The Nazca Lines – A Message From Our Ancestors?

Peru has some of the world’s most fascinating anthropological treasures. Among these are a series of curious hieroglyphs decorating the sands of the Nazca Desert, only 400 km away from Lima. These stone drawings are called the Nazca Lines and they cover more than 80 km of relatively uninhabitable land and the origins are traced back to somewhere between 400 and 650 AD. The many figures dressing the landscape are hummingbirds, spiders, monkeys, fish, sharks, orcas, llamas, lizards and gods, each visible from space – and not so much from the ground level. There are several theories behind the purpose of these images, some more complex than others, such as homage to gods, navigation points for the locals and even a landmark for ancient aliens. Many of you must be thinking, “This must be a breathtaking sight!” I would ask the same question as well since our attempt to get there fell somewhat short. Nevertheless, it is a funny story and will serve to answer a reader’s request via e-mail regarding this Peruvian gift to the world.

The monkey, one of the more famous lines in the sand

This was our first trip out of Lima on a long week in 1996 – Brian was still with us at that point – and we were always keen to discover our host country’s most famous tourist attractions. People come from far and wide to see this place and there are many documentaries where you will see the lines, perhaps better than from the observation tower onsite. We brought our beloved Plymouth Voyager to Lima, Peru from Canada, so we were happy to make this trip in our familiar and spacious van filled with adequate provisions for desert exploration including a very large vat of water – much needed if you read on. We had enjoyed very much the neighbouring Chilean Atacama desert, so we felt prepared to tackle this one. We managed to make it to the town of Ica – more or less of a midpoint on the map - where we had reservations at a beautiful hotel in the middle of the desert, called Las Dunas, on a full tank of leaded gas. This gasoline is extremely poisonous for vehicles from North America that require unleaded gas. Yes, that meant our van was not immune to this kryptonite. I am not certain that our fearless leader, Dad, had any idea what he was intentionally doing to his car – in all fairness, it never occurred to the rest of us, as he was the only driver at the time. Obviously, the car would run more or less alright on flat surfaces, but every so often, the engine would overheat, expelling clouds of steam from under thr hood – and some unfriendly words from the old man directed at the car. In the beginning, we were all puzzled by this, but every time the engine would be slightly overworked – especially climbing a hillside stretch of road - we were forced to come to a halt because the engine indicator seemed to be off the gauge. Poor Plymouth. The large vat of water came in handy after all as we had to fill up the radiator every time.

We eventually made it to Ica after several hours of fumes - both from my Dad and the car – and the ensuing stops. The hotel was a fantastic place for a family vacation. There were tennis courts, a basketball net, a large swimming pool and a cross between a regular and the biggest sand dune I had ever seen. The curious thing was you could sandsurf down the dune but you had to be willing to smash face first into thorny bushes at the end of the run. There was also a mini-golf course where you could pick your own clubs. We took a dabble at golf, choosing a driver, several irons and a putter, without knowing the real difference. Maman was the more seasoned golfer who had recommended the irons and the lack of a need for a driver as the distances from the tee off to the green were not much. Since no one else was using the course, we decided to try combinations of tee offs and greens to have a longer field of play and a better challenge. I started the swinging lineup with the driver. For the more seasoned readers, you will know that my mother was right and for the rest of you, always listen to your mother. The irons cover shorter distances and the driver is meant to be used for really long shots. I hit the ball, making a wonderful clicking sound from a calculated swing and we all watched the ball travel like a bat out of hell as it curved over the hotel building and out of sight. We were shocked by my fantastic long shot, but once we came back to reality, we were concerned that the ball could have hit someone. Brian and I ran off to conduct some discrete reconnaissance to make sure everyone was fine yet demonstrating a very nonchalant attitude until my brother saw the ball was in the pool. Hole in one! He asked a kid that was swimming to collect it noticing we dodged a real bullet – someone else dodged a real golf ball.

The following day, we set off on another 200 km day trip down the Panamerican Highway – at this point, traffic is redistributed through one lane each way – passing by little towns named after saints and sacraments. These places looked pretty basic however, chapeau to the citizens as the land does not seem to bare much in the shape of agricultural products to outlive the dry desert. It seemed rather odd as well at the time that most of the sand dunes were covered in various layers of trash, including the unmistakable E. Wong plastic grocery bags. The other peculiar aspect was that there was quite a traffic flow on these desert roads. Every few minutes or so, there was a small combi (those elegant looking second hand Toyota vans with Japanese markings on them) passing by packed with locals. Our poisoned Plymouth breaking down every fifteen minutes did not seem to disturb the traffic parade. On the contrary, we were probably a source of great entertainment for the passers-by. Nothing more fun for some than watching a bunch of gringos in a bad situation. You have no idea how much they enjoyed the Mr. Bean series, probably because it was a foreigner going through terrible situations, but we all have our own guilty pleasures when it comes to this man. Everyone in Canada seems to have seen the famous Christmas episode where he gets his head stuck in a turkey, whether they care to admit this or not. It was also tough out in a desert plain to find an appropriate place to relieve yourself from excess liquids as it was impossible to do this without any audience and we couldn’t really get to the nearest bathroom quickly because of the car breaking down. Eventually, this routine got the best of our father and we were no longer willing to risk ourselves as a group to get to the Nazca Lines, unfortunately never having the chance to ever see these in the future.

Huacachina, the oasis town

Instead, we spent the remainder of our trip, listening to Los Fabulosos Cadillacs and driving around the vicinity of Ica. We came across a wonderful oasis named Huacachina. There was a really small town, maybe something over a handful of rustic old buildings and a nearby vineyard at Ocucaje, which my father declared produced among the world’s worst wine, next to a small lagoon. The only way in is following a system of dusty roads and trails off the beaten track, so be wary. We ate lunch there in one of the few buildings, on a wooden deck/covered terrace, ordering the special overlooking the lagoon of stagnant water surrounded by large sand dunes. It looks like any major windstorm could push the dunes into the water, eliminating the areas easy access. Our meal was decent – some of the best places to eat in Peru are the more humble ones - which included an Inka Cola jell-o for dessert. Our waiter was so pleased to announce this and serve his establishment’s unique culinary creation but were were somewhat disappointed. It was like chewing cream soda. It was a shame we did not make it to the lines but we discovered that jell-o could be made using Inka Cola - never had it again though. Make sure to try it at your own risk.

Family Ties – The Cousins

We all have a built in homing device, developed through the sophisticated technology of blood relations, which naturally demands we physically make that pilgrimage to our personal Mecca. For those who have lived abroad or away from their hometown, they can relate. There is no place like home. Most third culture or trans-cultural kids possess, at any point of their lives, a sense of jealousy towards those who have enjoyed a more sedentary life. This is because the latter are truly at an advantage having daily interaction between family members and create a strong bond across several age groups. Those who were brought up as nomads, the famous “citizens of the world”, are clearly at a disadvantage yet still seek that unique refuge where family makes everything better. This craving for unconditional love and understanding resembles that of a child seeking their parents’ approval after a major personal accomplishment. In the shoes of that exciting nomad adventurer, family becomes a metaphor for peace to soothe a war weary mind in the theatre of instability.

My adorable aunt, uncle and cousins

            With the departure of my big brother from the household, I needed to make sense of things, and the implanted homing device was armed and ready but waiting for the rest of my person. In a way, what I witnessed was the upside to being a target for terrorism in Lima. As previously mentioned in my earlier blog entry, traveling meant I had to renounce the privilege to enjoy my friends during my downtime. It was like winning a major local sports championship as part of a neighbourhood team: outside of my city, no one knew the tournament existed so nobody was able to relate. Like winning the NBA Finals with no party for the victors. The first time I noticed a reward in disguise was in fact when we were evacuated from our Andean posting during the longest holidays: January and February, 1998 – remember that these are summer months down South, therefore Canada, my adored homeland, was buried deep down under a thick cover of snow and blanketed by subzero temperatures. Who would consciously break from the gentle embrace of a tropical sun, sandy beaches and outdoor activities to knowing lock up their families indoors to shelter them from an avoidable old man winter? This meant, two months with Mémé, my maternal grandmother and my mother’s family who I had the pleasure of seeing about a week a year previously since I was a little guy.

            At first, Maman was the major beneficiary of this exodus. She was still struggling to part ways with the spectre of cancer looming over her regular routine, so she needed some quality time with her mother. My mother and her family – a rather large family up to par with the size of the cast in My Big Fat GreekWedding – had always been very close. They stuck together through thick and thin through generations, strong enough to outlast world wars, conflicts, forced exile and other difficult developments throughout the years. I believe they could have pioneered the trans-cultural movement, having family hailing from places like Belgium, France and Spain and adapting to new foreign cultures. Should I get into further detail here, I would be obliged to write several years worth of blogs just to give some justice to this story including ties to Maximilian Hapsburg, Austrian monarch and Emperor of Mexico, GeneralBazaine, Marshal of France and President Porfirio Diaz of Mexico. Suffice it to say, Maman had a well-established psychological, emotional and genealogical Holy See and relocating seem to be engrained in her genetic code - along with the necessary tools to set up a base camp relatively anywhere on the map. I was in the process of discovering mine.

            While staying with my grandmother for these months, I really began to be acquainted with my first cousins, Annie, Fernando and Javier. It was somewhat complicated to spend the maximum amount of my allotted time with them, as their own scholastic responsibilities and duties to long-time friendships were primary – similar priorities I would have had staying behind back in Lima. However, they did make an effort to include me in some outings, such as to catch of the latest Hollywood blockbusters or grab a cup of java and a chat. I treasured these moments as I began to know my cousins for who they had become since our old days tearing up my grandmother’s backyard with our shenanigans. We used to get paired off in those days by age groups yet none of these seemed to work out in my favour – I was too old to play with my cousin Javier and too young for Fernando – but these times were now behind us. Now, the discourse had evolved from age differences into a nearly grown up dialogue, exchanging musical recommendations and a genuine interest for each other’s lives. It was difficult to relate in some instances to details but we did our best to understand.

Catching some waves with my favourite grandmother

            Perhaps among the more interesting elements of my dear family was that, although we had grown up worlds apart, we were like brothers and sisters. We were all brought up with similar values and appreciated the special meaning of getting together as a family. My favourite moments were having everyone together around my grandmother’s dining room table to enjoy meals together, hearing everyone laughing and chatting over a wonderful home-cooked family specialty. These experiences truly began to give shape to the definition of extended family – especially as now I was going to have more than just a week a year with them - and I realized how lucky I was to have my Godparents – my Uncle Fernando and my Aunt Annie. They truly made me feel at home – regardless of some to swallow ruses at my expense because of my rocking good looks – and as we left, reassured I would always have a place in their home should the case ever apply. I knew now, I would be looking forward to reallocate my time resources in the future with the five of them and my dear Mémé. Truly a reward in disguise.

When 2 Years Became 4

Initially, Lima was going to be a 2-year posting for my father. The Department of Foreign Affairs (our foreign ministry) determined levels of hardship, taking living conditions - threats of violence, availability of basic medical services, clean drinking water, or pretty much anything necessary to lead a normal life – into account to negotiate the length of a posting. Due to the aftermath of the MRTA crisis and Canada’s important role in Lima our stay was to be extended one more year. Surely, my mother’s cancer treatments were an additional factor in leading to this extension. It would have been brutal on my mother to undergo another international move, as she was not even recouping yet. She had already been discharged from hospital but she diligently pursued her radiation therapy to remove any additional cells that may not have been surgically eliminated during her stay at the Clinica Montesur. We all had to adapt to a new life, including Brian about 6,000 km away. 

No monkey business with David Bickford

            Grade 11 brought major changes to my life. Academically, I had entered the elite in my age group, undertaking International Baccalaureate coursework, a necessary step in assuring I would have a great shot at the university of my choice back home – not to mention a potential scholarship of any kind. The curriculum, as most of my peers will agree, was significantly more demanding than the regular American or Peruvian counterparts offered by our school. My favourite courses were IB - History of the Americas, a continent I have been passionate about from Tuktuyaktuk to Tierra del Fuego and ITGS – Information Technology in a Global Society, my introduction to the complex world of computers. The French Lycée system focussed on training the brain by using it, such as forbidding the use of calculators or computers, and making us memorize everything. Their motto is that if you don’t exercise this muscle, you lose it. Nevertheless, I enjoyed being able to create things on computers, eventually building a website for the High School Softball Team and my own websites that paid homage to my favourite bands. My learning curve even surprised me.

            This time had also been a great source of Canadian pride for myself as our Embassy had welcomed our elite security professionals from CSIS and the RCMP. They had come down South to make an educated assessment as to the safety of our SQs (the homes of DFAIT employees and their families abroad), beef up security in our Embassy in Miraflores and the Ambassador’s residence, and train local police that would act as an armed escort to our official vehicles everywhere we went. I knew that if they were involved, we were in good hands. After all, the RCMP attaché at the Embassy was first class, providing not only an excellent example of service as a decorated police officer, but as an outstanding member and contributor to our Canadian expat community. It seemed everyone that met him, liked him, including his counterparts throughout different neighbouring countries and law enforcement services.

            A major change to my regular routine however, was the addition of a few bodyguards. My father had to have one at all times, a friendly Peruvian police officer going by the name of Roberto Mendoza. He was always on top of his game and never acted unprofessionally on any occasion. I did joke around with him from time to time as a young teen and was quick to develop a good rapport with him. I was convinced should he be called upon to protect my father, he would not hesitate to react. My father, on a trip to Canada, brought him back an RCMP sweatshirt, which he treasured. I gifted my GI Joe collection to his son. The other bodyguard rode our school bus every single day. Not too many Canadian kids I know could say that. I don’t think any of us, as passengers, felt uncomfortable with this, as we knew it was for our own good. His name was Luis, a wiry fellow with a great sense of humour. I tended to talk about soccer, primarily the Peruvian national soccer team and their quest to qualify for the World Cup. He did not employ his revolver as a display item to show off to the kids or a vehicle of intimidation so we would behave in the school bus. On the contrary, he was a completely, no-nonsense, police officer. He carried himself with pride and purpose, even while protecting foreign kids, a job some seasoned professionals would have trouble complying. We had armed guards 24/7 at the house, and we enjoyed playing basketball together. With their heavy boots, nightsticks, radios and flak jackets, they were at a slight disadvantage.

Our dear Jean-Yves, Mr. Ambassador and David Bickford

            Perhaps the toughest lifestyle change to adapt to was travelling. Yes I did say travelling. Most people love the idea of travelling to new places and taking a break from the real world, but how long can you really escape from the realities of home? My parents had no choice on this one. Due to the increased risk for Canadian Embassy staff in Peru – for security reasons, when I went out with my friends after school, I had to be careful not to wear anything that identified me as a Canadian. That was tough - our government required families to evacuate should they be off from routine obligations for an extended period of time. This meant that holidays when I could spend quality time with my friends were now gone. Sure it is cool to travel and see the world, but it becomes tough when you know home is not safe and your friends are left behind to cope. Nevertheless, I did manage to make the most of the time I had in Lima afterwards to nurture my friendships on different terms. I had to accept reality and play by the rules to ensure my own safety. 

Remembering The Old 97

No matter what relationship you have with your parents and siblings, these relatives are really the few that can genuinely understand what you are – or will be – going through. A strong nuclear family is of the outmost importance. Outsiders label the expat experience as a sabbatical where you will be rocking out under the hot sun on a sandy beach wearing a funny hat. They don’t usually associate this displacement with becoming a target for terrorists – as was the case in the aftermath of the Japanese residence – or random attacks – when Mario Lambert and I left an amusement park in Peru shortly after a group blew up it up – and having to go on with a regular life. Your parents and siblings know these stories are not exaggerations or some desperate cry for attention. They soldiered on through the same struggles that you had. It is not that the rest of your family or friends do not care to understand, but your mind, identity and even culture has been morphed into something quite different from that of your fellow compatriots in a positive way as you have sacrificed stability and a sense of daily continuity.

Roosevelt Softball Team:
bet you can't spot the heavy metal horns!

In 1997, my nuclear family was rocked by even more than gun blasts and body bags marking the end of a siege. My older brother, Brian, was now headed off to university to pursue higher education in Medicine, bringing an abrupt end to our comfortable routine and camaraderie. He was excited to leave the roost and overjoyed with his upcoming emancipation. I was delighted and celebrated this new step alongside him yet realized it was going to be difficult to live in the same house after his departure. No more Sepultura banging through the massive home-made speakers he built with his friend Paul. The Cowboys From Hell were packing their suitcases to the head bangers ball in London, Ontario. Our lazy day basketball “21”s were to be substituted for a solo shoot around the driveway. The pitching staff in our school’s ball club was going to struggle to replace him and his lefty swing attempting to beat the green monster on right field. Family trips were now going to be booked for 3. Little did I know the days of living under the same roof had come to an end. There was no tomorrow.

To make matters even worse, as a 10 year anniversary present for my mother kicking cancer out of our house, she was once more diagnosed with the same type of cancer shortly before Brian would leave home base. Dad and Maman called us into their room one evening to have a serious chat and my father used that infamous cliché phrase: “It is nothing serious.” In every past instance when I heard that sentence mentioned, it was always a big deal. Mom told me several years later, she had decided to spend quality time with her mother that summer as she thought it could be her last chance. Mom was admitted on August 15^th, 1997 to the Clinica Montesur in Monterrico, Lima for surgery and she was to remain there for a good 5 days or so until she would be discharged. Brian stayed a few nights at her bedside during her stay and my requests to stand guard had been denied due to my school obligations. Everyone suggested – in my best interest of course - that it was best for me to continue my usual routine. I wasn’t a fan of people deciding for me. All I had on my mind was whether or not I was going to have a mother tomorrow or lose her to this cancer that did not want to leave our family alone. She was the glue that kept us all together.

School provided no distraction from the situation whatsoever. My mother had taken on the role of the school’s French teacher many moons ago and now… she was absent. This was highly uncharacteristic of her career in Roosevelt. Of course the staff knew why, but students began to ask questions and, as most kids and teens manage to, they got answers. Soon, my peers and others came up to express their sympathy, support and hoped things would get better soon. I preferred at the time that people pretended everything was normal. All is well. The icing on the cake was someone who came up to me and said: “My brother died of cancer so if you need someone to talk to, I’m here.” Gulp! Not a very smooth reassuring comment but I understood that the intentions were most noble. I felt as if I was treading like the Titanic in the academic seas as I prepared for the most important years of high school - the ones that universities really look at. However, I fought for my place, my grades and my permanence in the International Baccalaureate programme and tried to focus on what I could influence. I had to make it. Come September, Brian was gone. It was not a way of escaping his duties, on the contrary. It must have been difficult for him to leave knowing our mother had to undergo multiple sessions of radiotherapy. They had always been very close.

Maman (in red) and the FDR High School staff

We all have challenges to overcome and we often fail to consider how privileged we are in contrast to others. Many of us tend to dwell on the fact we were dealt the wrong card from the deck of life and resent God, life and others in a better situation than ourselves. I was somewhat guilty in the beginning of this crisis, feeling I did not have the proper support. An outsider could coldly say to you in a similar setting, “Toughen up” or “That’s life” – usually the last thing we want to hear – although this may be the best prescription. Everyone has their own coping mechanisms. Even in this darkest hour when faced with what looked like the end of my world as I knew it, I realized that you – the universal you - can always count on the kindness of others. Strangers can become friends, friends can become brothers and you may find redemption in a friendship you considered lost. It is up to you to deal with this pain and you owe it to yourself to carry on. Tomorrow, people you love may or may not be there, but the show must go on – of course while keeping those who are gone forever in your heat and thoughts. My mother fought and survived cancer once again and I never forget the support from strangers, friends and family that went out to the four of us. All of you are never forgotten in our household for your unconditional gesture of friendship in a time of need. I have always said, you always find out who your friends really are in times of hardship.

Welcome To The Jungle

My high school in Lima provided many positive opportunities for the young to expand their horizons. Among these were class trips. Of course, the parents’ wallets, in addition to the burden of high regular tuition fees, were constrained by the cost of these perks, but they were still a wonderful advantage for their kids. In Grade 10, Mr. Antonio – both a dedicated teacher and an outstanding person hailing from British Columbia – invited our parents to his classroom, where he delivered his annual presentation on the Peruvian rainforest. As head of the Science department, he organized a trip to the Manú National Park (a biosphere reserve located in Madre de Diós, Peru) with the assistance of a volunteer from the school’s staff and some outsourced wildlife professionals to serve as guides. It all sounded really promising.

A ride on the river Manú

My buddies, our parents and I sat attentively to take in the presentation.  Mr. Antonio easily sold the experience to most foreigners, saying it was a life-altering experience for their children. It was not to be an ordinary camping trip, no sir. Mother nature was the boss of this land, and her creatures enforced her doctrine. This place actually managed to survive all these years because of it virtually inaccessible landscape to this day. It is the largest National Park of its kind in Peru, covering an area of 15,000 km². It has one of the highest levels of biodiversity of any park in the world, with an incredible number of unique plant species and an exciting number of animals. Many of these were poisonous, including some unusually large ants. Perhaps even if a puma licked you, you would have to be sent to the hospital. There were no settlements for at least 60 kms near the actual campground and the only way to get there was by boat along a river – I think the river bared the same name as the ecological preserve. 

            I was initially on the fence, as I had visited this type of habitat back in Cumaná, Venezuela in the late 80s, therefore I figured there was nothing new to see there. I was a teenager, so it was tough to impress me - like most of my peers. Afterwards, to my dismay, neither my buddies nor their parents were convinced to invest in this expedition to the rainforest. At this point, the balance was leaning increasingly toward the negative, as I was not interested to be paired up with classmates I barely knew for a good seven days or so. Remember, I was a shy kid so this was a nightmare having to talk to people outside of my regular gang. On the other hand, my parents appeared to be committed to the idea forwarded by Mr. Antonio, that this experience would change my life forever. Furthermore, I think they would have loved to make that trip with their two boys but it was not a possibility. Unfortunately for them, it really was an excursion requiring a large group of travellers, willing to spend a week in very basic living conditions. That’s what “living off the grid” really means. As you look up to the heavens, it seems you can see every star in the galaxy thanks to the lack of pollution and blinding city light and the stars return the favour by illuminating the surroundings.

             My fears became a reality once my ticket was purchased, confirming I would be travelling with people I did not know. The person I knew best was Jean-Louis Antonio, but obviously he was not my peer. A select few 10^th graders left Lima by airplane arriving in Cuzco to start their excellent adventure by bus. This old Japanese steel demon drove us atop the lofty Andes Mountains through tiny isolated villages where the inhabitants reacted fearfully to the arrival of foreigners. This was really curious. Afterwards, we descended into the scorching, humid, jungle-like conditions and its uncharted territory. From the last village known to man, we then boarded a boat and rode it for about an hour to reach camp, surrounded by howler monkeys – the best kind of monkey in my books – and other wonderful beasts such as alligators, birds, insects and pumas. Especially snakes, nature’s most precious gift to humanity. We spent about 7 days in camp, with mosquito nets over our beds - the netting was always covered inside and out with huge bugs. Showers were less than basic and the river was not an alternative for hygiene as it was full of leaches.

The howler monkeys, nature's most famous tenors

The lesson learned here on this occasion is: sometimes, you think you are going to have a dreadful time but can circumstances reward your effort. I made my first Peruvian friend, Sebastián Majluf who enjoyed similar music who lent me a great Pearl Jam tape for my Walkman (love the high-tech) and I began to lose my shyness. I was obligated to mingle with others to keep my sanity. Perhaps this was due to the shared hardship regarding our temporary conditions – we all missed our usual day-to-day luxuries - but we began bonding with the last people we expected. I also became friends with girls my own age, which before, I was too timid for some unknown reason. This changed thanks to a joint American-Canadian group which transformed this interaction into something much more natural. God only knows why there is that certain awkwardness between boys and girls but I am sure it transcends cultures. They are all still dear friends to this date. It was definitely an unforgettable trip and it did change my life forever!

This Revolution Was Not Televised

My second scholastic year brought about my political awakening, particularly regarding social development and human rights in Latin America. In my Peru/Latin American History class, the final project was to organize a group of peers and choose a subject to present to the rest of the school population in our gym. Since the course was mandatory for all Grade 10 students enrolled in the American High School Diploma, all my friends shared the same task - we were able to work together even though we did not share the same class period. What a great deal! The group consisted of the usual suspects: Glen Swanson, Alejandro Alves, Sebastian “Crack” Olivares, William Erickson and I. Terrorism was a topic we had been schooled on extensively by the events of the Japanese Embassy, the local media and CNN En Español – this used to be an excellent Latin American news channel before it became a watered down version of the US parent network – so we decided to delve in to “Terrorism in Latin America.”

Probable outfit for presentation, minus the slippers

I don’t think any group of students worked so tirelessly and passionately on a subject as we had in the history of Roosevelt’s Peru/Lat fair. We dissected Colombia, Nicaragua, Mexico and Peru – arguably some of the more experienced countries in terms of the nature of this conflict. We broke each country down into specific regions of activity attempting to understand their theatres of operation and social conditions. Glen even made a GI Joe reproduction of guerrillas and security forces in a tropical war zone. I wanted to know the original platform of these movements and compare them to current activities to ascertain any possible legitimacy. I remember burning stocks of midnight oil, researching guerrilla movements, urban terrorism and some of the big leftist leaders they swore allegiance to. I wanted to make sure my knowledge was extensive to be able to answer any possible questions that could come my way. I began to differentiate Marxists, Marxists-Leninists, Maoists, the whole nine yards. Being a good American High School student, I became a great admirer of Ernesto Guevara – better known in some circles as El Che – particularly for his passion in struggling for better conditions and welfare for all inhabitants in his beloved Latin America – not to mention his pragmatism.

I was not one who would deface an American flag or stand before the UN Security Council to denounce the spectre of Yankee imperialism. What I could tell was the difference between "people" and "politics". The latter had a way of shaping people’s lives and many people continue to overlook this today, dismissing the subject, boasting, “Politics don’t apply to me.” You have pretty much surrendered your most basic democratic right if you truly believe this statement. I didn’t buy into this from the tender age of 11. As the modern day Rome, the USA during the Cold War went to many lengths to defend its interests within their “backyard” - as they so often dubbed Latin America in our classes in Roosevelt. They supported governments (military dictatorships and other illegitimate mandates) that oppressed its citizens to live under conditions never witnessed in most contemporary industrialized nations, only to support a minuscule and all-mighty privileged national elite. Anti-Communist self-branding went a long way on your local public checking wired from the US treasury back then. In many countries, the poor had no chance of social betterment and I had a minimal bird’s eye view of their living conditions. It was heart breaking. It is true in many of these countries that the only substantial political change could have come through revolution, as the interests of the many could never be considered by the reigning few. Someone had to listen and understand that their glasshouse was not indestructible. Their political institutions were not even close to what we enjoy and take for granted in the so-called “developed” world.

The best part of the project was not only the A on the report card. I was proud of everything I learned throughout the project along with all the team effort put into our presentation. Sorry for being so corny but it will always be the truth. Our buddy Crack managed to get us an interview with the head of security in the company his father, Uncle Vince, worked for in Lima. This man had been a Peruvian military paratrooper who fought in the front lines against the Shining Path. Perhaps he could have been suffering from post-traumatic depression or anxiety, but it did not cloud his very valuable insight. He told us that most of these groups’ intentions from the get-go are noble yet they prey on the uneducated that are easy to mold into a “freedom fighter” as recruits. The example he suggested was: “If you are poor, your family is starving and some people come to you asking you if you want to be a hero for your country, feed your family by taking a machine-gun, who wouldn’t become a guerrilla?” He mentioned that fighting in these types of conflicts makes you become quite jaded and most people end up forgetting the purpose of their struggle, swearing by empty slogans and pointless violence.

Left to right: Alejandro, Me and Crack

After the many years of living in a continent I adored as my own, I felt a sense of respect for the people and a duty towards them. I had witnessed so much about this region which people back home would not even hear about on the evening news – very rarely is there anything newsworthy in the eyes of the Canadian media happening in Latin America. Not many people I knew back home could grasp what it was like to have people close to them kidnapped and held as hostages, had to have their cars routinely checked for explosives, keep armed security to protect their homes and their precious lives. I hoped that after completing my school sentence and returning to Canada, I would be able to get an excellent blend of life experience and high quality education in Political Science to one day help in strengthening institutions and human development. Latin America had so much to offer to the world and change could not be possible always through armed revolution or terrorism, but there needed to be a revolution of the global consciousness. People deserved to have a shot at making something of themselves in their own country and all rights had to be universal not to serve a few.

Teenage Growing Pains

As we grow older, we tend to evolve in our reasoning, uncovering the world through a series of questions and answers. Children usually ask their elders, as they do not have a previous record – or as they say in the professional world, they lack experience. When they undergo their transformation to adulthood, in that awkward stage known as adolescence, teens are still looking for answers, but this time they are trying to make sense of the world that surrounds them without asking questions. Among the more common behaviour is to develop an anger of some kind, perhaps as the days where mommy and daddy took charge when things get tough are numbered. Who wouldn't be when it appeared imminent that your cartoons will be changed for desk work? The GI Joe collection gets smaller and smaller while you focus on getting the grade and engaging in after-school activities that will make you attractive to a post-secondary institution.

Do you have what it takes for university?

I had a world of questions myself by the time we were living in Lima. Brian and I had accepted the fact we were nomads but clinked on that imaginary and artificial Canadian identity. Our love and loyalty to our country carried us through the tough moments, knowing we would soon return and things would be better. Our trips to Ontario were our chance to reconnect with what was familiar. Of course, not living in a country does not give you a proper perspective on day-to-day reality and this leads you into a whole new world of trouble: assumptions. This is one of the more prejudicial conditions in the human mind as we associate the unknown with the closest tangible concepts we can conceive in our mind. Generally, assumptions occur when there is no person to ask who has previous knowledge on the subject we desperately seek or simply because we are not listening. Many problems come about due to assumptions. When in doubt, ask. A university professor once told my class, there is no such thing as a dumb question and I think he was on to something.

The Japanese Embassy hostage crisis converged with our school vacations and activities, so I faced something of a depression. Most of my friends in school were from abroad and many of them returned to their home countries, leaving me to face significant boredom for a foreseen two months. My father was forced to stay as support to the ambassador, hoping all Canadians and other dignitaries came out alive and Maman was holding down the fort, giving all her support to our leader. Shortly after, in an act of divine intervention, they decided to send us off for a few weeks to Toronto with Uncle John and Kingston with Grandad. This was truly heaven sent. This was also the first time my brother and I traveled alone internationally and had a chance to understand the responsibilities both as travelers and representatives of our country. Although Brian was the older one of the two – and still is, never seemed to close the gap on the age thing – every person of authority questioned me, thinking I was the senior of the two as I was taller and therefore, looked older than him. At first, I felt somewhat uncomfortable, expecting I just had to sit back and let him deal with everything, but after being put on the spot so many times, I began to make sense of the whole bureaucracy of international travel.

The highlight of this trip was definitely Toronto, our point of arrival and departure. Although at first uncomfortable in greater part to our Canada Customs and Border Services agents who are trained to treat even an infant baby as a suspect for terrorist attacks on the mighty frozen tundra, the balance was positive. I remember the agent all high and mighty, telling a 14 year old and a 17 year old that they did not have any diplomatic rights in Canada and gave us a great welcome by searching through all our luggage as if we were bootleggers in times of prohibition. Uncle John was at the civilian end ready to take us to his home. It was always such a great feeling to see him, our Canadian father. As we sat in his car, he asked us if we liked basketball and had two tickets for us to see the Toronto Raptors take on the Cleveland Cavaliers. The Toronto franchise was surviving its inaugural season quite well, thanks to Damon Stoudamire (often referred to as Mighty Mouse due to his amazing skill while being one of the shorter players in the NBA standing at 5’10”). Then, he provided Brian and I with the best tips for public transit usage and must-see landmarks during the weekday while he and Aunt Amy were at work. It was great for our independence and for discovering the beauty of Canada’s largest city.

Stoudamire taking on the New York Knicks

Most parents have their work cut out raising children particularly when they are in those defiant teenage years. I salute you mothers and fathers out there as I am sure it is not an easy job. At this point, the offspring are still pushing limits, trying to get away with all sorts of naughty behaviour, fooling around with alcohol, chasing boys and girls, all while claiming they are adults. In some cultures, these times are more difficult as “grown-up” responsibilities transition at a slower pace into the lives of the rebellious. In the case of transcultural kids, although some may be more rebellious than others, they are generally mellower. Sure there are some exceptions as in every rule, especially as influences and peer pressure are major factors at play, but the balance is in their favour. Although they are still exploring and understanding the same issues as their age group, they have been forced to constantly adapt to new environments and circumstances. They have been challenged on a regular basis, having to change their friends, homes, countries, customs, and religions. Their nuclear family means everything. Their issues are somewhat deeper and it is easier to relate to mature adults, explaining their ease in interaction with people from an older age group.

Photos courtesy of EducaEdu and Kicks On Cards