My First Look

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Awakened earlier than I preferred by the toilet paper vendor's bullhorn, I prepared myself for my first real look at my new world. I wasn't sure what to expect, but my mind kept telling me that it couldn't be that different. But it was wrong, very, very wrong.

Showering wasn't on the list of first things after you wake up; neither was shaving or doing anything with my hair except what I could do with my fingers minus a mirror. Yesterday's clothes were today's clothes. No need to think about what you would wear. It was one of the quickest get up, get dressed and ready to go days I could remember.

A block away, Isaac's sister was making breakfast in her apartment. After passing through five dead-bolted doors (due to the sketchy neighborhood) and a series of dark, concrete steps that would never pass code in my world, I arrived at a larger apartment. Soon after, I learned that there were usually five or six who slept there which explained the larger apartment.

Here I found a kitchen of sorts, if you call a five foot by six foot area a kitchen, a bedroom, and a living room that doubled as a dining room. The surroundings were very simple and gave evidence of the meager lifestyle in their world.

My real first look came as we made our way to the top of the roof for a look at the city. Ducking and maneuvering around the clothes hanging on a makeshift clothes line which had been washed by hand in the pan of dirty water setting in the corner, I got my first look.

I didn't know whether to cry, look at my feet, or close my eyes. It was heart-wrenching to see what I saw. My heart instantly ached and I didn't know what to do about it. Being on the roof of a second-story building, I could see the roofs of 40-50 other buildings.

Shingled roofs did not exist. Steel roofs as we know them in the States also were non-existent. What I saw instead were roofs made of every sort of material - cheap, junky tin, concrete, brick of sorts, wood, and some other unidentifiable materials. If it had rained even a half inch, everyone's home would have had water in it because not a single roof in sight would keep rain out.

Another glance drew my eyes to the power pole. I knew what power poles shouldn't look like and the sight was everything I knew it shouldn't be from a safety standpoint.

Wires running every direction, wires arriving at houses in ways I had never seen, wires I could have easily touched as I stood on the flat roof, and wires that made me wonder how power ever arrived at any of the houses. It was an electrician's nightmare in every way, a nightmare that one could only have fixed by starting at the beginning, by starting over.

By now, I was able to look out as far as the eye could see. My mind told me, "Look further and you will see some of your world, homes that resemble what you are accustomed to seeing." Yet as far as I could see, there were no such homes. Duplicates of the one I had slept in and the one I was standing on surrounded me on every side.

As I looked around, the clothes hanging on the makeshift clothesline began to attract my attention. The washing machine wasn't broke down because they had no washing machine and neither did anyone else in the neighborhood. Their dryer hadn't suddenly quit the day before. This was their dryer.

The plastic tub in the corner really was where they washed their clothes every wash day and the makeshift clothesline on the dusty roof was the best it ever got. Because the air was so damp in the morning and late at night and because of the dust all around, I don't know if the clothes ever got dry or stayed clean. All I knew was that it wasn't anything like home. Everything, including something as simple as doing laundry, was different.

My mind kept saying, "It can't be this way. People can't live like this. Things can't be this different. This must be a rare neighborhood. Most neighborhoods surely are better than this!"

That's what my mind wanted to hear, yet everywhere I looked, nothing changed. My first look and the second and third all looked the same. I wasn't in another town that resembled my town. Everything had changed. Everything was different. Suddenly, I felt different.

My first look was difficult to stomach, but even more difficult was what I felt in my heart. I wanted my heart to stay in my comfortable world. I wanted to pretend things here were like back home. I desperately wanted the unsettled feeling to go away. I wanted my newly discovered world to be less different so that my mind could promptly create a comfort zone, but it didn't happen.

I attempted to associate what I saw with my "newbie" flights and the thunderhead incident. Yet, that didn't make the feeling go away. No matter what I tried, my heart ached. It felt a way I didn't want it to feel. It hurt. It ached. It said, "You've got to do something. You have arrived. You must do something beyond observe and close your mind."

I thought to myself, "What would it feel like tomorrow? What about Wednesday afternoon or eight days from now? Would it stop hurting? Would it find a way to numb itself? What was it going to do? What was I going to do with it?"

I sat down to breakfast in the living room/dining room/bedroom for Joseph last night for my first Peruvian meal. It wasn't oatmeal for breakfast, but I must say that the food was great even to my sensitive stomach which was still trying its best to adjust from being airborne or maybe it was still adjusting to my first and second look at my new world.

As I finished my first meal in Peru, our group made plans for getting to La Libertad. Actually, they made the plans in Spanish and I asked my son what was happening next. Quickly, I learned that was how I would survive. I would listen to the Spanish, but could only pick up a few words. So, when they would finish, I would ask my son, "So, what are we doing?" and he would graciously give me the abbreviated English version of my next adventure.

Thus far, I wasn't sure how well I would adjust. Only time would tell. Another first, my first "combi" bus ride was waiting. My first look was over as we made our way back down to the dirty street below. What was to follow would be many more "looks" that I could only hope would help my heart figure out what to feel and what to do beyond my first look from the rooftop.

Written primarily in Peru, Journey relates feelings, experiences, and emotions as they occurred, all of which will likely touch your heart as they did mine.

"Journey" in book form (120 pages + 16 full-color photo pages) is available at no cost to those interested in our efforts at Project Compassion.

To request a free copy, click here. With your email request, include your name and address and a copy will be sent to you.

My simple request is that you share "Journey" with others who may have an interest in our efforts. Thank you.

Randy Jeppesen, Coordinator