Last night, with much anticipation, we greeted 23 surprisingly energetic young people at the Jorge Chávez Lima-Callao International Airport. Their plane from Houston landed before midnight, but by the time they were through customs, it was close to 1 a.m.

After sharing a few favorite Peruvian snacks (Sublime chocolate and Inca Kola), we dropped them off at a hostel not far from the Goshen apartment in Miraflores, Home Peru. With any luck, they'll get a decent night's sleep before Thursday's full schedule of orientation.

We are still putting faces and names together for many and are looking forward to getting better acquainted in the coming weeks! Following orientation, at around 5 p.m., students will meet their host families and have a chance to begin adjusting to their new surroundings as well as summer temperatures and Castellano...

Starting later in the morning than planned, we worked hard to keep the day moving and lively - especially with 23 people piled into our living room on one of our hottest summer days so far!

We started out with a time of worship, with Jake testing out our new unit guitar, and Scott L volunteering to serve as song leader. Even with fans and traffic noise, our singing sounded excellent!

Oswaldo, Celia's husband and one of our Spanish teachers, spoke to us about Peru and Culture Shock. He also offered us many practical words of wisdom for adapting to daily life here and getting along with our host families.

For lunch, we divided into 4 groups that each went to a different menucito restaurant. There we were able to use our castellano, visit, and enjoy our first taste of Peruvian food, with 2 courses for around $3.00.

Some new tastes today: Papa a la Huancaí­na, Sopa a la minuta, Palta rellena, Lomo saltado, Saltado de pollo, emolientes...

Those who were interested also had a chance to make purchases in a local grocery and change some dollars into nuevo soles.

During the afternoon, we flew through the entire syllabus and orientation handbook, and spent the last half hour practicing ways we might greet our families.

Arriving back at Home Peru, several families were already eagerly waiting for us...

Since it is Summer Vacation here, some families have just returned from travels. Tyler's host parents are still in Florida visiting a grandchild, so his family member-housekeeper, Julia, and his Tio Pedro came to greet him.

Here are our first family photos as everyone headed to their host homes for cena and settling in:

We’re starting in the heart of Lima, the Plaza de Armas, which is the city’s central square, also known as the Plaza Mayor. The pattern evident here is repeated in cities throughout the country, with spiritual and political powers sharing prime real estate along the commons. To your right you can see the Cathedral (you can come back later to tour the inside of the church for 10 soles, or about $3, or even better, attend a free Mass on Sunday morning).

Up ahead is the President’s Palace, built on a site where the Spaniards found an indigenous temple, a construction strategy repeated elsewhere, as if to erase signs of a competing culture. Circling around the plaza, you can see the municipal building for the city government, another stakeholder. The days of bullfights in the plaza are long since gone; now the only animals to be seen are dogs, including one whose owner dresses him with a coat and sunglasses and parades him around to be photographed.

If we hurry, we can get to the cross on the hill before lunch. Just behind the palace, we drive over the Rimac river, which seems more like a creek in a dry desert gully (it almost never rains in Lima). As we begin to climb the road that leads to Cerro San Cristobal, we need to close the bus windows; the people who live in the shantytown here are poor, and a camera or bag might quickly disappear. The streets are so narrow that we have to stop to let an oncoming cab find a place to pull over. Once at the top, we take 20 minutes to walk around, enjoying the best view to be had of the sprawling city of Lima. We can see almost to the ocean, but for a haze in the distance.

We make it back to the Plaza de Armas in time to watch the changing of the presidential guard, a blend of brass and high-stepping that always draws a crowd. From there we walk along a pedestrian street that links to another main square, the Plaza de San Martin, which celebrates José de San Martín, the liberator of Peru and Chile, with a statue.

Lunch is served upstairs at the Hotel Bolivar, which fronts on the plaza (stewed chicken with exotic rice and mashed potatoes, and for dessert cake with lucuma filling). It’s a power lunch, SST style, with all of us around one long table. The glory days of the hotel are now past, but the workers who own the hotel do their best to maintain touches of elegance in a place built to receive presidents and royalty.

Before leaving the downtown, we take a stroll through Chinatown (the largest in Latin America) and walk past the central market where young street musicians are dancing and playing afro-peruvian style music.

We make our way back to Miraflores, traveling through a variety of Lima neighborhoods, with Celia pointing out some of our host homes along the way.

Our bus ride ends at the Pacific Ocean, with the afternoon sun still strong. Picking our way from stone to stone, we walk out to the end of a long breakwater, visiting with fishermen along the way. Overhead, we see the paragliders taking off from the cliffs, in flights that hug the shore. We keep up a good pace as we walk back to Goshen Tambo, ready to meet host families for a first weekend together in Peru.

Huaca Pucllana, a pre-Inca pyramid of adobe bricks, was one of the most important administrative and ceremonial centers of the Lima culture, settled in the areas of the Chancay, Chillón, Rimac, and Lurín valleys from 200 A.D. – 700 A.D. It is impressive in part because the site sits in the middle of the city, with high-rises in every direction. But when you follow dirt paths past the adobe walls on the site, entering inner rooms once filled with offerings to the gods, it’s possible to feel transported.

Whether you would want to be transported depends on what you imagine the Lima people who once lived here to be doing. The ritual banquet would be nice. Our guide, Pedro Vargas, a history teacher and archeologist at the site, told us that the indigenous people who lived here farmed and fished and apparently ate well.

But he also described human sacrifices – comida de los dioses, or food of the gods – that involved a kind of dissection we would not wish on anyone. Girls and women were sacrificed, he said, suggesting a matriarchal society in which the most valued members of the community were presented as gifts.

Perhaps not surprising, since they lived so close to the Pacific, our guide said, the Lima people directed their worship to the sea, and revered the moon and the shark, among others, as is evident in their pottery.

Work continues at the site. We could see several researchers in the distance, restoring a temple wall. We also saw a Peruvian hairless dog and other native animals, including a silent breed of duck, llamas, alpacas, and cuy (guinea pigs).

Between us, we confirmed that what they said was true: at Huaca Pucllana the dogs are friendly and the llamas kiss.

By prior arrangement, we arrived at the door of the Foreign Ministry in Lima, rang the bell, and waited. And waited. When some students went out to buy water, the rest waited.

We had arrived to take a tour of El Palacio Torre Tagle, regarded as one of the most magnificent Colonial homes in Lima. The house, built in 1735 for the family of Don Jose Bernardo de Tagle y Bracho (a name that bespeaks power and urgently calls for a nickname), is now used by the Ministry of Foreign Affairs. We wanted to see the carved wooden balconies, among other things.

But the curator, whom we had been told would serve as our tour guide, was a no-show. After a long while – did we mention that the students remained remarkably pleasant and patient while they waited? – a guard escorted us through bronze-studded doors to the courtyard, where we had a look at a Cinderella-type carriage parked in a side room and the grand staircase leading to the first floor.

In fairness to the Foreign Ministry, we later learned that earlier that day the place had been abuzz with a meeting of ambassadors. The very next day Peru filed suit against Chile in international court, seeking a larger share of fishing waters in the Pacific Ocean. There is no love lost between these two nations.

On our tour of downtown Lima, we met with more success at the Congressional hall. After receiving official visitor badges and walking through a security checkpoint, we had a look around.

Our two guides, Ricardo and Jair, were full of anecdotes and notable facts. Did you know that 30 percent of the congressional representatives in Peru are women, the highest percentage in South America? Or that the European artist who designed the stained-glass coat of arms for the ceiling in the Senate chambers mistakenly put a llama where a vicuna should have been?

And did you know that if you leave the Congressional building and walk a couple of blocks west toward the Plaza de Armas you will come to an ice-cream shop where you can get a pretty good cone of D'Onofrio ice cream?

For those who haven't read the blog from previous groups, following is a reminder of why we call the Goshen apartment, “Goshen Tambo.”

The Quechua word Tambo is from the time of the Incas. A "chasquitambo" in Quechua was a resting station for the Incan runners who ran messages and other items across the empire. The runner, or chasqui, would come to these resting places, or Tambos, every 15 - 20 k. along the Incan highways and byways and switch runners; the fresh one waiting to resume the journey with the message or whatever the previous runner had been carrying.

Wednesday gatherings are like a Tambo in that they provide a resting place and refuge from the intensity of SST. Goshen Tambo includes lunch and worship, which will be planned each week by a different group of students, along with time for group discussion, reflection – and plenty of rest and relaxation!

Lunches are generally prepared by Mervi (CJ's host mother), who helps introduce us to many traditional Peruvian foods.

This week happened to be Scott's birthday, so we had an excuse to celebrate with chocolate cake. Thanks to a gift from thoughtful parents back in Indiana, we also enjoyed a treat of ice cream flown in from the jungle. Feliz cumpleaños!

We boarded a microbus, 12 students and some support staff, carrying cases of water, coloring books, crayons, beads for making jewelry, paper for making origami, a soccer ball, a hacky sack, Ritz crackers.

Reaching the edge of the city, the bus started climbing, first through Pamplona Baja, or lower Pamplona, and then Pamplona Alta, where the blacktop turned to sandy dirt roads. The Pamplonas are considered pueblos jovenes, or young towns.

For decades, people from the mountains and jungles have traveled to Lima for jobs and schools, looking for opportunities. In the 1980s and early 1990s, they also fled their homes in the countryside as the Shining Path terrorists battled police forces. They would pitch reed mats along steep, sandy hillsides in places like Pamplona. With time, they would use plywood or brick to firm up walls, and add electricity and a water tank. The poverty remained, just in different degrees.

Milagros, a young woman with a vision for a church daycare center in Pamplona and oversight of a small three-room building in which to make it happen, has been taking groups of Goshen College students to the site for several years. In the fall, students painted the outside of the building green. Over the weekend, the first half of our group went to spend a couple of hours playing with more than 50 children.

The temperature was in the mid-70s, but it felt hotter. Early on, some played soccer on a sand field nearby. But soon, shirts drenched, they joined the other children who were trying to stay cool inside the building, drinking lots of water and chocolate milk.

The children tried their hands at origami (especially birds). They colored pictures. They strung bead necklaces and bracelets. A few students led rounds of “Head, shoulders, knees and toes” in both Spanish and English. When it was time to go, there were hugs all around. We promised to be back the next week, with 13 more friends, maybe a guitar, and definitely lots of water.

"They like to watch soccer here," Dan told some friends, "but I guess they don’t really go out and play it." Apparently someone had misled him; because two days off the plane, I was watching him and four other students engage a pack of young Peruvian teenagers in an intense game.

They played in a park in the depths of the city, a sprawling area of small cement courts and grass fields worn to dust. Intermittent playgrounds and palm trees rose in between the fields, but the surrounding apartment buildings dwarfed them.

It took a while to reserve a field; apparently "futbol" is not only for the television. Despite the hot late afternoon sun, each field was occupied, and people watched from the sidelines, not hesitating to call out "atras!" or "tuyo!" to their friends and family members.

A large group of onlookers gathered to watch the norteamericanos play, clearly curious about their abilities. An occasional passerby watched the audience, looking for an opportunity to snatch the players´ backpacks from the sidelines.

Unlike players in the States, these boys (no girls played) had to slip and stumble on the slippery cement. They had no nets, only rusty white frames. However, these factors seemed only to improve their balance and coordination. They knew how to keep a ball close, so that it wouldn’t hit anyone by the edge. They knew how to steal the pelota with a quick twist of a foot, a practiced skill in the overcrowded fields.

The outfits of the players varied. A surprising number wore jerseys, the red and blue of Barcelona, the black and red of Milan, and the white and pale blue of Argentina. Most wore athletic shoes of some sort because cleats are no use without turf. Some wore street shoes. No one played without a shirt. No one wore shinguards.

Eventually Scott’s host father called the game to a halt. They could play only until dusk, because it wasn’t safe to be out after dark. The players set a time for the very next day and wandered off to the Metro to buy refrescos, grins on their faces.

At first glance, the bus system of Lima seems a little bit ... how should I put this ... ridículo.

Before coming to Lima, I figured I’d be able to survive well living in a big city. I lived in Albuquerque for a year and had the bus system down pat; I traveled to Europe and could easily decipher the bus and subway maps. However, here in Lima there’s just one problem – there are no transportation system maps!

Basically it’s a bit of a free-for-all; the local government does not control the bus system as we would expect in an American city. Rather, private companies convert vans and buses of all sizes into working public transportation vehicles, locally called kombis. Because of the competing companies, and differing bus routes operated by each outfit, it would be impossible to produce a map of all the possible bus routes in Lima. Well, I guess you could, but it would just be a wild mess of multi-colored lines over the already chaotic roads that make up the various areas of the city.

So, how do you figure out what bus to take? Well, fortunately you can simply recognize specific buses by their appearance -- in fact, by four aspects of their appearance: the color, the numbers, the letters, and the street names.

Various buses have differing colors based on what company they are owned by, but the color will also sometimes represent what route the bus runs. I guess that’s not particularly specific, so let’s move on to the numbers.

The problem is that there will be more than one number. First is the route number – the one you want to look for. But watch out because each kombi will also have numbers that distinguish it from the rest of the fleet of that company, as well as registration numbers that are given by the state. So, you really have to look hard sometimes to find the route number that you are looking for.

In addition, you have to be aware of the third aspect of the appearance, the letters. Oftentimes routes will have variations, which will be represented by letters, A, B, C, etc. For example, I take the 45B bus to school in the morning, and I have to make sure I don’t grab the 45A, because I really have no idea where that would take me. One note though: sometimes the number and letter will be together in one place on the front of the bus, or the 45 might be one place, and the B will be in another corner of the windshield, so watch carefully!

Finally, the names of some of the major streets that a bus travels on will usually be written on the side of the bus. So, it’s often a good idea to check those out before you get on. The front of the bus will also have two names, usually of neighborhoods, written above the windshield, that represent where the bus goes to or from.

I did mention that it’s easy to pick out a bus based on its appearance, right? One thing about the names written on a kombi – they’re not always necessarily correct. The vehicle might be old and be traveling a different route than what the outside specifies. So, it’s a good idea to ask as you get on the kombi if it will be going to the place where you want to go. And be specific! Ask for the intersection you want, or the block number of the street you want.

In the States you’d just ask the driver of the bus, right? Well, don’t even attempt that in Lima – the kombi drivers have some pretty insane traffic to deal with and have to keep their attention on the road. Instead there is a second guy on each kombi, the cobrador, who is like the doorman of the vehicle – he’s who you want to ask.

The cobrador is probably my favorite part of the Peruvian transportation system. They usually sort of half hang out the bus and shout at people like an auctioneer selling a quilt at a Mennonite relief sale. “Toda la Marina! Toda la Marina!” they might shout as they point at various people on the sidewalk trying to get them to board the kombi. All the while they are responsible for walking around the kombi asking for pasajes, or fares.

And walking up and down the isle of a kombi is not an easy task, as they are usually packed to the brim with people. I haven’t decided what I like less, sitting in an aisle seat with people standing in the aisle crowded up next to me, or standing in the aisle, crowding the poor guy in the seat beside me and hanging on tight as the kombi rapidly speeds up and slows down between stops. Lima’s public transpo is obviously a bit confusing and exciting and I’m sure I could easily keep writing about experiences on kombis.

For now I’ll just leave you with one final word of advice, make sure you shout out to the cobrador when you want to get off, because it’s a fast-paced world on a kombi and it’s not going to slow down just for you.

We spent an afternoon there earlier this week. First we stopped by the building where C.J. and Philip live to pick up pack lunches (C.J.’s mom, Mervy, prepares many of our group meals, and she had triple-decker sandwiches ready for us). We kept on driving through Callao until we reached La Punta, or The Point, which juts out into the Pacific. The beach we ended up at featured a rocky shoreline and impressive surf. We enjoyed a couple of hours in the sun.

From there, we went to the Museo del Real Felipe, named after a king of Spain. We learned that the fort was built after an earthquake and tsunami in 1746 pretty well leveled the city. The thinking was that the fort would provide protection from pirates. But as it turned out, fighting around the fort was heaviest during the independence wars around the 1820s. Some of the time, the Royalists, who favored maintaining allegiance to Spain, controlled the fort; at other points during the conflict the patriots, who wished to sever those ties, had the run of the fort.

One would not have wanted to be a patriot in captivity during the Royalist reign at Real Felipe, according to our guide. We had a chance to visit the dungeon and hear about how prisoners would get bread and water -- and that, only twice a week. Several people commented on how creepy it was to walk back to the inner sanctum of the dungeon, following a pathway that was barely wide enough for a midsize person with a backpack to squeeze through.

The fort tells of the weaponry and strongarm tactics apparent in earlier chapters of Peru’s history. Canons, canons, everywhere. Swords of all lengths and cuts. A bust of Tupac Amaru II, who led an Indian insurrection in 1780, only to witness the death of his wife and family, and then to be quartered by horses.

From the lower depths, we walked out into the sunshine and climbed the steps of the Queen’s Tower, which affords a glorious view of the bay of Callao and the islands of San Lorenzo in the distance. The photos, we hope, were worth the climb. It certainly was nice to get out of the dungeon.

Each trip to Pueblo Joven Pamplona, a maturing shantytown on the outskirts of Lima, is like a conversation among new friends. Depending on the day and on who happens to be there, the time together will unfold as it only could at that particular moment.

One of the highlights of our second visit to Pamplona this year was discovering how perfect the conditions were for flying paper airplanes. Who knew. Just outside the little church social hall built on the side of a sand hill, there is a ledge.

Several students and a group of boys began folding planes. The boys would then launch them and when the planes caught the wind just right, they would soar down the hill, landing in other dirt yards. The boys would give chase and start over.

Meanwhile, inside the building children were busily engaged in making jewelry by stringing together an assortment of beads; creating watercolor drawings; and doing puzzles featuring the country of Peru and its 25 regions, or states.

The keen interest in the puzzles was a nice surprise. We have the puzzles on a shelf at Goshen Tambo and only put them in a bag at the last minute before heading to Pamplona. As it happened, all four puzzles were in use almost the whole time we were there.

Do you know the largest region? (Loreto, in the northeast jungle). How about the smallest? Hint: it’s the place students fly in and out of, and the place where two students in the group are living. (Callao, just north of Lima). The region that looks like a dragon? (Ucayali, with a tail that sweeps away into Brazil).

P.S. We also were pleased to see that the light green paint applied by GC students to the outside of the building last fall has held up well. We were worried that the paint had been too thinned out with water, but the covering looks good.

"Mira, Mateo . . ." was all I really caught as the rest of the sentence slurred together and got swept away in the cool evening breeze.

"Ay! El no entiende," said Gonsalo, a neighborhood kid who was thoroughly frustrated by the fact that I still didn't understand the intricacies of "escondidas con pelota."

Rolling his dark brown eyes he uttered an exasperated sigh and swung himself around to yell at my brother Jano, "Jano, explicale."

I knew it wasn't going to help. Jano slurred his speech more profoundly, talked more softly, and spoke more rapidly than any of the kids in the neighborhood. Even if I could have understood what he was saying it wouldn't have mattered because every other kid that was listening felt it was their job to interject and add nuance to every rule that Jano was explaining. When it was apparent that I still didn't get it, a slow hiss escaped through the gap between Jano's two front teeth, and he plopped himself down on the square bench that sat in the corner of the plaza.

A few of the younger kids piped and squeaked at me, hoping that something would click in my mind that would allow me to understand. One "chiquito chibolo," a really little kid named Jose who had something very important to tell me, kept digging his index finger into my ribs to get my attention.

We'd kept up this comical routine of hurried explanation reciprocated by utter confusion for about 10 minutes by this point, and this is what I knew. "Escondidas con pelota" meant literally, "hide and seek with ball," and like any other game of hide and seek I was to hide and try not to get caught. But it beat the heck out of me how I got caught. What's more, I could save everybody by doing something to the ball, but for all I knew I might have had to get down on all fours and kiss the flat, crusty thing.

Luckily for me after a couple more failed attempts to explain the game and not a few "groserias," Claudio came and saved the day.

Claudio was Peruvian through and through. He had short, straight black hair, big brown eyes, coffee-colored skin and a keen interest in "futbol." But he was also American. He lived in New Jersey for all of the year except for a couple of weeks, spoke perfect English with the slightest East Coast accent, and loved the movie "Tommy Neutron." With the help of this 9-year-old transnational child I was ready to play in less than 2 minutes.

This past fall I remember watching one of the Republican debates on national television and one specific tirade sticks in my memory. One of the lower-tier candidates speaking on the subject of immigration just went off about automated phone messages. Pounding fist on podium he vented to the entire nation: "This is America. We speak English here. I am sick and tired of hearing '1 for English, 2 for Espanol' every time I pick up the phone."

How much violence in this world has been caused because of ethnic and cultural intolerance? And how much of this conflict could have been averted by the simple act of sitting down and getting to know somebody? If everyone in the world was like Claudio and simply knew one other language besides their mother tongue, think of the communicative possibilities. Perhaps the world would be a better place.

So, for a change of pace, we headed up to the third floor, the gala ballroom surrounded by windows. Our mission: learn to dance the marinera limeno, a version of the "national dance of Peru," usually with a handkerchief as a prop; the festejo, a vigorous dance whose roots reflect a celebration of the emancipation of slaves; the salsa, which also has African influences and a fast step; the merengue; and the huaylas folk dance.

Our dance instructors, Pedro and Cari, demonstrated each dance form first. Then we had the women practice with Cari, while the guys followed Pedro's steps as best as they could. And finally we divided up into couples for a formal run-through.

A host sister and her friend, as well as several young women from Cenfotur, a school where Celia and Oswaldo also teach language classes, joined us to help correct a gender imbalance in the SST group (15 males, 8 females).

There didn't seem to be much nervousness about dancing in a crowd. But we did have one scare. The afternoon sun was baking, and we tried to cool off the third floor by running ceiling fans. But the fan switch failed at one point, and burst into flames. A couple of alert students cut off the switch and managed to blow out the flames like a birthday candle.

And the dance went on.

Language, one of the most important aspects of our lives, whether it be spoken or understood, stands front and center on SST. The people who prepare us SSTers for our semester repeat one thing over and over: try not to have expectations. But, of course, I did. I had some high expectations for my language skills. I knew it would be difficult, but I thought the language would come eventually.

The reality, now that I´m here on South American turf, is turning out to be a different story. Spanish, or Castellano, is the first part of this language predicament. I came into SST with little knowledge of Spanish and knew I couldn´t converse fluidly or comprehensively enough to save myself. I was reasonably comfortable with what I knew, however, and expected to be on my way to fluency by the end. Pretty high expectations, no?

The first few days my Castellano skyrocketed. I learned some key phrases, began to understand, and started to fine-tune my speaking skills. But, much to my disappointment, my language skills seem to have cut the engine and begun the descent. With every day and every new word, there are a thousand other words I realize I don´t know. Most of the time I still struggle to understand my abuelo (grandfather), my sister, and my father. And my sentence-forming is nearly nonexistent.

I often wonder if I´m doing anything wrong. Should I be working harder? Speaking more? Spending less time with other SSTers? What is a good balance between immersing oneself in the culture and taking "English breaks?"

With my lack of fluency in Castellano, another part of the language that has actually helped in many ways is body language. It really supplements understanding when someone from either end is just not grasping the point.

My abuelo is the master of body language. He moves around and flails his arms as his inflection gets louder and more rushed. I´ve seen a range of imitations from the prowling, growling of a tiger to the loud flapping and squawking of a loro (parrot). Maybe, I sometimes wonder, if I had body language skills like my abuelo, I would learn more Castellano.

The third part of the language dilemma that detracts from my proficiency is English. English often gets in the way of learning Castellano because it´s so tempting to revert back to using it.

English, however, also has a funny way of escaping me here. It almost seems to leave in punishment for relying on it too much. English words and correct spelling tend to flee my vocabulary, and instead I produce garbled sentences with less worth than my attempts at Castellano. By the end of SST, I predict I will be a person with two half languages. Then again, I think I´m done having expectations.

Language is such an interesting phenomenon to study. How we learn it, how we pick it up, who picks it up best, and for what reasons.

Thinking about the ancient cultures and language here in Peru, I was recently reminded of the story of the Tower of Babel in Genesis. Where would we be if God hadn´t frustrated the language of the early humans? Certainly not with our rich and diverse histories of culture and language! So, even though sometimes I wish God would just grant me the power to speak fluent Castellano, I´m O.K. with the thought that God decided to take things back in hand, give us many rich languages, spread us all over the earth, and make us gain character through learning the languages of one another.

We were running a little late when we arrived at the central plaza in Chincha. We had left shortly after 7:30 from Goshen Tambo that morning, and during the three-hour bus ride south along the Pan-American Highway we stopped once for bathrooms and a second time to pick up some bananas and other fruit at a stand. Fortunately, Pastor Tolentino, a friend from Chincha, was patiently waiting for us at the plaza, along with his son-in-law, Arturo Prieto, who would be our guide for the morning.

Arturo is a technician at La Calera, a family- owned farm of more than 1,000 hectares, or roughly 2,470 acres. Once we passed through two checkpoints, being waved on by guards with walkie-talkies, we discovered a lush farm in a valley in the middle of the arid desert that is Peru’s coast.

We drove along sandy lanes with fields of green on either side: avocados, tangelos, grapes. We also saw mountains of bagged corn feed and long sheds with caged chickens. As it happens, La Calera is the leading producer of eggs for export in Peru. For at least some of the 2,000 employees, and perhaps executive guests from abroad, there is a manicured polo field, which we glimpsed from our bus windows.

The farm’s success depends in part on a great location, as it straddles two rivers, which feed an extensive irrigation system. One of the highlights of our stay was walking over a swaying cable bridge that crossed one of the rivers to newly acquired land.

From there we headed into the city of Chincha for lunch, which for some included a favorite local dish known as carapulcra, a dried potato stew. We had a bit of time before our next stop at the Ballumbrosio home in the El Carmen district, and so we rested for a while at the plaza.

Well, some of us rested. Others got out a soccer ball, and eventually took to the street for a pick-up game with young boys from the community, with Our Lady of El Carmen Roman Catholic Church as the backdrop, still scarred from the earthquake that killed more than 500 people and toppled homes across the region in August. (Daniel will be doing construction work in Chincha during the service term that begins in two weeks).

In the fall we enjoyed a concert with the family of Amador Ballumbrosio, now in his 80s, the dean of Afro-Peruvian music who is best known for his skill in zapateo, a tap dance with intricate rhythms. At the time, the family was still repairing its home from the earthquake, and so we met at a local hotel. This time we joined the family in their home, with chairs and benches ringing the living room. Amador Ballumbrosio was there to greet us and answer a few questions, though he did not join in the music making.

The young men in the family formed a percussion line, using instruments like the cajón, a simple box drum that looks like a stool, and the quijada de burro, the jawbone of a donkey. The girls in the family danced in the middle of the room, at one point pulling most of us up from our seats to join them on the dance floor.

Toward the end of the program, we had a chance to try out some of the instruments. Playing and dancing along with the Ballumbrosio family, we realized that the rhythms aren’t as easy to master as they might seem. With quite a few newly released CDs in hand, along with recommendations on where to buy the best cajóns in Lima, we boarded the bus for our trip home.

Tyler shares a journal entry:

Rachel and I are leading the group home after an afternoon touring the San Francisco Cathedral and catacombs. I move behind her as we approach a short, older-looking Peruvian man on the narrow sidewalk with taxis driving so close that you wouldn’t want to get too close to the edge. As we get closer, the gaze of the Peruvian draws my eyes down toward him until our eyes meet.

“Que tal, amigo?” he says with a sly look on his face.

“Bien,” we answer together while striding past the overly friendly man.

“You must be Americans,” he said as we stride past him without engaging in conversation.

“Si,” I quickly answer over my shoulder.

A block away, Rachel turns to me and says, “I feel bad ignoring people like that. We’re representing the U.S. and I don’t want people to think we aren’t friendly.”

I agree, but tell her not to worry about what one person on the street thinks. A few minutes later, I’m licking my chocolate ice cream and forget about the old man on the street corner.

I’ve left the group and I want to explore Barranco, my home district in Lima, a little more on my own. I get off the bus a couple blocks early, walk through the park with an empty fountain and rows of red salvia flowers. The park leads me to a path that goes down to the Pacific, a path that my family's maid, Julia, showed me my first week in Lima. I descend a few flights of stairs that lead to the familiar trail. When I get near the bottom, I see a tall young Peruvian, probably in his late 20’s, in a yellow T-shirt and khaki shorts. He makes eye contact with me and lights up like a old reunited friend.

“Que tal?” he asks me.

“Bien,” I answer as we pass each other, a woman to his side.

“What country are you from?” he asks in a quick Spanish that I only guess because I caught the familiar word “pais,” meaning “country” in English.

I quickly decide to tell the truth and say, “Los Estados Unidos,” instead of Canada. He comes back down a couple stairs to greet me, and his friend keeps moving to the top of the stairs. With his hand stretched out toward mine, I decide not to ignore him like the man I ignored earlier in the day. I meet his hand halfway with a firm handshake.

“Are you a tourist?” I understand the question in Spanish a lot better since I was expecting it.

“No, I’m a student living in Lima for six weeks and Mancos for six more.”

He’s impressed: not only am I living here but I can speak a little Spanish. He shakes my hand again.

“How do you like Lima?”

“I think it’s nice.”

“Which parts? Miraflores and Barranco?”

“No, I’ve been to other parts. I like them all.”

He asks me a couple more questions and shakes my hand again after I answer.

“You speak good Spanish,” he tells me.

I know it’s a lie but I thank him anyway. He asks me another question, then his friend at the top of the stairs calls him to go.

“Mucho gusto,” I say as he shakes my hand with a star-struck look still on his face.

“Ciao, amigo,” and he runs up the stairs.

Scott shares a journal entry:

"Ven, hijito, ven," coos my host mother. Come, little son, come. "It’s time for supper."

Being referred to as a son by a woman from another country wasn’t something that was completely new to me. I’ve been an exchange student once before. Through my homestay in Japan as a high schooler, I felt the love of a complete stranger, and became a member of a family that I barely knew.

But that experience didn’t quite prepare me for the love I would receive from my host mother here in Peru. It became clear fairly early on that I was a true member of the family ... at least in my mother’s eyes. My second night here in Peru, she held my arm tight as we walked through the streets of Lima. It was if I was a long-lost son, finally back in the clutches of his mother.

As soon as I return home each afternoon, she comes straight to me, kisses my cheek, and asks how her "little son’s" day has been. Every morning, she sends me off to school "with God by my side."

All of these actions have touched my heart, but none have meant as much to me as one unexpected nickname my mother gave me that second day as she clutched my arm. She had just finished explaining to me that our neighborhood could be dangerous at night, and that normally, she would not walk the streets alone. But that night, she told me, everything was alright, because she had her "bebe robusto" by her side.

From that moment on, I was her "sturdy, robust baby." And as cheesy as some may view this, and as funny as the host brothers of my friends find it, to me, it’s incredibly touching. A woman I had met 48 hours earlier had just made me a huge part of her life. In two days, I had already become her baby. (And she wasn’t shy about it either.) All relatives, friends of the family, and even a few lucky students from the Goshen group know that I am her "bebe robusto." A stranger who barely knows me, yet loves me so much -- it is humbling to a degree I can’t quite put into words.

The connection between us seems to go beyond nicknames as well. The third morning I was a part of her household, Mami called me to a breakfast of bread, cheese and a special type of meat. I remarked to her how much I enjoyed the meal. She turned to me with her characteristically smiling face and said, "I knew you would like it, because I am your mother." Honestly, I nearly cried. I wanted to, but I knew that a big smile plastered on my face might go over a bit better, so I smiled big and hugged her.

That smile stayed on my face the rest of the day. It returns to me every day when I wake up, my mother waiting to make me breakfast; every day that I return to her smiling face; and anytime we sit down to talk about life. I feel blessed, a stranger in a new land, to have such an amazing love bestowed upon me, no questions asked. I truly feel like her "bebe robusto."

Sometimes you just have to jump in; so it was when we went to the Islas Palomino, or the Palomino Islands.

We had been riding for about an hour and a half to reach this place, but it could have been a world away. From the boat, maybe a hundred yards offshore, we could see hundreds, if not thousands, of sea lions, all in motion. They blended so well against the rocks that if they had stayed still, we might have missed them. As it was, they were waving flappers, bobbing heads, and slipping into and out of the water. The strangest part of all was chorus of barks, which at times sounded sad and mournful, and at other times sharp and watchful.

With the back platform of the yacht serving as a high diving board, there was no chance to put toes in the water to test the temperature (which was probably a good thing, because it really was cold, even on summer day). Our lead guide, a trained lifeguard, was in the water, telling us to hurry. It was either leap in, or stay on the boat. Within a minute or two, all 23 Goshen students were swimming toward the island.

There we stayed for 15 minutes or so, bobbing in our lifejackets. Who was on stage? Who was the audience? Each side was closely eyeing the other. Sea lions took turns swimming out close to us, almost brushing up against us in the surging tide. We might have had one actual touch, but that couldn’t be independently confirmed.

Our guide had warned us not to try to touch the sea lions – stay a few yards away, he had said, out of respect for their sense of appropriate territorial space. No kisses on the cheeks for these slippery guys and gals. We ended up with a very amicable arrangement. We kept our distance, and they kept theirs.

Comments afterward included: “Incredible” and “This was truly a once-in-a-lifetime swim.”

The ride out and back from the port of Callao was also fun. We passed the islands of San Lorenzo, which was once covered with guano (bird droppings prized in Europe as a fertilizer), and El Frontón, site of a former prison.

Back on the boat, they served us hot tea and chips and Inca Kola. We also had packed sandwiches, including peanut butter and jelly. All the way back to Callao, the towels and blankets felt good, even in the setting sun.