My world in Peru is constantly changing, but retains enough similarities as to remind me of where I am, who I know, and what I remember. Of the many I have come to know, Adan Peña stands in my mind at the forefront of peruvian mannerism, peculiarity, and sheer....... well, let me describe him.
The first time I heard of the man, and the events surrounding his arrival, was shortly after church on one sabbath afternoon. As a firmly entrenched Peruvian SDA tradition, I weekly participate in the exchange of greetings after church, progressing slowly down the line, kissing the cheek of an old peruvian lady, wringing the hand of some young buck, and exchanging a merry "Feliz Sabado" with a bashful peruvian niña. After the proceedings, I forsaw the imminent arrival of a wonderful Peruvian interim-grandmother (hermana olivia), and braced myself accordingly. After unfolding myself from the depths of her hug, we began to converse. My spanish is still at the level where conversation follows approximently the following course. In spanish, Hermana Olivia told me of the soon arrival of an old friend of hers from the states, who planned to direct a choir, the constituents of which were to be our church. In beautifully flowing Spanish, this took about 5 minutes, after which I responded with "Ahhhh, Si?" (vigorous head-knodding). "You will participate, I hope?" she said. "Claro que si!" I responded, not knowing quite how the lady always managed to extract such things from me.
Resultingly, the next sabbath afternoon, I was ensconsed in the pews of our little church, participating in it's first choir rehearsel, compulsively making observations. Adan Peña, the director, originally hailed from the land of Peru, but about 20 years in the past, had moved to Berrien Springs, Michigan. Apparently, he had neither the inclination nor the need to learn English in his soujourns, but had rather aquired a interesting breed of communication, which he chose to practice on us, the gringos. "You speke spanish?" he queried in a dusty voice. (I use the word dusty, because if a book could speak, a dusty books' human counterpart would almost certainly be Mr. Peña). The import of his question was immediately lost on me, as he launched off into a gerbil of mixed spanglish; just when I was beginning to understand, he would throw a new spanish word at me, which would take me over 10 seconds to realize it wasn't spanish after all, but actually english. He persisted, however, painstakingly attempting to feret out our information, which could have been done more easily if he had stuck with either language. Eventually satisfied, we continued on with our rehearsel, which consisted of Adan thunking out each part on the piano, while that part attempted replicate the strange noises and rhythyms being created by the duo.
When distracted, I turned my observatory powers on our director. An adolfian mustache worked up and down in truly virtuostic style. Whenever startled by a particularly bad rendition of the desired part, he would run a thin hand over his hair, which seemed to be even thinner. His voice worked in concert with his adams apple, which seemed to be one of the more expressive peices of his facial machinery. These qualities when described in unison don't give the desired picture though, the man I am trying to describe has a whimsical charm about him. His brilliant smile, an even more brilliant tie-pin, and the constantly waving index finger give the man an aura of mystique, which, like a dusty attic, has surprises waiting in every trunk, box, and duffle bag.
People are delightful to observe. Eccentricities, normalities, immaturities, and recall of memories, all cooperate in providing each and every person with essentially delightful mannerisms. I hope to never stop observing the things that fascinate me most: others, myself, creation, and the creator himself.
