really, besides kidnap them and give them all my money and put them in a really good school. And the reality is that no one can do that.