Just Another Crazy Night

(Motupe, Peru)
I used to joke about it when I lived in Honduras with the Yueng family. When their friends from Canada would visit and ask in awing wonder, "How much does it cost to live in the hills and who lives there?" Monica, the mother, would chuckle in reminiscence of how in places like Canada or the United States, the rich would pay fortunes for the scenic view, but in Tegucigalpa, like it is here in Lima, it is the opposite. It is the marginalized poor that live on elevated land, in places where one would call, shantytowns, slums, or just places asking for more inhabitable conditions.


He approached me one day while I was sitting in the boxing gym. Ricardo Espinoza, a social worker whose dream was to see the betterment of his neighborhood. He invited me and a Cuban boxing coach to see where he planned to establish a boxing program to dissuade youth from the growing influence of drugs and alcohol. It was about an hour and a half bus ride from the familiarity of the national stadium. Dust clouded into the air as the paved road disappeared into a bumpy dirt path. The closer we approached, the more it appeared that the area was currently under construction, only that "currently" didn't really apply. It was just the way it was. And sure enough, we were going upwards.


Ricardo brought us to what appeared to be his home and I immediately noticed about a dozen children obediently sitting in chairs, all wearing a football (soccer) uniform stamped with the phrase "Acad. de Futbol de Menores Si. De Drogas No" (Academy of Football of Minors Yes. Of Drugs No) written on it. Each child came up, introduced their name and age, then shook our hands. One boy then came up and handed me a plate. Chicken and potatoes covered in a savory sauce. As the rest of the boys began receiving their plates, I noticed that theirs only included potatoes. They ate like they hadn't eaten all day, but earlier Ricardo had asked them how many had eaten breakfast, and judging by the absence of raised hands, it probably was their first meal.

Afterward the coach began giving a speech about boxing, intermixing mood raising questions of who wanted to learn how to defend themselves, who wanted to be a future champion and interestingly enough, noting the importance of knowing your family background. But the core of the speech laid in one topic: about what it takes to succeed in the sport. Of course he discussed the characteristics of determination, sacrifice, perseverance, and so on, but the main reason was to advocate the abandonment and avoidance of drugs and alcohol. He kept saying how one needed to stay away from them to find success, how in becoming consumed by them, you would disappoint your family and yourself.


We later walked around to possible sites to where a boxing gym could be built. In my honest opinion, the scarce bareness of the land didn't offer much hope. But the kids didn't seem concerned. They seemed more interested in my ability to speak English and Chinese, began asking me to translate words in both languages, asking me what the United States was like, if there were neighborhoods like this one. I wanted to say yes, because there is poverty in the US, but to these levels? I don't really know anymore.


I hate to say that this story is beginning to sound like a broken record, that I've already been to so many places suffering from the same ills of poverty that I can no longer, nor have ever been able to, discern whose story deserves more attention. But what I have never been able to get my head around is the state of inequality this world suffers from; how in one moment I am in a place where drugs and alcohol will drag a life into the cold depths of destitution, and in the next, I am working in a place where drugs and alcohol appear to be a common daily occurrence, yet these users' lives are not affected by the same adverse consequences. Nobody seemed to be disappointed in them. Their privilege manages to allow their habits and experiences to be packed away as "just another crazy night".

Lovely Present

I walked into the Lima boxing gym expecting to spar with Mauricio, the pro fighter with an upcoming bout next Saturday. Normally I wouldn't opt to just hop in with a fighter of his caliber, but I scoped him out the day before and noticed his lackluster one-punch-at-a-time combinations, his apathetic effort in finishing his workout, and just his overall skill. I figured I could survive three rounds with him.

But when I stepped through those doors meandering around the gym, searching for his familiar face, I was later stopped and asked if I would spar with another fighter to prepare him for an upcoming bout next Friday. A smaller fighter named "Maicelo". I watched him shadowbox for a couple rounds. He was definitely faster than me, in better shape, and fought with a will and determination that I have so unsuccessfully tried to recapture, but "What the hell," I thought, "You only live once."

After the first three punches crashed into my face and the headgear flew off my head, I knew I was in trouble. For the next 10 mins of my life, I knew what it felt like to be a punching bag. And he didn't punch as if it was sparring match, but as if I had stolen his childhood pet or offended a close relative. Even my Polish friend Anita told me she at one point she could see a pure and absolute anger in him pummeling me.

I managed to get through the three rounds I promised, battered and beaten, feeling like I had all the meager accolades stripped from the little boxing rank I had. I felt like I wasn't in a place I was supposed to be in, like I failed at what I was set out to do. On top of that, last night I messed up the bar count at my new job at the hostel. I usually fare well with numbers. I don't know how it was so off. Maybe I'm just losing a step, or more probably, overestimating my abilities.

But for some reason, I also feel like something got beat into me, almost like a new energy to go on. The coaches said I did well, most likely to make me feel better, but the one place I can give myself credit is that I never quit. I never gave up. I suppose you can always look at the glass two ways. Either the beginnings of self-doubt and abuse, or the opportunity to start over and try again.

What a lovely gift.

El Cantante

Me paran siempre en la calle
mucha gente que comenta
¡Oye Hector ah! tu estas hecho
simpre con hembras y en fiestas.

Y nadie pregunta
si sufro si lloro
si tengo una pena
que hiere muy hondo.

(They always stop me in the street
many people comment
Hey Hector! You're made
always with women and in parties

And nobody asks
if I suffer, if I cry
if I have a sorrow
that wounds very deeply)

- Hector Lavoe

A Few Extra Flakes

I noticed my two year old clown loach didn't come out for the scheduled feeding that I have every other day. Instead it huddled in the hiding place that has suddenly become populated by the Ghost Knife and Indonesian shrimp. From the blank look in its eyes, I thought it was dead, but to my delight, it eventually squiggled its way around. Maybe it was just having a bad day. But when it finally came out, it swam abnormally, took rapid laps throughout the tank, and the entire time on its side, like it was confused; a tell tale sign that it is sick.

My clown loach will probably die in the coming days. I decided to throw in some more food to try and comfort it in its last moments, but it never could control itself enough to eat. It's a strange sight, to foresee the untimely death of a living thing while it's still moving, but you can't just lay down quietly to accept the inevitable. Instead cherish those final moments, try your best to recreate those old times, even if a few extra flakes, isn't going to bring them back.

A Pointless Post

I've unsuccessfully tried to understand to the concept of 'expectations'; whether or not to live by plans because plans all too commonly fail. But it isn't so much the idea of a plan that is problematic, but rather putting too much of your hope into them. Kind of like an insurance policy, so that when plans don't pan out as expected, your hopes don't go crashing down with them.

But life is not worth living without hope. Where's the motivation to go on if there isn't at least the illusion of a better place? And most times, hope guides us to places we never expected to be, places that we can look back and say made us better people. So the goal of getting to the initial destination is irrelevant, but rather the steps taken to get, well, wherever.

So where do we place 'hope'? I'd like to think we can place it in the overall assurance that things will work out, regardless if we recognize it or not. Or maybe finding an intricate balance between 'hope' and 'expectations' so that they can exist harmoniously for our own individual peace of mind. But things like hope shouldn't be over analyzed anyways. It's complexity wasn't meant for such petty things like 'logic' in the first place.

I Couldn't Stay Here Any Longer

When the Bonderman panel asked me how I would deal with homesickness, I silently thought, "I won't have to," and looking back on all my journeys, I haven't really had to. I've always had this problem of feeling there was concept of "home".

The first time I went through a difficult 6 month depression where all I wanted to do was sleep. The second time was a little better, but only at the assurance that I was to leave within three months. This time I had that same promise, only I didn't view as an assurance, I thought I was happy being where I was. I came back with hope for myself. I finally was able to find happiness within myself and like Ana told me, thought I could create happiness out of thin air. This time I thought I had it figured out. I thought I had a lot of things figured out. But you put things into a simple equation and you realize with time that nothing is ever that simple.

Something happened since I've been back, like a weight has suddenly crept up on me. It's a strange feeling that is, having peace slowly taken away from you. It's like the genuine life behind your smile get desecrated, but the smile is still there. It's just empty.

I look at my photos from my trip and I don't know, I could just feel the happiness seeping out of my image. I don't know who that person is anymore. I try so hard to grasp onto those moments, to recreate those times that lifted my spirit, but I can't. It's like trying to recreate mouthwatering dish that you foolishly stumbled upon but never really knew the recipe in the first place.

What happened to my peace? Where did my patience go? Since when did traffic jams become annoying? When did watching my fish swim suddenly become too time consuming? When did I start criticizing those around me? When did I start hating myself, again.

Sometimes the mirror is a scary place, when you suddenly see yourself at the other end of the finger pointing out the blame. Sometimes we're too blind in our clarity. I used to feel that everything that came my way made sense, and anything that didn't, well, I would learn with time. But that wasn't the truth. Sure you learn to see things more clearly, but you also find out shit you don't want to find out.

But I'm lucky. I have a place in my mind that has peace. Sometimes I see it in my dreams and I wake up, happy. But the sad thing is I'm scared to make it a reality. I almost want to keep it as a thought, something I can rely on, a safe place. I guess I just don't want reality to hurt anymore.

But if I've learned anything since I've been back it's that you suffer for your happiness, that pain is for love, because "Even the beauty of birth leaves it's own scars". And if all the experts of self-discovery are right, "we will find home right where we are".

"Pain for Love"

So as fate would have it, my 9-hour "Importing as a Small Business" class happened to fall on Valentine's Day. Talking about free market shares, independent sales reps and net profit margins wasn't exactly what I expected to be doing, but since I kind of messed up Valentine's Day for myself, I can't say I wasn't asking for it.

But when going over the list of what one needs to start their own business, one student mentioned "passion". Most people associate "passion" with what one loves. Today I found out that at it's root, "passion" means to suffer.

I thought I had my re-entries into this country figured out. I thought I finally learned to be happy this time, but I've been on edge with frustration lately. Something about this place took my peace away from me. I can't really figure it out.

But if the business course is right, you suffer for the things you love. Pain and joy, are not mutually exclusive. Now I just need to find out what exactly I'm suffering for.