One day last June, I went for a jog with my new friend Shannon.  She had moved to Cajamarca as part of a Fulbright grant to teach English at the university.  While she loved her life in Peru, she missed working with school-aged children and was looking for opportunities to volunteer with an under-served community.  I had been informally teaching English to several children on my street for months.  I wanted to formalize my efforts into classes, but didn’t know how to go about it.  By the end of our three-mile jog, we had decided to start a school.  It was as simple as that.

After a couple meetings, we bought some markers and a dry erase board and began teaching free English classes on Tuesdays and Thursdays.  Following the principle that you don’t need a building to have a classroom, we began to teach in the street where the kids usually play soccer.  After two classes, a neighbor quickly volunteered a few child-sized chairs and the use of a roofed patio outside of his house.  Over time, more and more children came consistently and now we have an attendance between 12 and 18 children per class between the ages of four and eleven.  With geese, chickens and dogs wandering around us, we sing songs, play games and walk these kids through basic English. 

As terrible as it sounds, for most of my life I have not been a fan of children.  In graduate school, I dabbled in Pediatric occupational therapy but quickly became disinterested; preferring to work with a my-aged or older, even geriatric population.  Perhaps I hadn’t met the right kids.  For some reason, I find myself drawn to these children, who, despite the bad hands they were dealt, manage to be seemingly happy-go-lucky kids. 

Some of our students have it better than others.  Some eat three meals a day, others are lucky to get one.  Some go to school, others don’t.  One of my eight-year-old students lives in a closet-sized mud-and-grass hut with her 13-year old sister (who raised her).  Her parents live in the countryside and don’t want her.  One of our brightest students, Pepe, can’t walk due to a congenital spinal deformity; this seven-year-old boy crawls on his hands and ankles.  The family has been given money twice to bring him to Lima for a surgery that would give him the ability to walk, but they used the money on other things.  No matter what, each afternoon the kids gather to play soccer in the street with their worn ball and smiles on their faces.  Pepe is a surprisingly good player.

Each kid has a story.  These kids are TOUGH.  These kids rarely whine, cry or ask for anything more than for me to play soccer with them after class (a disgraceful sight).  In my opinion they need so much.  I want to give each one the same opportunities I had growing up.  However, saving the world or even one child is far more complicated than one would ever imagine (trust me, I’ve tried).  So, I offer free English classes twice a week to anyone who wants to come.  The kids and parents show extreme gratitude and have graciously welcomed me into their close community.

Not only are these kids happy, grateful and tough…they are SMART!  One day as I was conversing in Spanish with a small group, I asked a question and soon realized I already knew the answer.  “Duh!” I blurted out in English.  “Duh!” I heard the kids repeat.  From that point forward, I began to hear the expression “Duh,” used commonly and appropriately throughout the children of my neighborhood.  I was proud.  Fortunately their quick acquisition of the language carries over to more useful expressions such as “hello” and “how are you?” which I am greeted with frequently nowadays.

Shannon and I have faced challenges and worked around them.  No funding and lack of materials in English has not been a problem.  It forces us to be inventive.  Originally it was hard to get the kids to show up on time (four o’clock, gringo time tends to translate to four thirty or later, Peruvian time). We nipped that one in the bud by using constant reminders, starting class at four whether all the kids have arrived or not, and teaching classes that kids want to attend.  If you ask one of our students when the next class is, they will respond in English “Tuesday at four o’clock, punctual!”

The greatest problem we faced was that of classroom management.  With a teacher:student ratio of about 1:50 in the public schools, you can imagine it would be difficult to structure things.  In the local school that our students attend, the teaching is done mostly by lecturing in the front of the classroom.  During the first few classes, when we asked a question the children would either shout out the answers or stand up and wave their hands in front of our faces pleading “please miss, me, please!”  At the end of class when I read a book, the children would crowd me, trying to all sit in my lap at the same time.  Okay, so THESE kids are tough, happy, grateful, etc. but I don’t like them enough to get suffocated.  The chaos needed to be controlled and fast. 

Shannon, being a more patient person than myself and a more experienced teacher was good at ignoring the more outgoing children and calling on the polite ones.  I, on the other hand, couldn’t focus with this disorder.  First, I tried changing my typically “fun” demeanor.  I looked at the children who were talking amongst themselves with a frown on my face and disappointed and said “what are you doing?  Listen to your teacher!”  This was effective for about 15 minutes. Eventually we implemented rule: “when my hand is up, my mouth is closed” which has had a longer lasting outcome.  Generally we structure our lesson plans to keep the kids active and engaged, eliminating opportunities for them to act like brats.

While I spent time in the States in the early fall, Shannon continued to teach classes and upon my return in October I was greeted warmly by our students.  At that point we decided to get this on paper.  Shannon and I (both being major nerds) enjoyed long work sessions during which we wrote our mission and guiding principles, methodology, a profile of the community we serve, lesson structures and more.  After a couple weeks, we had our first draft of a portfolio.  All we lacked was a name and who better to ask than our bright young students? 

The one-and-only naming session was productive.  Shannon, myself, and several of the kiddos made suggestions.  Some were stereotypical names given frequently to schools, churches, buildings, and programs in Peru. “Escuela del Corazon,” (School of heart) “Escuela de las estrellas,” (school of the stars) “Escuela bonita,” (beautiful school) to name a few.  There were a few humorous suggestions such as “escuela de las gringas” and “escuela de los monos” (after their favorite song about monkeys jumping on the bed).  While the name “school of the monkeys,” was amusingly tempting (both to me and the kids), the final decision came down to a vote.  The winner?  “Mundo Maravilloso”.  In English: Wonderful World.

We’ve got a lot to do and a lot more kids to cater to.  At least 20 children have recently asked if they can join, but with Shannon back in the States, I’m putting a pause on new admissions.  I’m developing a long-term (3 month minimum) volunteer program under the principle that children need consistency to learn efficiently.  Little by little, I’ve gathered a box full of books, scissors, markers and a few other supplies to improve our activities.  Shannon and I are working together in the upcoming months to develop a set curriculum with matching lesson plans.  But Mundo Maravilloso has a great beginning and lots of exciting things to come.

–Danielle L. Krautmann

 *If you are interested in learning more about Mundo Maravilloso or receiving a copy of our portfolio, please contact me directly via my email: DanielleLParker [at] gmail [dot] com.   

By Danielle L. Krautmann

A local celebrity

How did  it get to be this late?  I’m lying on Violeta’s bed in her one-room home in Baños del Inca.  Actually, it’s not just her bed, she shares this queen-sized mattress which sits on cinder blocks with her husband and 11-year-old daughter, Alejandra.  It’s four o’clock in the afternoon; I had planned to be home hours ago.

Outside Violeta's house after lunch

When I agreed to go to church with Violeta, I assumed it would be your typical hour-long service…not three hours.  When I said I’d come for lunch afterwards, I thought we would slam down some sandwiches, and say chau.  Instead, we spent two hours preparing a feast and another hour eating it.  After lunch Violeta taught me how to prepare “fresh” limeade with tap water that spurted out of the faucet cloudy and yellow in color.  But how could I refuse to drink it after watching her cut and squeeze 10 limes all the while explaining to me that it is the most refreshing bebida you can consume after a big meal?

I gulp it down as fast as I can to show my appreciation (and to get it over with).  I’ll leave soon and either throw up or take an antibiotic, I assure myself to ease the nausea that is already setting in.  Violeta, seeing how much I enjoyed her refreshment, proudly refills my glass.  I try to politely refuse, “I should really get home to let Brandy out.”

“You don’t have to go yet!  Stay!  Chat with me!  Just give me one more horita of your time.”  Violeta pleas.  And again, how can I refuse?  My new friend and her family have taken me under their wing, inviting me for large meals, taking me to church, and bringing me with them to weddings and other events as if I’m a member of the family.

My new friend, Violeta, is a 42-year-old Peruvian woman who owns the only laundromat in Baños del Inca with her 52-year-old husband Alejandro.  She met her husband when she was 18 and they tried for 12 years to have children. Not until she was 30 did she realize that all she needed to do was pray and God would grant her one.  So came Alejandra or Lisbeth as we call her.  A plump, happy pre-teen who loves watching pirated DVD’s and can recite every line from Shrek and all four of its sequels.

We have nothing in common.  She has a child, I don’t.  My first language is English, Violeta’s only language is Spanish.  She believes Jesus Christ is her savior while the only God I’ve even known is Pachamama.  My house has four bedrooms, her’s is the size of my bedroom.  Despite all this, we have somehow formed a close connection.  Three or four afternoons a week, I go and visit her at the laundromat, spending hours chatting, and sometimes helping her fold clothes (she fired me from ironing).

Lisbeth and I playing with my camera at a wedding.

I agree to stay for un momentito  and try hard to forget about the mud-water limeade I just consumed.  I’ll leave it up to my stomach to decide whether to begin the digestion process or send it back up.  As we prop ourselves up on the bed with pillows to chat, I feel like I’m at a slumber party.  Violeta explains that she doesn’t have a lot of friends and prefers it that way.  After dealing with people at the laundromat six days a week from 9am until 7pm she likes to spend her free time by herself.

“Well then, por que yo?” I ask her, wondering what makes me special enough to be taken in by this wonderful family.

“Porque eres gringa!  Duh!”  She proclaims, correctly utilizing the English word I taught her this afternoon.  She must notice the naive confusion in my face and begins to explain how fascinating the “gringo culture” is.  “Ever since I was a little girl, I watched you on TV.”  She refers to a show called “La familia Ingalls,” which I realize must be Little House on the Prairie.  From an early age, Violeta watched this show, dreaming that some day she would marry a gringo and move somewhere like Europe or the United States of America.

“And I watch American TV shows every night.  You’re culture is so impressive!”  She went on with wide eyes.  “You gringos are so sophisticated, so rich, so advanced.  Your houses are enormous and you look beautiful all the time with your make-up, nice clothes, perfect hair…”  As she goes on, I peek down at my outfit.  With a hat on my head to hide the fact I didn’t shower today, worn cargo pants, filthy bare feet, and a short sleeved t-shirt over a long sleeved one, I’m afraid I must be a terribly disappointing gringita.

I recall the last show I watched on TV.  After five minutes of My Super Sweet Sixteen, where privileged teenage brats scream at their parents about which convertible they will receive at their million dollar birthday party, I had to turn it off.  This is what impresses her?  The chunks are rising in my throat, but I’m uncertain if it’s due to the limeade or her words.

I try my hardest not to cringe as she continues, “I tell my Alejandra to study her English so that maybe, some day, she can marry a gringo, or at the very least, travel to another country.”  The Peruvian dream.  Really.  If the American dream is to work your way from rags to riches, the Peruvian dream is to marry a gringo and move to the States.  I can’t take any more of this.  I’m going to puke up two hours of cooking, and two glasses of limeade.  I need to get home, and fast.

“Thank you so much for today, it was wonderful.”  I tell her honestly.  I will visit her on Monday at the laundromat.

What have we done to you people?  I think to myself as I run home.  I storm into the house, grab some Ciprofloxacin and a glass of water and plop down on my couch.  Feeling unsettled, I mull over a conversation I once had with a Peruvian friend of mine about Christmas.  “Why,” I asked “Do you Peruvians put plastic snowmen and fake tinsel pine trees everywhere for Christmas when it doesn’t snow in Peru and there are hardly any pine trees?”

“You did this!” He exclaimed as if it was obvious.  Then, after seeing in my face what a blow he had just delivered, he softened his voice.  “Well, your country did…or the country you come from…”

Peruvians are laid back, have strong family values, beautiful folkloric music and bright colors.  It pains me to think that people from a country as culturally rich as Peru would want to be anything else.  They want to be like the “classy” gringos who start wars for money, who shake hands instead of kiss and love to be politically correct.  Ugh.  This realization pains me almost as much as the thought of Peruvians watching our TV shows and thinking that is what our lives are like.

I am overcome by disappointment and guilt.  The fact of the matter is that I haven’t invited Violeta to my house because I once told her it was small.  After seeing that her and her husband share their bed with their daughter and their kitchen, dining room, living room, and bathroom all fit into a room the size of the one in which I sleep, how I can ever show her my four-bedroom home with TV, sofa, refrigerator, coffee pot, closets?  The fact of the matter is that I am gringa and the quality of my life is better than that of many of the Peruvians here in Cajamarca.

And yet…I suppose I do the same thing.  I yearn for “the simple life.”  I admire the rich customs in Peru and want nothing more than to take part in them.  I’ve left my culture behind to immerse myself in another.  Who am I to judge?

Either the antibiotics are kicking in, or my stomach chose digestion.  As I sit on my couch, reviewing this afternoon’s conversation in my head, I recount Violeta saying, “You know, we don’t see gringos here often, and when we do, we think ‘Wow! Look how nice they look!’  We want to listen to them speak their perfect English to be just like them.”  This is true.  When I go running in the countryside, people come out of their houses just to watch.  The other day a woman yelled “gringita, please wait.  I want to show you to my children!”  I kept running.  People honk their horns, follow me, and the brave ones greet me or try to speak the only English they know.   “Hello!”  they call.  “Gringita!” they yell and wave.  Children follow me and ask questions.  “What country are you from?” “What are you doing in Peru?” “Why is your dog on a leash?”

I hate this attention.  I want to say “didn’t your mother teach you it’s rude to stare?”  I usually try my hardest to scoot by as quickly as possible without making eye contact or reacting.

But, aren’t I guilty of the same crime?  I watch when a campesino woman walks by with a heard of animals and marvel at how one person can control five sheep, three cows and two burrows at the same time.  I study their skirts and hats and wonder what their lives are like.  I gawk when they shamelessly whip out a breast in the middle of the street and massage it to squeeze the milk into their infant’s mouth.  They call me gringita, I call them the hat people.

I am a celebrity in the countryside only because few gringos pass through.  If a campesino walked into Concord, NH, hat on head, and baby in blanket on back, we would stare too.  Thank Pachamama we still have diversity.  People will continue to gaze at the weirdo gringa who walks her dog on a leash every morning; I can’t change this.  My only choice is to be the best weirdo-gringita I can be.  I can answer their questions, return their Hello’s, and every now and then wait, so the woman can show me to her kids.  Turns out, I’m representing a culture.  “The gringo culture.”

By Danielle L. Krautmann

Alternative to department store.

As my taxi weaves its way through the streets of Cajamarca, Peru, things look different than they did my last visit.  Perhaps it’s because last April, I was a tourist from Lima.  This time I’m here to look at apartments.  I will be moving to Cajamarca in a month.

The taxi driver grumbles to himself about the traffic as I look out the window.  I notice that every store on this block sells cleaning supplies.  Brooms, mops, bold colored buckets and dustpans clutter the shop fronts to draw you in and deter you from the next store which sells the exact same items.  The next two blocks are filled with peluquerias (hair salons).  Each store front is covered with out-dated posters of models from the 80’s displaying voluminous hair styles.  I wonder which of these peluquerias I will go to.  Does it make a difference?

The next block is where you buy your canned foods with faded labels while the one after is filled with hardware shops.  Is this a weird dream?  What planet am I on?  Why don’t these people just go to a department store?  Finally, as the taxi approaches Hotel de las Americas, I notice every other building on this block sells nothing but cheese and yogurt.  All I can think about is how I will describe this strange phenomenon to friends and family when I return to Lima.  Then it hits me: these are the places I will shop and these are the streets I will need to learn.  Shit.  This is going to be like starting all over….AGAIN.

One of these guys is not like the others

I step out of the taxi and take a look at the locals.  When I visited in April, the people of Cajamarca (many of whom still wear traditional Andean clothing) contributed to the rich cultural experience of visiting this beautiful mountain town.  They walk the streets dressed in sandals, knee-length wool skirts with petticoats, with 3 to 5 sweaters layered over each other (never mind it’s hot out).  A tall hat made from woven palm leaves shades their dark leathered faces and covers their black hair which they wear tied back in one or two braids.  Today, these women are no longer photo opportunities, but my new neighbors.  The majority of Cajamarcanians sport modern attire as they would in Lima, but there is still something very different.  All of a sudden I become keenly aware of the lyrics to the song I’ve been humming to myself for most of the taxi ride.

“People are strange, when you’re a stranger.  Faces look ugly, when you’re alone.”

You said it Jim Morrison.  How the heck am I going to live here?  How will I make friends?  Lima is one thing, but this place is just a little too different.  I try to remember why I wanted to move here in the first place.  Something about the mountains, something about the culture, something about getting out of the city, and something about Brandy being able to run free off her leash.  These things seem trivial and I’m ready to hop back on the next plane to Lima.  Loud lonely Lima all of a sudden becomes lovely, luxurious Lima, where I have friends, and can buy everything I need in one store.   Alas, I am supposed to go and see eight different apartments tomorrow so I’ll stay the weekend.

I guess it doesn't look all that bad, does it?

The taxi driver says “gracias señorita” as he dumps me off at the hotel and drives away quickly.  I catch myself humming The Doors again, “No one remembers your name, when you’re strange, when you’re strange.”

Change is hard, moving is hard, and after moving nine times in the past five years (I’m not exaggerating), I can safely say, it doesn’t get a whole lot easier.  But I have learned there are a few things you can do to get through the adjustment period a little more smoothly.

Leave the house every day

Easier said than done.  At any given time, I can think up at least five reasons not to leave the comfort of my own home:  It’s not safe. I can’t understand anyone. I’m tired. there’s too much to do around the house. Brandy doesn’t want me to leave her alone.  There, easy.  That was five.  Stop making excuses. Even if it’s just to take a walk around the block, get out of the house.

Get your bearings

Figure out where you are. You can look at maps, but the best way to learn the streets is by walking them.  When I moved to Lima, I was so nervous about getting lost, I would only walk around the block, so that’s where I started.  Then it became two blocks, then trips to the grocery store, then I learned the bus system.

Talk to people, start conversations

Everyone has a story to tell and most have good intentions.  Of course you must keep safety in mind, so perhaps if there is a “gentleman” standing on the corner making kissing noises, don’t approach him and ask him if he wants to be friends.  Aside from that, put yourself out there, you’ve got nothing to lose.  “People look strange, when you’re a stranger.”  So don’t be a stranger, talk to everyone.

Accept every invitation

Take advantage of every opportunity, even if it’s not your thing, keep an open mind and go anyway.  If you get invited to a gathering, a Tupperware party, a trip to Gamarra to see the Shaman market, to train for a marathon, whatever, GO!  Every invitation you accept will get you more invitations, and you’ll never know whether or not you’ll like something until you try it.

Finally, go easy on yourself

Moving is hard.  It doesn’t matter if it’s to another country or the next town over.  In Peru, we use an expression, “poco a poco”  which means “little by little”.  That’s how things happen and that’s how we adjust.  It won’t happen overnight.

So now, I suppose, it’s time to take my own advice.  In a month I will move to this place, I will shop in these stores, get lost in these streets, and befriend these strangers.  Time to find an apartment, check out the local market, and find someone to talk to. Here we go again!

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New Hampshire foliage

Have I ever told you how much I love the Jorge Chavez International airport?  Well, I love it so much that I try to arrive early.  If check in goes smoothly I have time to sit outside the security gate to watch Peruvians say goodbye to each other.  Entire families go to the airport with their loved ones to participate in the dramatic parting ritual.  The traveler tearfully makes his or her way through the group, kissing each person, telling them they love them, telling them “cuidate” (take care of yourself), promising to call the second they arrive, then more kisses, hugs, tears,  and handholding while exchanging longing looks.  Family members who are staying in Peru cry and hold each other for comfort.  

I love it.  I hope to someday partake in such a dramatic goodbye.  Charlie has little tolerance for the production.  He feels it’s excessive and whether the traveler is going for a year or a week, they do the same darn thing.  He gets annoyed when they block the entrance to security and you have to push your way through, which we did as we made our way through the airport for a visit home to the United States.  To Charlie’s credit, he spends far more time at Jorge Chavez than I do, and I’m sure it gets old.  I looked back as a family of seven parted with their young adult.  As they wept and held each other, I pretended they were saying goodbye to me.  “Goodbye for now, Peru,” I said to myself as I popped a sleeping pill (courtesy of a typical Peruvian pharmacy at which you can get any drug you desire without prescription) and boarded the plane.    

Charlie and I eating Fenway Franks and drinking beer at a Red Sox vs. Yankees game.

After sleepwalking my way through a layover in who-knows-where and customs, I found myself in Logan International airport surrounded by gringos.  Finding a bus to my hometown of Concord, NH seemed too easy to be true.  I had become accustomed to the simplest tasks taking at least a half day in Lima.  The bus arrived on time and the ride was tranquil.  No slamming on the breaks, no bumps, no one cutting anyone off and no horn honking.  I had almost forgotten that for the most part, in the United States of America (home of the brave), we follow traffic laws out of fear of getting a ticket.  I looked out the window and appreciated the cleanliness along the highway, allowing the grass to show its bold green color.   Here I was on the other side and the grass was definitely greener!

I looked around at the other passengers on the bus and something felt strange.  No one was looking at me.  No men making kissing noises, staring me down, or proclaiming “I lub you!” in thick Spanish accents.   I waited for the feeling of relief to set in.  After months of enduring sexual harassment whenever I left my apartment, after walking around in sweatshirts hiding my identity as a gringa rubia, after daily rants to Brandy about the perverted men in Lima, I could finally relax.  But a different feeling overtook me: disappointment.  I looked just like everyone else.  On this bus, there was absolutely nothing special about me that would cause a person to look twice.    

I must say, it was nice being home.  Autumn in New Hampshire provides an incredible display of changing seasons causing people to come from all over the country to marvel at…leaves.  Ironically, the brilliant foliage is a sign that the leaves are dying and NH will soon enter into another terribly long, excessively cold winter.  But the leaves do not accept their fate quietly.  They put on a captivating show of fiery reds, oranges and yellows before they go.

A typical American making apple pie

I spent three weeks enjoying the foliage, visiting with family, drinking savory beers from local breweries and eating far too much delicious American food.  Charlie and I celebrated our anniversary hiking in the White Mountains without need for guides or worrying about being held up or having our packs taken.  I appreciated speaking English, feeling safe, the familiarity, cleanliness, and law and order to everything.  When I’m in the States, everything makes sense.  I have never enjoyed NH or my family as much as I did this past visit.

But this trip to New Hampshire felt different.  Over and over again I found myself feeling like a foreigner.  I wanted to kiss everyone I encountered which doesn’t fly in the United States.  I had almost forgotten that in the USA, we shake hands when we greet.  After months of kissing my friends in Peru, my maid, my driver, and anyone else I got introduced to, I felt like I was being rude NOT to kiss my parents’ friends, my brother, or my best friend’s boyfriend.  There were several times I found myself going in for a kiss only to have a hand thrust in my direction for a shake.   I was constantly reminding myself “Don’t kiss strangers, Danielle.  They’ll think you’re weird.”  

My cousin Kate thought I was weird when I tried to negotiate the price of a hotdog.  This vendor wanted to charge me $3!   “Three dollars for a hotdog?” I asked.  “That’s ridiculous!  I’ll give you a dollar.”  The guy paused and looked at me, then replied “Sorry, three is as low as I can go.”  I assured Kate, “Don’t worry. I do this all the time,” then said “Two fifty, no more.”  He appeared irritated, “Sorry, these hot dogs cost $3.”  To his credit, it was a good hotdog, but I could get a whole meal for that price in Peru.  

Kayaking in Keene, NH surrounded by foliage.

Mom thought I was weird when she noticed me taking pictures of everything from cars stopped at traffic lights to Charlie doing yard work with my brother, Brent.  “Act natural,” I told her as she stood elbow deep in a bowl of flour at our kitchen counter.   “This will be a great photo.  Its so typical.  An American making apple pie!  I can’t wait to show my friends!”  Mom rolled her eyes.

After three weeks, I was sad to leave.  I sniffled my way through security checks at the airport and anticipated my return to loud, lonely, Lima.  I feared that after 3 weeks of speaking English, I would be back at square one stumbling through words like an idiot.  I filled my carry-on bag with enough magazines to last me a month, boarded the plane and popped a sleeping pill.

I woke up as my plane landed at Jorge Chavez.  As I fumbled my way through customs and baggage claim I mentally prepared to be harassed by taxi drivers who would approach me the second I exited the airport.  On the contrary I was greeted by Carlos, who of course, before anything, gave me a big kiss.  Funny enough, that was all I needed to remind me that there are a lot of things I love about this place.  

I’ve heard that life experiences that are most difficult are the ones you remember the best.  I found that the things I complain most about ended up being the things I missed while visiting the USA. The men in Lima who make kissing noises are jerks, but they sure make me feel attractive, even when I’m in baggy sweatpants and having a bad hair day.  There is much less structure, law and order in Peru, making simple things take sometimes days to accomplish, but when I do complete a task, I feel triumphant.  While my Spanish has improved, I continue to struggle to communicate all I want to say while projecting my personality, but each time I have a deep conversation in Spanish, understand a joke, or use a new word, I feel successful.  I stand out here in Peru, and for that am a target for crime, scams, and higher prices, but learning about and living in a culture so different from my own has been the experience of a lifetime.  

I got back to my apartment and took Brandy out to the park.  I looked around and noticed the grass was a lovely green.  Not the same bold green as in New Hampshire, but bright green.  Not more or less green than it was on the other side, just a different shade.

By Danielle L. Krautmann

Danielle will chop your head off with this machete if you complain while on the rainforest expedition!

It’s 8am and I am in my best mood, sipping coffee, sitting alone in the open-air lobby of the main lodge writing in my journal.  For almost a month now, I have gone to sleep and dreamed of spending my days walking through tangles of vines, trees taller than my apartment building, watching animals eat other animals, nature unfolding in front of my eyes.  For almost a month, I have woken up in the morning to find that it was not a dream and today I will walk through the forest again.  I allow my thoughts to flow onto the pages of my journal with little attention to spelling, grammar, or whether or not my audience will like it.  My journal is only for me.  So I write this morning’s thoughts…

“Dear Journal, I never knew how many different shades of green existed until this past week when I started working on names for them in my head.  When Crayola gets word of this I want to be the first employee who’s job it is to label the colors.  There’s leaf-cutter-ant green, naked-tree green, Mealy-Parrot green, and we can’t forget Orange Cheeked Parrot green, the purest green of them all.  Am considering changing my favorite color from yellow to…”

I pause from my writing as a flustered middle-aged woman plops down next to me with a dramatic sigh commanding me to look up from my journal.  As I raise my eyebrows towards her she declares “If you are writing about this company, I hope you write about what a bad job they do preparing their guests for what to bring.”

I have no choice but to acknowledge her and at least appear that I’m listening by using the age-old trick of staring at her forehead.  She continues, “They said on the website that I should bring long-sleeved shirts, so I brought three, but I get hot when I hike and I only brought two short-sleeved shirts which will get covered in sweat.  And they said it might rain here, so I brought a rain jacket and rain pants, but it hasn’t rained so how can you explain that?”

I know she will go on, so I allow my mind to drift back into its stream of thought. I contemplate a decision as critical as changing my favorite color.  Have you ever tried to name all of the hues of yellow?  Would it be fair to Yellow to replace it without first visiting the sun or at least staring at it for a long time? I think to myself.  Then…Darn.  The lady is looking at me and awaiting an answer.  How long I have been staring at her forehead?  What was her question?

“Green.” I reply, then quickly try to recover, “I mean, um, what did you ask?  Sorry, the birds are so loud it’s hard to hear.”

She appears irritated with my lack of attention and responds “I know.  You would think they’d do something about that.  They could AT LEAST keep them further from the lodge.”

I can’t pretend to listen any more.  This is the first time I’ve felt irritated in weeks.  “What was your question?” I ask in the nicest voice I can muster.

“I asked if you’re writing about what a bad job the company does of telling people what to bring.”

“Um, no.  But when you fill out your evaluation, please try to be clear in what you felt was lacking.  But no, that’s not what I’m writing about.”  I respond apologetically only to be scolded with a “Well, maybe you should!” before she stormed off.

I work for, what is in most guest’s opinion one of the best ecotourism companies in the world. What I have learned most from working in the tourism industry is that some people travel for the sole purpose of complaining.  It bothered me a lot my first three weeks working in the Amazon.  I would ask myself, guides, other tourists: How in the world can you come to such an incredible place and find something to complain about?

While most travelers who visit the lodges are in awe and have an amazing time, I would find myself trying to scope out the bad eggs.  When a new group came in, I would think to myself, which one will it be?  Well, today I remember that she isn’t the first and won’t be the last.

But with less than a week left in this place, I cannot worry about her sweaty armpits.  So I take a sip of my coffee, and return to the most important decision I will make today.  I don’t think I’ll change my favorite color, but I’m definitely gonna write Crayola when I get back to Lima.