Thursday, June 14, 2007

Low Point of Peace Corps

The other day Jane and I were coming back from her site, Chavin, which is a small community situated next to some of the best-reserved and most mysterious ruins in Peru. They are 2500-3000 years old and are interesting because there is no evidence of fortifications of any kind. The Stanford scholars who come down every year report that they believe it had no use for any defensive structures because any would be attackers were kept at bay by the enormous respect they must have had for the religious rituals that went on there. According to the Stanford researchers, Chavin priests controlled the people by giving them a strong hallucinogen soup called San Pedro which is a cactus that still grows all over the mountains today. While under the influence of the mind-bending chemicals, the priests guided their subjects through a series of corridors and staircases in complete darkness while the sound of rushing water echoed all around from the underground canals they had constructed within the foundation of the four story temple. With the help of the San Pedro, the villagers were said to be able to see clearly in the light stricken halls and were overwhelmed by euphoria created by the ubiquitous echoes of water. This procession ultimately led to a room where a solitary stone idol stood illuminated by a single beam of moonlight. The statue was carved with various animals, almost like a totem pole in disarray, and was highlighted by a cat-like bust with bulging eyes, exaggerated fangs and copious amounts of mucus draining from nose to mouth. It is thought that because of the spiritual power of this temple, the civilization never had a need for defense or military. This is an interesting place to see if you’re in to archaeology.
Anyway… this is where my lowest point in Peace Corps started. Chavin is in the middle of nowhere and on the other side of highest area of the Peruvian Andes. We left one morning, about two weeks ago, in a Toyota Camary staion wagon on our way to Huaraz, the departmental capital. We were in the back seat with a lady from Chavin and her two young kids. Behind us were two campesinos- peasants that are from remote areas and live very traditionally.
As we started up the hills toward the tunnel that sits on a saddle at about 16,000 ft, the campesina lady behind us started yaking in a plastic bag. This happens all the time with the Peruvians, but normally we take a bus converted from an old Mac truck that has a fake Mercedes emblem on it. On the bus, there is plenty of interior space so that when someone gets sick, you can open your window and it’s not a very big deal. You just have to pick up your backpack off the floor so the half-digested sheep-head stew doesn’t get all over it. In the station wagon, especially as you get closer to the snow and an open window is no longer an option, the odor is a bit more pungent.
So right as the campesina seemed to slow down, the kid to our left starts to barf everywhere. Even though she did manage to get her head out the window almost in time, some of the spill ended up on the armrest and her shoes. Even a small amount of campesino up chuck begins to fester before long in a confined space, so at this point, we were ready to get over the pass as soon as possible. Well, right as the tunnel was in sight the lady starts up again and as I look back, I notice that her plastic bag was starting to look like a large breast implant as she held the top together.
This is when the fateful decision occurred. Instead of letting her not realize that her meal was about to overflow soil everything in the back, including our bags, I handed her another plastic bag and told her to give me her vomit. Intending to make a quick grab and eject it out the window, I torque myself 180 degrees and grasp the bag with one hand. This is when I found out just how full it really was. With what I think is a firm grip, I didn’t feel like we were going to have to stop the cab to do this thing. Right as I’m passing the bag over the seat we are sitting in, it began to feel slightly unsteady. Carefully, getting a better grip on the top of the bag, I felt something moist. In hindsight, I’m guessing it was puke. Just then, that very part of the bag slipped down and like an opening floodgate, the lumpy contents spilled absolutely all over us and in our worst-nightmare-like panic, it went all over everyone else as well. At that point you can imagine the rest. Drenched in other-end sewage, we had no choice but to roll down the windows and shiver for 90 more minutes all the way to Huaraz.