Suerte

“Suerte que mis pechos sean pequeños, y no los confundas con montañas” – Shakira

My first day of work was exhilarating–much smoother than I expected it to be. The coordinator of the Hospital de Niños (where I was working), Marta, was so extremely sweet and very helpful that I felt perfectly comfortable. After a general tour of the hospital, I was assigned to work in Medicina D, more specifically with a girl named Lady (like much of the rest of the world, Peruvians have taken a liking to semi-English names) who I think has some type of sclerosis–she is 15 but itsy bitsy, so thin I’m scared to accidently snap her bones when I touch her, and wheelchair bound. Her head was wrapped in bandages, and according to Marta she is just recently losing control of her hands. Also, according to Marta, she doesn’t really have a family. But despite all this she is extremely bright, remarkably intelligent for her age, upbringing, and physical condition. She’s also sassy, really something else–since she can’t really move at all she’s gotten accustomed to asking people to do things for her, and orders around the nurses and Aprendo Contigo workers like she’s their boss. People endearingly refer to her as “la jefe del hospital.” I really probably should not have been so happy after my first day of work, because I saw so many beautiful little children with pipes and tubes sticking out of their bodies, which is quite a sad thing, but I think Lady made it easy. I returned home light, starving but bouncing on the soles of my feet.

After my second day, however, I feel much heavier. Today I went to a different location, to the Hogar Clinica de San Juan de Dios, a live-in hospital that treats many children who were born with some kind of physical disability or deformity. I work two days at San Juan, three days at Hospital de Niños, and half a day at Posadita. San Juan de Dios is very different from the Hospital de Niños because there is a special space for Aprendo Contigo–the organization has a very large portion of the clinic all for itself, with three classrooms, where the children come to have class from their hospital beds. The Hospital de Niños is much larger, and cannot have a classroom setting for that reason and also because the children have a multitude of different problems, not just physical disability, some of which are infectious. Maybe San Juan de Dios seemed sadder because it was darker, or maybe the classroom setting made the state of unhealth feel more permanent. After all, the hospital is literally a home–some of the kids have grown up in this hospital, some of them learned everything they know with Aprendo Contigo in the makeshift hospital school. The oldest boy, in particular, makes me feel very heavy. He is 16, a little shy but strong, he doesn’t use a wheelchair like many of the others but prefers crutches–he has lived for 4 years in San Juan de Dios, one of his legs is about a foot shorter than the other and basically useless (I think he has a Cuban sort of splint in it right now to make it grow)–and to top it off, he is currently only at a 5th grade level, or worse, because he cannot multiply. It really seems like nothing he has been given in life has gone right, or will go right. Even if he miraculously got two working legs, what chances does he have in a country like Peru with barely an elementary level education? Will he be like that ex-student who visited the other day who is now living on the streets, most likely stealing to get by? Seeing all this in such a tangible way really makes me feel kind of bratty for being born with a working body, for having parents that care for me, for my education, for having the luxury to aspire and daring to dream.

Heavy. Yesterday I was naive enough to forget that every adorable smiling little face has a very sad story behind it, and most likely is facing an even sadder story in its future.

Getting Places

beach

Of course, my experience in Peru would not be complete without diarrhea. But no more needs to be said of this.

Today was my first day of work, a short day in hours, but not lacking in memorable events. This morning, I headed out with my mamá peruana Alicia to the street to get a micro, which is a type of public transportation–medium sized buses brightly decorated with stripes of color and names of major streets or districts they go. Of course, like maps of Lima, the route of a micro cannot be found anywhere but inside a limeño’s head. This can be a little frustrating for the extranjero, but it seems to be an integral part of Limeñan culture; things are disorganized, a little hectic, and very cozy–but people are helpful and kind. Anyways, I was glad to have Alicia with me, even though I felt like I could get a micro myself. The day before, her 28 year-old son Ricardo had told me that there was a purple micro that went directly to the Hospital de Niños, where I was going to work, and I had this brilliant idea that I would just hop out on the street, flag down the purple one, ask them if they went to Hospital de Niños, and hop on. It was going to be a piece of cake and I was going to be super-independent and able. Anyways, Alicia and I waited for about 10 minutes at the stop and no purple bus passed, luckily her neighbor came out and we asked her if she knew the route, and the neighbor said that she had never seen a purple bus pass by here, that it didn’t go by this street but another one, that the only one that passed by here was a “chiquitito,” a combi–large van like transport–with blue stripes. Right then, a blue striped combi drove by, and we waved our arms, but it didn’t stop, because it was filled to the brim. We went to another street to catch the purple bus, and finally, after being told that it was red and white, then green, then purple again, then hopping onto and off a red and brown one that only went near the hospital but not directly to it, I got on the purple bus, standing and packed literally like sardines.