Monday, December 12, 2011

school library

My mother, being the wonderful person that she is, asked me what I wanted for christmas this year a few months ahead of time so that she could send me a package that would arrive before december 25. I directed her to my blog page where I had put a little blub on the the side saying that I didn't want anything more for me because of my limited time, but if people felt so inclined, they should send me books. She went out right away and bought me a stack of books in Spanish and got my grandma in on the project. Within a couple of months, I had a box of wonderful books sitting in my house here in Paraguay. A couple of days later, my neighbors came over to play with my camera and I asked them if they liked to read. I got a resounding "yes!" from each one of them. I dragged out my box of brand new books and they went at it, grabbing books left and right, claiming their favorite ones.

I had to explain several times that these books were not for giving away but for starting a library at the school. But because I had them at my house and it is currently summer, they were more than welcome to come over every day to read. Despite the fact that I was running on 3 hours of sleep, had just got home, and all I wanted was to eat something and sleep, we stayed on my porch for about an hour reading. They even called in another kid walking down the street and demanded that she join in the fun. Araceli and Elias took me quite literally when I said they could come over every day to read and not only showed up the following morning, then waited for me all day and came back at 8pm that same night. Araceli has claimed "Donde Estara Spot?" as her own and says that we have to read it every day. I brought out my construction paper and pencils and they have started copying pictures out of Curious George. I could not be more happy about the immediate success of this project and am excited to pass off an already functioning project to the next volunteer.

I also, as I said in that little blub on the side, would appreciate any donations. Books are difficult to get and expensive here in Paraguay. I have high goals of furnishing the school library with children's stories, maps, technical resources, encyclopedias, etc., before I leave. I am turning in grants in Asuncion to organizations that donate books but am still looking for extra help from the United States. If you would like to help out a rural Paraguayan school and it's children, help children learn to read and develop a love for books, I would love it if you could help me. You can send me books through snail mail or you can send me a money order through Western Union and I can buy books here that are printed in Argentina and Spain that are unavailable in the United States. Words cannot express the gratitude I have for my mom and grandma who have already helped me. If you would like to see pictures of my neighbors reading or other pictures of me in my community, please check out my previous blog post and look at my pictures on photobucket. Please contact me if you are interested or want more information.

For those of you who are interested in looking for books, here is a list of books that I already have. I will accept books that I already have but would prefer to have more variety.
Courduroy
¿Dónde está Spot?
Jorge el Curioso
La Mariquita Lara
Escalofríos- El Fantasma Aullador
Bizcocho
Alexander y el Dia Terrible, Horrible, Espantoso, Horroroso
Cocodrilos del Nilo
Crees que conoces a los hipopótamos
Crees que conoces a las cebras
Harold y el Lápiz Color Morado
Jackie Robinson
El Cuento de Ferdinando
Las Aventuras del Capitán Calzoncillos
El Ratoncito de la Moto
Ramona Empieza el Curso
Esteban El Plano
Cómo Nació el Arco Iris
Mi Diario de Aquí Hasta Allá
Quiero un Perro
Tengo Todo Esto
Quiero Aquí a mi Chico
Voy a Dormir
¿Por qué Me Sigue?
¡No es Tuyo!
Ese Perro
La Feria Musical de Matemáticas
¡Ya Era Hora, Max!
La Limonada de Lulú
James y el Melocotón Gigante
La Telaraña de Carlota
Arroz con Frijoles... y unos amables ratones
Donde Viven Los Montruos
Esos Desagredables Detestables Sucios Completamente Asquerosos pero... Invisibles Gérmenes

Sunday, December 11, 2011

more pictures

http://s1203.photobucket.com/profile/Alison_Patt/index

updated photos. i changed the photo site to photobucket.

Tuesday, December 6, 2011

my five year old child

Maybe I like her because she slightly reminds me of myself when I was her age, hair flying in the wind and dirt all over my clothes. Or maybe it’s the freedom with which she lives without regard to societal rules or the complaining voices of her older cousins. Araceli tends to make people turn their heads in wonderment at this small, beautiful child that almost never stops running and only wears matching, clean clothes when her cousins or grandma make her change. Her nickname, Ara, means sky and it fits her personality perfectly. We became friends when she would pass my house and yell out “Aleesohn” and I would yell back, “Aracelliii!” This somehow became a habit, and she will often shout out my name while speeding by my house on her way to the almacen and I will call back from inside my house even though I can’t see her.

One day I was walking home with Araceli and her two cousins Ofelia and Ana and Araceli was particularly being a pest which I found hilarious and absolutely approved of. She had taken a small silver decoration from a cake and stuck it on her nose with frosting and then showed me that she had a nose ring like me. She went running through the chakra, skipping and yelling, daring to dirty her clothes. I laughed and might have encouraged her behavior. Ofe and Ana on the other hand were tired of their small cousins’ offenses and continually yelled at her to be careful, to stay clean, and to just act like a normal human being. Ana looked at me with a long face and said, “Ali, do you want a child? I will give you Araceli. You take her home with you.” I of course accepted willingly. “Jaha Araceli,” I said, “Eketa che rogape.” (Let’s go, you will sleep at my house.) We continued the joke and began to say, “Araceli ohota chendive estadosunidospe. Ohota che maletape ha oikota chendive.” (Araceli will go with me to the United States. She’ll go in my suitcase and live with me.) Ofe and Ana were thrilled with the idea but the more we joked, the further Ara ran from me. “Che ndahamoai,” she retorted (I’m not going) and skipped out of reach. The next several times she saw me in public, Araceli would run up to me and tease, “Ali! Che ndahamoai nendive” (Ali, I’m not going with you) and then run away. I believe there was a time when this 5 year old actually thought we were serious about packing her off to another country and began to run closer to her abuela (grandma) when I came around. Now she no longer fears me and we all keep the joke going, which keeps her running back and forth out of my reach, laughing the whole time. Sometimes I tell her, "Nde che membyma. Eju, jaha" (You're my child now. Come, lets go.), and I reach for her as if to grab her and take her home with me.

The other day we all went to the school graduation to watch the 6th graders and preschoolers receive their folders, passing on to a new and more advanced realm. Then, like any good Paraguayan event, we ate food, drank soda, and ate cake. Poor Araceli had to dress nicely in her school skirt and button up shirt and it was transparently clear that she was uncomfortable. She sat at the preschool table straddling her chair and wrapping her ankles around the legs of the chair, looking wide-eyed at the cake at the center of the table. Unlike her other classmates, she didn’t play around with the napkins and silverware in front of her, or reach precariously over the carefully decorated cake. It certainly was not for lack of energy; I believe she was using an enormous amount of restraint at that moment. I felt her pain and remembered what it was like when I was 5 years old and had to sit still and look pretty. Actually, I didn’t have to look back even that far. I’m 23 and I still have a hard time sitting still and have to use a large amount of restraint in situations like that. I don’t throw fits when my mom tells me to put on a dress for church, but I argue with my friends when they tell me to dress up.

The graduation finally ended and we all began the walk home together. Araceli, finally free, made a big sigh, looked at her abuela, said “Opa. Avya.” (It’s over. I’m happy), took off her button up shirt and tied it around her stomach. She of course was prepared and not only had a shirt underneath the button-up, but shorts underneath her skirt. She began to run ahead and make dramatic scenes in front of us as if she was tired, waiting for us to catch up with her. She skipped ahead and then fell on the ground. She ran, swinging one leg around in circles and then leaned over pretending to pant. She turned around and walked backwards uphill giggling until her abuela told her to turn around and walk normally. All of this caused the button-up shirt to fall from her stomach and it eventually got passed off to abuela so that it wouldn’t get dirty and wrinkled. She stopped for a moment and farted and everyone burst out into laughter. Ana and Ofe rolled their eyes at me but laughed at the same time. Again, Ana offered to give me her younger cousin again and again, I accepted. How could I turn down this lovely child?

Thursday, December 1, 2011

in memory of

Every death is tragic, but somehow the ending of a life of a young, talented person, trying to make a difference in the world, seems far more horrific. For those of you who don want be sad, stop reading and close this page because this will I believe be the saddest blog I have ever written. To the rest of you, hopefully I will communicate some sort of meaning and perhaps and encouragement through the memory of a life.
Emily Balog died in a car accident this last Sunday morning. She was a Community Economic Development Peace Corps Volunteer here in Paraguay. She was in her mid-twenties and had about nine more months left in her service. I did not know her well so I don’t believe it correct of me to speak of her life, who she was, and what she did. I nonetheless am in mourning along with the rest of Peace Corps Paraguay. It may seem strange that I mourn the loss of a so-called “acquaintance,” someone I barely knew, but she was far more than just that. Without knowing the details of her life, I can tell you that she and I had much in common. Both of us willingly gave up 27 months of our lives to move to a foreign country to try to improve the lives of those less fortunate. We both struggled to adapt and integrate into this culture and learn the language and customs. No matter the difference in our sectors or our projects, I know we had similar struggles and similar victories. We both lived with Paraguayan families and learned to make deep relationships with people so different from us, eat their food, share their customs, and learn a mutual respect. I believe that she, like me had learned to love this county and the people in, despite our mountainous troubles here. The list of commonalties is long but comes down to this: she was a fellow Peace Corps Volunteer in my country at the same time. I don’t believe this bond can be well described or understood unless you are a PCV. The ties of this relationship run deep and volunteers become a sort of family as soon as they swear in to their service. We may not all know each other, but there is a sense of duty we have to each other, very frequently more pressing or fundamental than other duties we might have in our sites or to other Paraguayans. This was apparent I think at Emily’s memorial service. Volunteers traveled from all over the country on very short notice just to be here. In fact, there were more people present that night than when the Director of Peace Corps came from Washington D.C. to Asuncion to celebrate the bicentennial. I assume as well that though not as impactful, Peace Corps Volunteers and Returned Peace Corps Volunteers all over the world who have heard about this unimaginable event are deeply saddened at the loss of one of their own.
And I know her death is being mourned by far more than just Peace Corps. The news of Emily’s death was breaking news here and though I was already informed, I had people calling me and showing up at my house to make sure I knew that a friend passed away, the minute the morning news was on. Even still, every person I run into in site asks about her, mentions her family and looks at me with sad and understanding eyes. Paraguayans have a fairly good grasp on death and the cycle of life because life moves so much slower and people often die so much earlier than they should. This death though affected them differently. As one volunteer said, in a country where family is so integral, most Paraguayans can not comprehend why and how we would leave our families in the United States for such a long time. Without having to explain anything, they all know that regardless of how close I was to Emily, I am still mourning her death because she is, in my host mom’s words, “de la misma sangre” (of the same blood). The Paraguayans who know other volunteers mourn for us because even if they can’t understand it, they know it is a tragic loss for all of us. They she was far away from her family and they mourn for the family members because they can not fathom having a child or sibling so far away from them. Truly, all of Paraguay is mourning the loss of Emily.
It is impossible for me to imagine the feeling of senseless loss felt by her friends and family back home, would I presume describe it. But I also have friends and family in the United States and I know how deeply they care about me. Though I would never pretend to understand the feelings of Emily’s family right now, I know it is safe to assume that her death is being mourned by all Peace Corps Volunteer parents, siblings, and friends alike, for they too know someone far away in a distant land and are eagerly awaiting their return.
How do you sum up a life, especially one that ended all too soon and was so full and meaningful? I don’t know how they did it, but those closest to Emily prepared a memorial service in two days. It was a beautiful as it was sad but I think it honored and celebrated Emily’s life incredibly well. They shared how she was a beautiful person inside and out, how she loved well and was loved well, how she had meaningful work in site, how she had a sense of humor, and how difficult this present time and future months will be for them. I don’t believe she will ever be forgotten by Peace Corps Paraguay.

Friday, November 25, 2011

all about food

I love baking bread. I love the smell of active yeast and of the dough rising. I love using my muscles to knead the bread and then the feeling of clean hands after I wash all the sticky dough off of them. I love watching it rise as though some miracle took place and the satisfaction of punching it back down. But best of all I like the end result: the smell of fresh bread wafting out my door and the wonderful taste of warm, soft bread. I remember as a girl watching my mom make bread and I held a kind of respect and awe for her and those like her ho knew the art and mysteries of bread. It seemed about the most complicated thing one could make in the kitchen. Whenever I tried to help her, I felt I was always doing something wrong. When I was kneading, I always put too much or too little flour and my miniature hands didn’t knead forcefully enough. I always anticipated punching down the dough wanting to do it long before it was ready and she always had to remind me not to push it down too hard. When we made rolls for Thanksgiving, I played with the dough too much and no matter how long I teased and shifted it, my rolls never came out perfectly smooth like hers. If I ever commented on her astounding ability to make rolls, she denied any talent and said it was Aunt Karen, Grandma, or Great Grandma who really could make rolls, not her.

Here in Paraguay, I bake and cook a lot. It started out with a lot of cakes but it eventually progressed to the more difficult art of bread and I’ve discovered that I like making rolls instead of full loaves. (Though I don’t dare boast equal ability to the masters of bread in my family.) In fact, making bread of any shape or form now seems a simple task because I have never worked harder for my food than in this country.

I have been able to experiment with many things here that I never would have thought of trying in the States because I have so much time on my hands. I regularly make granola, bread and yogurt for myself. I have made cool things like peach jam, blackberry jam, dulce de leche, hummus, sun dried tomatoes, sesame crackers, and sesame candies. Once I made enchiladas with homemade sauce and homemade tortillas and it took the better part of my morning. I have made so many cakes that I rarely look at a recipe anymore for instructions and I have all but perfected my potato soup and Spanish rice. One of my better experiments was spaghetti sauce with eggplant, raw peanuts and curry. Some discoveries have been accidental because I have been missing one or two ingredients and have no other options. Plus I don’t actually own any measuring cups or spoons, so everything is a bit of a guessing game.

If I am eating with Paraguayans, sometimes I have to help search for firewood and chop it with a machete just to have cooking power. If we make chipa guazu, we have to go to the chakra, pick off enough cobs off the stalks to fill a large back, shuck all the corn, cut the kernels off with a knife, and grind the corn by hand. The actual mixing the ground up corn with oil, salt, cheese, milk whey, and a little more oil is the easy part. Once I made chipa kandoi (peanut chipa) with my friend and at least half the ingredients came from her fields. The peanuts her family had grown and shucked and we toasted, peeled, and ground them and ground the corn they had grown and dried into flour. The mandioca flour she had made by digging up buckets and buckets of mandioca, peeling and cleaning it all, loading it onto an ox cart to take down the street to grind it by machine, spending hours sifting with water through thin material and then leaving the remaining flour out the in sun for a few days to dry. My contribution of sugar, anis and coco seemed a measly comparison to her work. We then spend a good four hours making fire, mixing the ingredients and forming the chipa, and waiting for it to cook. At the end of the afternoon I was hot and sweaty and had ground peanuts, flour, and soot all over my clothes and body. And yet, there is a certain satisfaction I get after working so hard for all my food. Unless you are cooking something delicate, it always tastes better if you cook it by fire. And there is always the feeling that the food is well earned calories after you have been slaving away for hours.

The Paraguayans will remind you that the food is better when it’s fresh and natural and I can’t say I can argue that. As unpleasant as it might be to watch a pig or chicken be slaughtered, at least I know where it came from and for the most part, what it ate as well. The juice we make includes only fruit, sugar and water. No additives or preservatives are necessary. Most of the vegetables I get in site come from someone’s garden or chackra and I have fresh oregano, mint, basil, and rosemary in my yard. I buy milk from my neighbor who has a cow and I cook, back, and make my yogurt with it. Almost everything I eat, I can trace to it’s original source and there is something about that which makes me feel safe.

I am still slightly in awe at the fantastic change that comes upon dough when it rises and I still get the same satisfaction today as when I was a girl watching it sink down as I gleefully punch the air out. If possible, maybe I love it just a little bit more. The thing is, living here and spending so many hours of my day working for a meal has made me appreciate food in a fuller way. (No pun intended.) I have come to take pleasure in chopping up vegetables, mixing recipes, coming up with new ideas and just being a part of the process of my meal. Perhaps that sounds cheesy, but I feel so much more fulfilled after preparing my meal than letting a microwave do the work for me. Food and eating are a central part of our lives and I believe that it should be that way. When people meet, they often eat and families gather around the table to share food. The United States has an entire holiday (incidentally my favorite) that is devoted to food and eating. Every country has food and dishes specific to them and customs that often revolve around that. Eating becomes as much of a social activity as it is something we do to sustain ourselves.

I don't think my neighbors realize just how amazing it is that the land they live on is capable of producing well over 75 percent of their food. Nor do I think people in the United States realize how insane it is to have a dozen supermarkets at their disposal, full of more food than they could possibly consume, most of which comes with very little preparation and far too much packaging. People in Paraguay work all day to get a meal on the table and people in the US work all day to afford to buy prepared food to put on the table. Somehow I can’t make sense of that, but I won’t go on a rant about the United States right now. I’ll just say I like to be a part of the food preparation and feel it in my hands. And I like to watch the dough rise.

Thursday, October 20, 2011

walk like me

When I was 5, I was a proud owner of a pair of pink, sparkly jellies. I don't remember them being comfortable but they were very fashionable shoes. Then the early 90's ended and the fashions changed and more than just my feet outgrew the jellies. I upgraded myself to normal tennis shoes and then moved on to an absurdly overpriced pair of skater shoes. Also pink, by the way. I don't ever remember being that cool growing up, nor do I remember having an attachment to the color pink, which I have since then sworn off, but at least my feet were in style.

Coming to Paraguay was like entering some sort of weird time warp. I saw people using wells as water sources and plowing their fields with oxen, which I thought fit in my great-grandmothers day, but those same people rode on motorcycles, watched TV’s and texted me with their cell phones. Though they had no clue how to use a computer, at least part of their culture seemed to slightly fit into my generation. I found they listened to American 70’s music and thought it was cool, along with Lady Gaga, Black Eyed Peas, and some awful style of music called reggatone that I could only describe as loud an obnoxious. None of this seemed to fit together. On top of that, I saw people wearing the jellies of my childhood along with spandex. Who knew that 80’s fashion would be popular here in Paraguay?

I moved to Cariy Potrero determined to blend in… well at least as much as a white girl with red hair who has a mastery of 3 Guarani phrases possibly can blend in. Ok, so blending in was admittedly impossible, but I wanted to become as Paraguayan as I possibly could, thinking that maybe they would overlook the red hair and ignorance of Guarani. I adapted myself into the environment. I learned to cook with fire, wash my clothes my hand, use a machete, make foods with pig fat, pluck feathers off a dead chicken, make grunting noises to shoo away animals, and I even faked my Guarani well enough to make people think that I actually spoke it well. I was however still resistant to Paraguayan music and clothing, thinking that my sense of style and my musical interests were far superior.

Several months into my service, one of my good friends showed up in Asuncion with a pair of spandex and I realized that the idea of wearing them had grown on me but I was too chicken to actually try it. She convinced me of their comfortableness and usefulness and I broke down and bought a pair which then sat in my dresser for 2 weeks. When I finally found the guts to put them on in public, I called my friend. “It’s slightly freeing,” I told her. “But I’m still very self conscious about it. I’m worried that everyone is going to make comments about it at my commission meeting.” She admitted, “it’s weird at first. But don’t worry. Spandex are so normal here they won’t say anything. They almost expect you to wear them.” I was still incredibly aware of every angle that my calves, thighs, and butt that were somehow being more pronounced in these amazing pair of new spandex, but my friend was right. No one said a thing about my new style. And Paraguayans make comments about everything new. I had forgotten that they spandex were new to me but not to them. The more comfortable I got showing off my legs in spandex, the more I liked them. They were comfortable, stretchy, lightweight, didn’t stick to you like jeans and could be considered “semi-formal” wear for the campo.

Then my attitude began changing toward that “loud and obnoxious” music called reggatone as well. Even if it wasn’t the best style of music, many songs reminded me of certain people, places or events in Paraguay. And besides, most songs had a really good beat. I bought a couple of cd’s and took them with me on my visit to the states to help me reminisce. I made my friends and family listen to it and being the awesome people that they are they went along with it. My sisters and cousins got so into it that they blasted it on the computer speakers and danced to it in the family room. I almost wished I could take them with me to a Paraguayan fiesta. I started listening to reggatone when I went running and I was actually able to sing along to many of the songs. I even admittedly like the song, “Me enamore de ti por facebook mi amor” (I fell in love with you through facebook my love), not so much because it’s a good song but mostly because it makes me laugh and very few people listen well enough to actually know what he’s saying. I began to feel that Paraguay was influencing me for the better.

I had been eyeing people’s plastic sandals and jellies for a few months, thinking how great they would look on my feet. If I could be confident in spandex, I could be confident in the same shoes I wore when I was 5. Just without sparkles. My friend and I confessed to each other our need for restocking in spandex and interest in new Paraguayan footwear and we went on a shopping spree. The jellies I found were neither pink nor sparkly, but they also have the plus side of being comfortable, unlike my first pair. They are also absolutely and completely awesome. I also might or might not have bought spandex knee shorts and a highlighter yellow striped tank top. I won’t tell you what color the spandex shorts are… or if I really bought them.

I think I’ve achieved integration about as much as I possibly can, minus the mastery of Guarani which I am doubtful would ever happen. I’m not dying my hair black and my skin will never tan darker than the nice dark-white that it achieves in the summer time. Short of that, I believe that my spandex wearing, jellies shoes wearing, and other previously mentioned acquired skills along with my recent addiction to reggatone will make me about as Paraguayan as a white girl can get.

Thursday, September 29, 2011

giving away my baby

Many PCVs, myself included, join Peace Corps thinking that they are capable of changing the world, that entire villages will lead better lives because of our influence, and after a few months in country we begin hoping, wishing, that we will change something other than ourselves. We second guess ourselves and compare ourselves to other volunteers thinking that we aren’t doing enough. We wonder why we are here and if anyone cares and yet we stay, day after day, visiting families, trying to convince those children to put on their shoes and brush their teeth and trying to convince government officials to give us support for our commissions. The weeks and months pass and we dream that perhaps one child will brush their teeth daily, beg their mom for vegetables, or stop throwing trash in their front yard because of our influence. Just one child? Please.

The task that I felt so capable of two years ago of improving people’s lives appears an impossible task to me. When I tell some friends and families of my woes, they timidly ask me if I’m sure I want to finish and I know they secretly hope that I will come home and end this self imposed torture. I begin doubting myself and wondering what in the world I am doing in Paraguay and why I’m here. “Will I ever see the fruits of my labor?” I wonder to myself, assuming the answer is no. When my life consistently feels impossible, the smallest things feel like huge successes. I called a friend to tell her that one teacher told me in a very indirect way that I could essentially come whenever I wanted and teach whatever I wanted. I called someone after working all day in the school garden and seeing two of the teachers take charge and get involved. I would write in my journal when I had a good conversation in Guarani and I told several people that my host dad cried when he realized how little time I had left in the country. These seemingly “small” things were the motivations to keep me in this country and what made my work worthwhile.

For almost the entirety of my time in site (now a year and 5 months), I have been working with a women’s commission to raise money to build fogons (brick ovens) for 27 women. I invited every house in the community and blundered my way through the first meeting when they elected officials for the commission. From the get go, I made it clear to them that this was their commission and I was just the helper; they had to make and enforce rules and decisions, not me. For months, my “helping” duties consisted in all of the work for the commission. I walked in the sun to collect everyone’s identity cards to make copies, I typed up copies of our rules, I walked around to get signatures, I called and organized meetings, carted back soap kits from Asuncion to raise funds, and then I made the journey to the local municipality every week for three months to check on our recognition. After I had argued my way into getting that paper, I brought necessary documents to the department capital and waited a month for their recognition. I then spent another couple of months getting more useless but necessary documents for the commission, exhausting myself through weekly trips to the Caacupe (the department capital) and running around to make copies, get things signed, notarized, and occasionally having arguments with government officials. I saw no end in sight and began to just hope that I would complete the paperwork side of the job so that my follow up volunteer could construct the fogons. Meanwhile, most of the women in my commission were losing faith and it took everything I had to rally their spirits, although I’m not sure I did a very good job.

Finally I had all the necessary documentation and was able to write a grant, petitioning the government for financial support to build the fogons. By this time, a few women were starting to visit the capital with me and were beginning to see that this was no piece of cake. They waited for hours with me to speak with the governor and they listened to me argue with someone who said that they were unable to support a fogon project. They were with me when I was told that we would receive half of the support and when we got back home after that, they began with a new vigor. I watched as these ladies began to speak their mind and insist that rules be enforced; I saw them planning fundraising activities without my help or advice; I listened while they defended and supported the work I had done for the last year and a half as if I were the most amazing person on the planet; and they conducted three-quarters of the meeting without me saying a word. I even had to ask for clarification after the meeting was over because they had made decisions without me understanding everything that was going on. I could not have been more proud of them.

About a month later, I was stuck in Asuncion for medical reasons, unable to return to site and I received a call from my contact in Caacupe. “The items for your fogons are coming in tomorrow,” he told me. “You need to come pick them up with your President and Treasurer.” I had previously talked with my commission and they knew that when we got the support, the President and Treasurer would have to go in with me. The only problem was that I was stuck in Asuncion and didn’t know when I would be home. I called the President and explained the situation to her. Without hesitation, she agreed to go without me and said she would contact the Treasurer to see what day was good for both of them. Ten minutes later, my contact in Caacupe informed me that he talked to “my people” and they would be there when the materials arrived. The following day I got a call from my host dad to congratulate me and let me know that everything arrived well, that the President and Treasurer made the journey and the materials were safely stored in their house. I was now overwhelmed with pride for these women.

At the same time, I felt like someone had chopped off my hand or taken away my baby. While I was overflowing with pride, there was also an empty feeling in my gut. I had worked for a year and a half to make this happen, cried, sweated, lost sleep, made myself sick, and argued over it, and I was not there to see the biggest part of it to date come into fulfillment. There was a secret part of me that wanted to shed a tear with my beaming smile. I had wanted this so badly but I knew that what I wanted more was to make myself and my job useless. This work is difficult, but it is even more difficult to make it self-sustainable. My commission getting fogon materials was a huge success, but me having the contacts and relationships to simply make phone calls so that my women could do the work without me was an even bigger success.

Through this chain of events, I was not only able to see how long it takes for change to come about, but for the first time I began to think about how hard it would be for me to leave this commission in the following months. It was an awfully bittersweet thought. I don't know that any one child is brushing their teeth more frequently or wearing their shoes more frequently because of my influence (although my reports sent to DC records supposed success in that area) and I know that my commission is not at all self-sustainable yet, nor will they be self-sustainable before I leave. But they just made a huge step in that direction. And whether you believe me or not and whether you think I am crazy or not, I think that it was all worth it.

Tuesday, September 6, 2011

the perfect day according to ali

Yesterday was unusual. It was almost perfect actually. It’s not so much that I always have bad days Days like that don’t happen very often, so it means so much more when I actually have a day like that. Those days don’t really have anything to do with my projects going well (or otherwise) or me feeling like I am making a huge difference in the community. It really has more to do with me being able to appreciate where I am at and fully enjoy that moment, knowing what it took me to get there.

My early morning was semi-leisurely. I woke up around 6 and lazed around in my bed for a while, petting my dog until I fully woke up. I swept the house, did some stretching and some crunches, made my bed, and drank half a thermos of mate while reading Jane Austen’s “Mansfield Park.” The last cold spell of the winter was just ending so it was comfortable walking around my house in my long underwear and sweatpants as opposed to the intolerable cold during the previous week. Every morning previously, I would want to cry when I got out of bed and it felt like torture to do simple tasks

I was out of the house by 8:30 and made the 15 minute walk with Pulgita to the school. One of the teachers was making tortillas over a fire and I sat down and chatted with her until recess. Then I sat around with the teachers for half an hour, going back and forth from awkward silence to uncomfortable conversation. I pretended that I didn’t understand a crass comment one of the teachers made to me and I stayed comfortable in the semi-awkwardness that somehow seems to be present in most social situations. I planned to do a charla and activity with the classes in a couple of weeks and I left. No matter how strange my relationships with the teachers at the school might be, I have finally gained their respect and they pretty much give me free reign when I have ideas and activities to do.

On my walk home, my mom called from the states. She generally calls every other week, but we haven’t had a good conversation in a while and somehow a phone call in the middle of the week seems like an extra treat. We caught up, I vented, and pleaded my case against the injustices I feel I am fighting against. I hung up with her as my neighbor came over to tell me that my dog killed her chicken this morning. It was a small chicken and she was just playing with it with her paws, but my neighbor just wanted me to know.

I felt terrible and mulled over what I should do while I kneaded out dough for bread. As it was rising and baking, I picked and squeezed tangerines for a fresh pitcher of juice. I don’t care how crappy or how great my day is, fresh baked bread and fresh squeezed tangerine juice will always make it that much better. I took some of the rolls, still piping hot, to my neighbor as a good-will token, hoping to stay on good terms with her.

Then I headed down the street for a quince (15 year old birthday party celebrated for girls) for my host cousin. According to Paraguayan custom, parties don’t start until close to bed time, so I spent a few hours at my families house before heading over to the party. I chatted with my mom while shelling peas and then made a fire in her fogon to heat up water. My sister came home from high school and we ate tangerines while she told me about how disappointed she was with her quince 2 years ago. I had a light bulb moment and realized that she was confiding in me, telling me her secrets, and that we had become good enough friends for her to be able to do that. She consulted me on the gift she was giving her cousin and our mom rushed us next door to the party, which was still falta an hour to start.

We sat mostly in silence for about an hour listening to reggaeton music blasting and watched the other guests arrive and quietly take their seats. I can’t say that Paraguayan events are ever not awkward, but the awkward becomes normal and expected. I have found my place with the children at social events and made friends with boys and girls between the ages of 8 and 17. When there were enough guests and the hour was deemed late enough, the food was served around two long tables shoved together. We downed it with soda and then took group pictures around the cake. My host sister then coerced uncles and cousins to dance a waltz with the quinciñera and as more people joined in, I somehow got shoved into the group and waltzed for a few minutes with my neighbor. The party ended and I walked home with my neighbors, finally going to bed a couple hours after my normal bedtime.

I know that reading over the details of my day nothing sounds very spectacular, but that is only on the very surface. I remember joining Peace Corps and having absurdly high hopes of changing the world, only to arrive in Paraguay and be slapped in the face with reality, trying to hope for change in something, anything other than myself. It has not been easy and it has often not been fun, so out of context, this day has almost no meaning. I have said before that I can’t write about the bad days whether it be too offensive, too angry and bitter, too resentful, or what have you. I still can’t give you all the details of the bad days, but I can tell you why this day was so good and the struggles that I went through to make it that way.

My early morning goes with little explanation. It is not every morning that I get to relax for a couple of hours and not rush off somewhere and the fact that that I didn’t wake up with frost on my lawn only made it better.

When I go to the school now, I get no special treatment, no awkward welcomes, no interruptions in classes and while I will never fully be “one of them,” I am accepted into their group. The teachers respect me, the children love me and while they think I have weird and crazy ideas, I have good ideas. It has taken me many awkward charlas, uncomfortable conversations, and persistent visits for me to get to that point. I can now show up to school and the teachers get excited to work with me as well as the children. It has taken me a year and a half to get there.

I will often go weeks without talking to anyone from the United States. Any day that I get a phone call from home is a good day. Period.

The bread that I made was soft and chewy and the tangerine juice tart and sweet. I have probably spent more time collectively during my time in Peace Corps cooking than I have in all the previous years in my life. I have learned how to make a lot of really cool things, but there were definitely many days when things happened like the bread burned, the cake didn’t rise, the jelly wouldn’t jell, I forgot a cup of flour, or it tasted so bad that my dog got a really big dinner and even she wouldn’t finish it. I know my way around the kitchen but it has come with its fair share of mistakes. Anything that comes out well makes me feel good no matter how many times I’ve made it.

As for my dog, well, like everything else, she is a daily challenge. She is too playful for her own good and I need to keep a better eye on her. As strange as it may be, she has helped me change people’s opinions and helped them grow. At the quince, I saw people pet her. They didn’t pet her because they were trying to suck up to me or because they were pretending to like her. They were petting her for their sheer enjoyment. It has taken me countless awkward conversations and embarrassing situations for those few moments. I appreciate those people petting her so much because on a daily basis, she receives the opposite. She has had rocks thrown at her, sticks thrown at her, multiple dogs attack her because she trespassed, she has been hit, yelled at, and kicked. I am a crazy person because I love my dog; I put her on a leash, I feed her dog food, I give her vaccinations on time, and I put her on a bus and took her to Asuncion to take her to the vet to get spayed. But while most people can’t understand it, they see a difference. They see that she follows me all over and she listens to me and she loves me. Because of all of that, seeing people pet her repeatedly in public and tell her to sit in Guarani gives me untold joy. I don’t know that they treat their own dogs any differently than before, but at least it’s a start.

I feel badly about the chicken, but I don’t think my neighbor is mad at me or my dog. I won’t tell you the things that this neighbor said about me when I first moved in, but I will say they were extremely hurtful and that made it infinitely harder to visit her. I don’t know when the relationship changed, but somehow it did. Maybe it was when I spent an entire day with her and her husband in the hospital, waiting to see a doctor so I could translate for them. Whenever it was, she began to like me and when I left for the states to visit, she cried and said she didn’t want to say goodbye. I was astonished at the woman, but finally came to realize that I can cry and whine over wanting to be treated like an American but she is trying as hard as she can and loving me the way that she knows how. There were a few months when I was so unhappy with my neighbors that I seriously considered moving back with my host family. While it might not be an optimal relationship right now, it is what it is and I am happy to say that I am comfortable going over just to chat with them ever now and then. And as much as it drives me crazy that they literally stare at my house all day, I know they take care of it when I’m gone and will be the first to know if anything unusual goes on. We have both come a long way.

My first few months here especially, I felt like I was continually surprised at events and it took me a long time to understand Paraguayan “etiquette.” I never knew what to expect and wasn’t exactly sure how I was supposed to behave or dress. I feel like I finally know what to expect from any kind of social event. I know the traditions, the customs and my place in that and I find a huge comfort in that.

I went through many months complaining to my friends back in the states and to my mom that I was “all alone” here. It was hard to break through language and cultural barriers and feel like I could make any kind of meaningful connection with anyone. I can’t say that I am replacing any of my friends back in the states and I can’t say that it is in any way the same, but I do feel like I finally have friends. I will never be able to tell my host sister the same things that I tell my mom over the phone, but I can still share things with her, confide in her, and listen to her and that counts for a lot. During most of the quince, Ana, my 10 year old neighbor was sitting next to me and talking to me. She has recently become one of my better friends and will often come up to me for a much needed hug. She held my hand on our walk home that night. It is people like Leti and Ana, the teachers at the school and my neighbor that have taught me more about love and respect than any English speaking person has ever taught me. When I have good days like this one, Leti and Ana only make it better. But even when I have those bad days, they bring a smile to my face with very little effort. They are the reason I stay here and they remind me that even when things completely suck, I have come a long way.

Thursday, August 18, 2011

my stab at permanence

This month marks me living in my house for a full year, the longest I have lived in one place since I moved out of my mom’s house when I was 17. From then on, I was packing up and moving ever few months always with different people. The longest I settled down I think was in an apartment for nine months. Except for one summer when I moved to my mom’s house and shared a room with my sister, I had a total of 11 roommates, five housemates, and a few more suite-mates. I can't really explain why I was always moving and changing everything, it was just that way. I had a brief month of solitude with my own room at my mom’s house before I left for Peace Corps. Over the next seven months, I lived with four different families and shared a room with a host sister (sometimes host brothers and occasionally a grandma) at the last house. I was months past being ready to live by myself. The day finally came when I had a place I could call my own.

Since then, I have gotten various reactions at the site of my house. “You live HERE?” “It’s so… cute!” “How much did you pay for the terciada on your roof? Will you give me your oven when you leave?” “Why is your shower in your kitchen?” My mom said when she came to visit me, she figured she was going on an expensive camping trip and I guess she was right. In fact, if you consider an RV camping, then camping is nicer than my house.

When I first moved in my roof leaked. I have no sink, so I use a palingana (large shallow bucket) or the ground. The water pressure often doesn’t work so the shower literally drips or just doesn’t emit any water at all. The electricity that heats my sometimes dripping showerhead will fluctuate quickly, so that the water will go from a comfortable scalding hot to a shocking freezing cold without warning. There are many places that I can see outside by peeking through my wood paneling and in fact, you could easily get a peep show if while I took a shower if you stood on my porch and peeked through the crack by my window. The corrugated metal roofing makes my house an oven in the summer and a refrigerator in the winter; it will literally be cooler outside in the sun on a summer day or warmer in the shade on a winter day than in my house. The metal roof also makes for very loud rainstorms and hailstorms sound like my house is being torn apart. I’m not sure if it’s because of the constantly fluctuating electricity or just because my refrigerator is old, but it functions like the weather. In the summer it hardly stays cold enough to freeze ice and in the winter if freezes everything including my eggs. I don’t own a modern toilet and instead have my pozo ciego (latrine) about 20 meters behind my house. At night, it gets too dark to see inside the latrine so I have to use a flashlight. If I have to pee in the middle of the night, I just pee on my lawn. I seem to have constant ant invasion problems as if my entire foundation became a giant ant next. I also have more spiders living in my house than I care to count but I assume it’s in the three digits. I generally have electricity and running water, but it will go out sometimes (mostly when there is a storm but sometimes for no reason at all) and it will be out for an hour or a few hours, a day or a few days. I love my house.

Maybe it’s because it’s all my own and after having an absurd amount of roommates in a four year span, I finally have my own space with peace and quiet. And maybe it’s because outside of my precious shack I have over 100 trees on my property, tons of cool fruit trees, beautiful flowers, strange plants I have come to love, and fresh oregano, basil, and mint. But I think I love it mostly because of the amount of sweat, and tears, and blisters, and sadly blood and stitches into this house. If it’s a shack now then it was a weed-overgrown, trash pile of rubble before. Yes, I will curse when my feet touch the cement floor on winter days, wonder why God hates me when the electricity is out for three days and I can’t cook, and pray I don’t have heat stroke when I am in my house in the middle of the afternoon in the summer, but I still love every drafty, cobwebby, musty inch of this house.

I now only have eight more months left here. I guess one year and eight months, one house and zero roommates (other than the dog) is a good stab at permanence for me.

Friday, August 5, 2011

winter in july

It’s winter again in Paraguay. I know this comes as a surprise to many of your northern-hemisphere-ers, but summer up there equals winter down here. Winter in Paraguay means four things: cold, tangerines, tajy flowers, and sugar cane. Ok, so winter means a whole lot more than that, but these are four unique things to this season that stand out to me.

It is cold here, close to freezing actually. I was told that this morning bottomed out at two degrees celcius and I saw frosted grass as I battled my way through the cold to the ruta this morning. I find it extremely difficult not to feel sorry for myself on mornings like this when I have to drag myself out of bed. Showers become optional… or actually, I’ll admit it, they become almost non-existent. My house is wood with several see-through cracks which allow the wind to enter one side and exit the other. My roof is metal which means my house acts like a large refrigerator. Paraguayans go to bed earlier when it is this cold, get up later, and cram people into the same bed in the same way they manage to cram people onto the same motorcycle. I have seen four siblings, ages ranging five to eighteen sharing one full-sized bed. I however, bundle up in as many layers as I can, get in my sleeping bag, and spoon my dog. I think my record for clothing worn durning the day is three pairs of pants, and five layers of shirts/jackets, not including socks, shoes, scarf, and beanie/hood. No really, that is no joke. It hasn’t been as consistently cold this year as it was last year, but still, it’s cold.

One positive thing to the winter is the tangerines. The tangerine season actually starts in fall and ends in spring, but I still think of it as a winter fruit. It is I believe my favorite fruit and my dog Pulgita’s favorite fruit as well. I have been known to eat seven tangerines in a sitting multiple times a day. When I walk to my tangerine trees, Pulgita comes bounding after me, knowing that she gets a treat too. For every couple slices that I eat, she gets one. She chews quickly with her mouth open, tail wagging, and then looks at me expectantly for another one. My new favorite thing this year is tangerine juice. It takes about 35 tangerines and 45 minutes to make two liters of juice. Since I’m a Peace Corps Volunteer with ample time on my hands, this has been happening every couple days and carefully rationed so that it lasts longer than one day.

About the same time that the tangerines are ripe, the sugar cane is ready to cut down as well. My site is a big exporter of sugar cane, so every couple of fields is full of the tall, thick, green, itchy, grass-like, caña dulce (sugar cane) waving in the wind. As the field is cut, the tall green landscape changes into a flat tan one and camionetas (large trucks) precariously stacked with caña dulce pass by my house at all hours of the day and night. I often wonder that they have not taken out the electricity with their caña dulce while passing under the dangerously low electricity lines. Miel de caña (sugar cane honey or molasses becomes available and people go door to door on their motos selling the miel de caña in reused two liter soda bottles. And the other thing sugar cane season means is large groups of men working together in the fields and this is something I don’t enjoy at all. Some of them know me and some of them don’t, but for whatever reason, these boys who call themselves men feel that in addition to machete-ing the caña dulce, it is also thier job to whistle and yell at me as I pass. My walks and runs Turing this time of year almost always are slightly less enjoyable.

And here is my final thing about winter. One of Paraguay’s national flowers is the tajy flower, which comes from the tajy (lapacho) tree. This is a hard wood tree indigenous to Paraguay and in danger of extinction. In the winter after all the leaves have fallen off, hundreds and hundreds of flowers bloom on each tajy in either pink, yellow, or white. You can easily spot a tajy tree in bloom from the air because among all the green, there is a tree bursting with color, impossible to miss. During this time of year, the green countryside is spotted with pink, yellow, and the occasional white; the rest of the normally gorgeous scenery pales in comparison. I wish I had the words, the poetry, to describe the beauty and majesty of these trees., but like many things, neither words nor pictures will do justice. It is something you need to see for yourself. There is a reason it is one of Paraguay’s national flowers and there is a reason that it is special, perhaps spoken of with more respect than the other trees by Paraguayans.

Maybe I find this changing of seasons special because I come from Southern California where there are seasons but they are not dramatic, leading people to claim that Southern California has no seasons. True, LA has no snow, but neither is it 75 degrees every day of the year. Or the changing seasons could be a novelty to me because not only are the changes of seasons so extreme here, but there is little protection from the elements, making both mid-summer and mid-winter miserable. But I think what I like most about the changing seasons is the way that it forces people to connect more with nature. There are different fruits, flowers, and crops for every season and any Paraguayan can list all of them for you. Peoples habits change out of necessity due to the changes in temperature. So while I am miserable in this freezing cold, I know it will warm up and come mid-summer when I am immobile because of the intense heat and humidity I will begin to curse the heat and wish for winter back… well, almost. The bright orange tangerines decorating the trees will disappear but other fruits will be in season even if they aren’t quite as good. The ca;a dulce will all be cut down, other crops planted, the molasses will be replaced with bee honey and my walks will become more peaceful. And sadly, the tajy flowers will fall, painting the ground with color, the last remnant of their beauty for this season.

Monday, July 25, 2011

dreams of Target and washing machines

During my first three months of training, I had a couple of dreams that stuck out to me and made me laugh. I was still going through huge adjustments, like learning to wash my clothes by hand. It was so tiring and time consuming to my and my hands ached for hours afterwards. I couldn’t help but feel awkward as I laboriously scrubbed every inch of my jeans while sitting next to my host mom who busted out three pieces of clothing to my one. I was also still figuring out how and where to buy things I needed. There wasn’t any “normal” grocery store, nor was there a “find-it-all-in-one-place” store. Milk and yogurt came in plastic bags and they sold food by the kilo. In many stores you had to ask for the exact quantity of food that you wanted rather than picking it out yourself and stores seemed to have a rather sad assortment of options. In response to my struggles, I dreamed of using a washing machine and the beautiful ease with which I could use it. I also dreamed that I shopped at Target, a glorious place that offered almost anything I could ask for.

Now, a year-and-a-half into my stay in Paraguay, my dreams and my opinions have changed a bit. I just got back to Paraguay from a three week visit to the States and I was shocked and surprisingly please by a variety of things. I’m sure those watching my reactions were quite entertained. As I flew into Los Angeles, I was conscious of my jaw hanging open at the shock of the enormity of the city. It seemed there was no end to the buildings! My first night in the states, I took off my shoes and started giggling at the feeling of carpet squishing between my toes. My first morning, I opened up the refrigerator and stood there staring for about five full seconds at the incomprehensible amount of food piled in front of me. I went to the beach with my cousins and before my sunscreen was fully soaked in, I went running like a child into the waves, giggling with excitement. I had almost forgotten how good the ocean water felt.

To put this into a little more perspective you need to remember that I live in a very rural area of a almost completely rural country. There are 300 people living in about 100 houses, stretched out between two different streets and about 12 kilometers in my site. This is now normal to me instead of the two dozen houses you would find on one half-kilometer street in the United States. I grew up in the suburbs of LA, thinking that the 60,000 residents of my town seemed few. Now when I go into Asuncion, the capitol and largest city of Paraguay, which boasts of one million people (suburbs included), I get stressed out and overwhelmed.

So here are my experiences with washing machines and Target aver a year-and-a-half of their absence.

I was so excited when I did my first load of laundry that I went skipping out of the laundry room yelling, “Mom! It’s so easy! You just throw your clothes in, pour some soap in, and push a button. You don’t even have to work for it! And it doesn’t even matter when it’s raining. And when it’s done, you just put it in the dryer and it dries it for you!” It felt like a revelation to me, too good to be true. There is, I will admit, a small satisfaction I get from hand washing and air-drying my clothes, but I can’t say that scrubbing red dirt (and with it the color) out of my jeans is something I will ever miss.

My visits to Target and other large stores in general however, was quite a different experience. Even after several visits to those stores in the 3 weeks I was home, I felt somehow traumatized upon leaving. As soon as I walked in, my senses were assaulted with large sale signs, items stacked in front of and in between aisles for maximum advertisement, mood music, people talking over the music, smells of plastic and food and far too buttery popcorn, bright and flashy packages, and lights that made everything look shiny. I distinctly remember trailing behind my friend during my first excursion to Target and I literally stopped when I saw the cheese aisle. Cheese is a luxury for me in Paraguay. Unless I buy farmer cheese in site, I only get a couple chunks of mozzarella if I splurge when I go into Asuncion. I could not comprehend the rows of grated cheese, shredded cheese, jack cheese, cheddar cheese, mild cheddar cheese, sharp cheddar cheese, extra-sharp cheddar cheese, pepper jack cheese, swiss cheese, mozzarella cheese, Mexican blend shredded cheese, and I don’t even know what other kinds of cheese, all packaged brightly by several different brands in various sizes for convenience. Then I passed the cereal and bread aisle. There was an entire aisle for bread and an entire aisle for cereal. I could hardly comprehend why the amount of bread and cereal was necessary and even possible.

I mostly spend my time trailing after people in these stores, not really knowing what to do with myself. My heartbeat always quickened and I was easily and very quickly confused, loosing track of every task at hand. My second visit to a large grocery store almost made me cry and my first visit to Target almost sent me into panic. And the mere thought of Costco… well, we won’t go there… I’m fairly sure that most people though I was just exaggerating, but whether anyone but other volunteers believe me, I promise I was not exaggerating.

When I got back to site, I went down the street to the almacen to do some “Paraguayan campo” shopping. I was very warmly greeted after my long absence and invited to sit down and drink mate. She got my needed food items off her shelves and asked me how my trip was. Granted, I had far less food options (she had run out of tomatoes, one of the three vegetables she stocks), but this time, I wasn’t bothered at all.

After all of that, here are my conclusions: washing machines are absolutely worth dreaming about. Target, on the other hand is definitely not. In fact, I don’t believe I will be sorry if life never permits me to enter another Target again.

Wednesday, June 29, 2011

walking on fire

"Do it Ali! Cross! Go! But if you are scared you shouldn't do it. Cross!" My heart was pounding as I heard all of them yelling at me, and I was slightly fearful but trying to calm myself. Diego grabbed ahold of my hand and pulled me slightly forward, looking intensly into my face. He had just done it twice and the utter calmness of his face only reminded me of how uncalm I was. "Are you ready?" he asked. I nodded my head, took a deep breath, looked at the 2 meters of live coals spread out in front of me and started walking forward.

No, I was not dreaming. I was at San Juan festival. I don't know how San Juan got started, but my best guess is that several Guarani men got very drunk one night and began playing with fire and had so much fun that they decided to make it a tradition. At some point it became a national fire festival celebrated every June 24 with extra celebrations in the weeks prior and folliwing the actual date. It is, I think, my personal favorite tribute to any and all saints. It is also perhaps the only time and place when playing with fire is not only sanctioned by parents, but encouraged, organized, supervized, and funded as well. Every school has a festival as well as many churches and families. In addition to the traditional dance and food normally available, there are games and activities devoted to fire.

A group of men or children dress up as "kamba" in mismatched clothing, masks, capes, antyhing to make them look scary, ridiculous, and protect their true identity. Often the object of the kamba is just to run around and scare people, but sometimes they "capture" people and take them to a "jail" where they must pay a fee to be released. A greasy pole is set up and the kamba must climb the pole in order to shake down the treats on top. There are often small fair-like games set up for the kids to play, but the best games are the ones with the fire. One of my favorites is pelota tata (fire ball) when they set fire to several "soccer balls" and kick them around the field or at each other as if they were passing a real soccer ball. Children are given bundles of kapi'i (long, dried grass), and they set fire to them, running around like children in the United States run around with sparklers on the 4th of July, chasing each other, playing swards, and screaming from sheer joy. They stuff a mans pants and shirt to make a type of scarecrow, tie him up to a soccer post and set fire to him. And as if the element of fire wasn't enough, they often put small explosives in his clothes just for kicks.

In some places, such as the school where my host mom teaches, they still do the jahasa tatapyi ari (we pass over the coals) which is said to only be possible on the eve of San Juan between the hours of 10 and 12 at night. If you do it any other day or any other time, you will be burned. This year I went with my host family to the school, curious about this whole coal walking thing they had been telling me about since last year. At about 8:30, a couple of teachers began setting up a large fire to burn down to coals in preparation for the big event. Every 20 minutes or so, they would put on a couple more logs, keeping the bonfire going. This became another game and the boys started taking running starts to jump over the flames. It was only after two boys, coming from different directions ran into each other and fell, that I heard parents and teachers reprimand for reckless behavior. And it was only after the flames jumped higher than the boys' heads that they took a rest at the game.

At 11:30, the firewood was gone and what was left was a large pile of glowing coals. As couple of teachers began raking out the coals to make a 2 meter walkway, people started asking me, "are you going to do it?" My brother Hugo told me that if I did if first, he would follow and then he took off his shoes and socks in preparation for my crossing. Diego was a tall skinny kid, who did the jahasa tatapyi ari every year and I watched him prepare himself, cool as a cucumber. Wanting to take advantage of the opportunity, but still highly doubtful about the success of the event, I began grilling Diego. "Really, you do it every year? Does it hurt? Does it feel hot? Really, dos it not hurt at all? I don't think I believe you. Seriously, you don't get burned... at all? And you just walk normally?" He patiently explained that no, it didn't hurt and no, you didn't get burned, and yes, you just walk normally. He said that if you are scared you will be burned, but there is no danger. Then he said he would walk across with me and hold my hand. I wasn't convinced and watched in disbelief as he calmly walked across the coals by himself. Others then followed his leand and one show-off danced his way through, upsetting the evenly raked coals.

By this time, the pressure was really on. "Come on Ali! Do it!" My host brother and mom were telling me. "Are you gonna do it?" I asked my host mom. "No!" She shook her head violently. "I'm too scared." Strangers heard the discussion and began to encourage me and then Diego (at least I think that's his name... I forgot the introduction in the excitement of it all) came over to grab my hand and pull me in front of the coals.

I still can't really believe it did it; it seems so insane. Nelly didn't even get a picture because she didn't snap it fast enough. It was quite an adrenaline rush and I will admit my hands were shaking afterwards. And my feet? They have 2 very small and extremely minor burns. Apparently I was still scared when I started walking.

Tuesday, June 21, 2011

and to you, welcome back

The last few months I have been absent from my blog for a variety of reasons which are too many and too complicated to explain here and now. But my most recent excuse is that I was on vacation. After staying put for over a year, I finally got the opportunity to go on vacation with my aunt and uncle. We visited both Brasil and Argentina before doing a very brief tour of Paraguay.

In Brasil we stayed one night in Sao Paulo and four nights in the Pantanal, the largest wetlands of the world. Of course you can`t see much of a city in one night and you could spend a lifetime in the Pantanal and still not see everything. I felt like our time was far too short to see everything that I wanted to see. It was an incredible and fantastic place... except they didn´t speak Spanish or Guarani and they didn`t drink any terere. I felt slightly displaced. After seeing an abundance of animals in the Pantanal, we headed to Iguazu falls in Argentina to see an abundance of water. It was at this point in the trip, my uncle informed me later, that I stoppped speaking English. I don`t think I was fully aware of what I was doing because it came so naturally, but I was told that if there was another person present, I spoke only in Spanish, even when that other person could speak in English. I completely forgot that my aunt and uncle couldn`t follow the conversation and sometimes turned to them as if they would jump in and add a comment but was quickly reminded by the looks on their faces that I would first have to translate. I would translate and then without noticing it, slip back into Spanish.

I didn't fully realize that I missed Pagaguay until we were getting ready to come back and I defnitely hadn't expected to miss it in the week and a half that I was gone. I thought I was sick of Paraguay and sick of the people, yet I found myself longing for both. It wasn't just the language that I was craving, although that was a key part of it. I was aching to sit around and drink terere and joke in Guarani. I wanted to stain my feet again with the red dirt on my street and greet every person I passed. There was something about the land that I missed, as if it had become a part of me.

On the day we left for Paraguay from Argentina, we were picked up by a driver and guide to escort us across teh Argentina border into Brasil and across the Brasilian border into Paraguay and finally drop us off at the airport. It just so happened that both the driver and guide were born and raised in paraguay and before I knew it, the guide and I were talking about Paraguay and its culture. I think we were mostly talking in Spanish, but t be honest, I couldn't tell you which parts of the conversation were in which language. Being from Paraguay, the guide also spoke Guarani and was shocked to hear that I did too. We made a few jokes and I finally heard the sounds coming from my mouth that had been absent for the last week and a half. It felt so good, yet strange after the time off, as if my mouth was scared to speak it again.

Eventually we came to the bridge that connects Brasil and Paraguay and I eagerly leaned forward in my seat, as if that would help us cross faster. As we crossed over onto Paraguayan soil, our guide turned to my aunt and uncle and said, "Welcome to Paraguay! And to you," he turned to me. "Welcome back."

Monday, April 11, 2011

my favorite parts of the day

Recently a friend asked me in an email what my favorite part of the day was and I couldn't think of a specific thing that I do every day because every day is different. I began writing different things that I enjoy about my days here and as I continued writing, I kept thinking of more and more things to add to the list. I only wrote down a few things but I wanted to give myself a more complete list to remind myself of why I love this place because I have too many days when I only remind myself of why I don't like this place. There are some things on this list that while I love, I hate at the same time. Though not everything on the list is necessarily unique to Paraguay, some are, and ever one of them is something I will miss dearly when I leave. So Hannah, here is a complete list of "my favorite parts of the day," and Louis, these are the things that make me happy.

I love that:

...the air always smells fresh in the morning.

...people will still give up their sesat on a bus for elderly people and pregnant women.

...the Paraguayan soil and rains are fertil. I can almost literally watch my plants grow.

...I can go to the dispensa to buy and egg and stay for 2 hours drinking terere

...when kids pass my house to and from school, they should out "Ahleesohn!" repeatedly as they pass.

...in the summer my boss asked me if I had a hammack and then told me to enjoy my extra free time.

...I can wake up and drink coffee and watch the sunrise

...I have an open invitation to eat lunch, use the shower, spend the night, or stay forever 10 minutes down the road in either direction.

...when I meet a Paraguayan for the first time, I can expect with very few exceptions the same range of about 15 questions no matter who they are, including but not excluded to: Do you have a boyfriend? Do you have a boyfriend in the States? If you find a boyfriend can you bring him back with you? Do you know how to drink terere? do you know how to eat Paraguayan food? Do you know how to speak Guarani? Do you miss your family?

...you can pick leaves off of almost ay tree for a yuyo to put in your terere.

...you can search in the lawn for certain roots to use in terere.

...Paraguayans have a plant remedy for almost any ailment or medical problem you could think of, and a few extra for ones that you would probably never think of.

...they use "hape" at the end of any kind of event from a fiesta to shucking corn, or a dog in heat.

...a rainy day is a perfectly acceptable excuse to stay in bed and read all day.

...my host dad will walk into the middle of a meeting of women and walk around to greet and shake hands with everyone while they are still talking. Asi es la cultura.

...half of my women's commission is related to each other.

...within the limits of a few degrees and with very few exceptions, my entire community is related to each other. No joke.

...when people great each other they say, "nde guapa/a" (you are hard working) and the response is, "hee, che guapa/o" (yes, I am hard working).

...almost anything I do from baking a cake to walking half an hour to the ruta, to knowing a store in Asuncion that sells soap materials, to saying 3 words in Guarani makes me either guapa or vale (inteligent).

...I have time to do cool things like make homemade bread, read, plant flowers, write blogs, or just sit and talk with people.

...I have easily over 100 trees on my property.

...where I live right now is the most beautiful place I have ever lived in.

...I never have to worry about being late because everything here functions on la hora Paraguaya.

...almost all of my food products are far fresher than I ever got in the United States.

And maybe the thing that I love most about this country is that terere is univeral. The buisnessman, polititian, teacher, and feild worker all drink it and will invite you to share with them.

Friday, April 1, 2011

its the simple things

I have been putting off writing this blog for a while and I'm not really sure why. Maybe it is because of laziness, or maybe it is because I wasn't sure how to describe the relationship that I have with my 70-something year old neighbor. I guess Akilina and her husband Aurelio would be the closest thing I have to Paraguayan grandparents. They live about 2 minutes away from my house and I visit them often because she owns an almacen (small store). I often walk over there to buy a few things and will sit down to drink terere first and chat.

She has an old balance which she uses to measure the weight by kilo of the food she sells like flour, tomatoes, noodles, sugar, or onions. She first puts the weights on one side of the balance and then slowly pours out the flour or sugar with her measuring cup or changes around the tomatoes until both sides are even. Then without fail she will look up at me, widen her eyes, smile with her toothless gums, and sometimes add a little "hee hee," as if to say, "good for me." When I buy bananas from her, Aurelio always tells her to pick out the best ones for me and even though I am already getting them for a ridiculously low price, she usually gives me a couple extra for free.

One day I showed up and all of her mercaderia had recently been delivered and was sitting on her table. "You ordered milk this time," I said while rifling through the food items. "Yes. And you are going to help me put it all away," she told me. So I carried in all of the heavy items and then helped her figure out how much she needed to sell milk in order to make a profit.

Another day I was sitting with her drinking terere on her patio and watching her husband and son put long dried grass called kapi'i on the roof of thier patio extension. "Do you use that in your country for roofs?" she asked me, pointing at the kapi'i.

I considered saying while I don't remember it specifically, I was sure we had long grass in my country, though I don't have a feild full of it in my backyard. But according to California fire codes, said grass would not be used for roofing. I decided that would be too complicated an answer and said, "No we don't have that. It is actually not legal becasue it catches fire easily."

"But you don't have it?" she asked.

I hesitated. "No we don't."

"Oh, well that would be difficult then," she concluded. And that was that.

I think that is what I appreciate about her. The simpleness. She wasn't looking for an elaborate explanation of what my house is like in the United States, which is what some people ask me. She was just trying to imagine my house in another country with what she already knew. Instead of thinking that I am better than her because I am a rubia or thinking I am rich becasue I am from the United States, she just sees me as another person and that is what allows us to be friends.

I kept procrastinating writing this blog because I kept on trying to think of an elaborate way to describe our friendship, or a better way to tell the details. But the thing is, my point wasn't to tell you that she is in my women's commission or that we made peach jam together, or that I was invited to Aurelio's 80th birthday party or that they give me free bananas. I just wanted to tell you that though she is over 50 years older than me, she is my friend. It is simple, but that's why I like it.

Tuesday, March 15, 2011

what language am i speaking in now?

"Then you mix it all in the... wait, Jake, how do you say balde in English?" I heard a chuckle and then, "bucket." "Oh ya, bucket!" I laughed and continued my explanation. I was doing a volunteer led training session with the new group of health trainees and as they had only been in country for about 2 weeks, they had not yet adopted the usual set of vocabulary words in Spanish and Guarani that most volunteers end up filtering into their everyday vocabulary. I was having trouble with a few words specifically and sometimes made no distinction between the languages. I thought I was speaking in English, but caught myself several times inserting a Spanish word for an English one. I think the trainees got a kick out of it and found it amusing that I stumbled so much over my words and the trainer too, laughed when he had to translate my mistakes.

Other than the phone calls I get from my mom every other week and the couple that I have gottne from friends, I have not spoken English with anyone who is not Peace Corps related since October when my mom came to visit me. By then it had only been 8 months since I had had a face to face conversation in English with someone who was not in Peace Corps. My mom said she did´t notice it that much, but I felt a huge delay in my English conversations. I found that I made more pauses in the middle of my sentences and had to stop to think of certain words. It was only by the end of the week that I felt like I was speaking English normally again, without pauses and blanks in my thoughts.

I have in the last few months found that Guarani is slowly infiltrating my Spanish the same way that Spanish infiltrated my English. There are certain words and phrases in Guarani that find their way into my mouth fast than Spanish ones. I was speaking to someone in Spanish about buying milk from my neighbors cow and I said, "Pero ella ...okamby muy tarde" (but she milks her cow very late). Then I laughed, "how do you say that in Spanish?"

I remember during training our trainer told us, "I came here speaking one language and I will leave here not being able to speak three." Even if people came here already speaking Spanish, they still had to learn Guarani. When you learn a language, you have to learn to think in that language and I suppose that is why we have adopted the Spanish or Guarani version of many words or phrases. Because the bucket is in Paraguay, it is not a bucket but a balde. In the same way, my school is my escuela, my high school is my colegio, and the field is the chakra. It seems that between volunteers there is a new language created, a strange hybrid mix of an English base, strongly seasoned with Spanish and Guarani. I have even sent and recieved text messages with other volunteers that are half in Spanish and half in English. Apparently, Spanish and Guarani have become such a part of my life that I dont even remember what language I am speaking in anymore.

Thursday, March 3, 2011

so you are german, right?

On my entering the office in the department of agriculture, a slightly overweight man standing in front of the secretary's desk turned around. "An angel just walked in behind me to guard me," he all but yelled out. Both of the office ladies froze to stare at me, the man took a step towards me, and the Paraguayan lady that was with me stepped further back, hiding behind me and the doorframe. Once again, I became the spotlight, a highly undesireable position for me. "Every day I have an angel to guard me and today I look up and there you are. You are my angel," the man continued.

"Yep, I'm your angel for the day," I joked. Then I turned to my friend, hoping to direct some of the attention off of me, "Or does he mean you?"

"No, He's talking about you," she said and quietly hid again in the shadows.

The secretaries had gone back to writing but were still listening and giving me frequent glances. The man advanced. "You speak Spanish, English?" he asked me in English with a heavy accent.

"English," I say.

"Are you German?" he continues in Spanish.

"No, I´m from the United States."

"Oh yah, you guys come over here already speaking our language and you speak Guarani. You study before you get here," he continues. As he lists American grouips he has come in contact with such as Jehovah's Witness and Mormans, I try and get in a side word by suggesting Peace Corps. "Oh, Peace Corps," he says. "But they are worse. They come over here with their military. Are you one of them?" I barely have time to tell him that yes I am a Peace Corps Volunteer but I'm not military before he continues. "Yah, you guys are all military. I've seen your office on Chaco Boreal, almost Mariscal Lopez. They have five guys out there with guns and they check everyone that goes in there," he tells me as hi mimicks frisking himself. I open my mouth to say that they just have to keep the office safe so they have Paraguayan police officers keep security, but this guy is on a role and is not about to stop to hear what I have to say. "You guys are all military and intelligence for your goverment. You come over here and you live all over and you know what we do and you tell your country. Do you have to write reports up?" he asks, his eyes boring into mine.

I am now feeling slightly uncomfortable, my friend has all but disappeared, the secretary is winking at me as if to tell me she's sorry, and the man is now about a foot away from me and looking larger than he did before. I start stuttering, trying to think of a non-implicating answer, although I know it will help my case very little at this point. The secretary calls him over to give him his papers and send him to the waiting room. He exits carefully, fully facing me and backing out of the doorway while telling me that my goverment knows what people in every pueblo eat. I find this particularly amusing as Paraguayans all accross the country differ very little in their eating habits.

Within less than three minutes I was called an angel, German, US military, and CIA. While my job description seems ever elusive to me, being a guardian angel, and handling weapons and high level security is definitely not part of it. And the only German word I know is "nein." While this was a particularly strange and more intense encounter, I have been called all of those things before and I'm sure I will hear them again. One lady in my site has I think asked me on five seperate occasions if I speak German and if I am from Germany. Just the other day I walked up to her house and she was talking to her daughter on the phone and told her that the German (me) had come to visit her. I have given her up as a lost case and didn't correct her. If people don't think I am military or intelligence, they usually thing I am a misisonary or studying in an exchange program. As if I wasn't already confused enough about who I am here and what I'm doing here, I have a lot of people trying to convince me that I am here for reasons that I'm not. Even after I explain what I am doing here, some people (including myself) still don't understand my job or why I would be crazy enough to give two years of my life with essentially no pay to "help people."

I used to be semi-insulted by claims like these but I have learned to take it as part of the deal and remember that one of the three goals of Peace Corps is to educate the host country about the United States. Unfortunately that doesn't go well when people try to tell me that I am in fact from Germany. So until I learn to speak German, sprout wings on my back, join the military, or am employed by the CIA, I will continue to refute all of those claims. Well, actually, even if the CIA does employ me, I´ll still deny it.

Wednesday, February 9, 2011

why i do what i do

"Buenas tardes," I call, slipping through the barbed wire fence, hoping my clothes haven't caught on the wire. Pulgita has already slipped under the fence, way ahead of me and enerjectically greeting their dog.

"Buenas tardes," Claudia responds, sitting in her low seated metal chair, and throws a limp, but now clean towel into a bucket of water. "Eguaheke," (arrive), she tells me in Guarani. "Ajohei che ao ha upei, ja'u terere," (I wash my clothes and then we drink terere), she says as I pull up a chair beside her in the shade.

"Good grief, does she ever stop?" I think. I know already the answer is no, which is exactly why I came at this hour. Most Paraguayans take a siesta or rest during the hottest part of the day but Claudia just keeps on plugging away, taking advantage of the time to wash her clothes, shell peanuts, rearange her kitchen, or some other project. The only time I have come to visit her and have found her sitting down or resting is when she has stopped working to drink terere. But most of the time, she just works. Out of all the Paraguayan women I know, she just might be the most guapa and I have a deep respect and admiration for her.

But that's not it, Claudia is one of the few people I call my friend and really mean it. I am typically wary of telling anyone any kind of personal information because I have heard creative lies and gossip about me and what I do, but Claudia has proved over and over than what I tell her doesn't get repeated to other people. Her jokes are never stinging, but said because she loves to tease and because she cares about me. She is also one of the few people that doesn't make me feel stupid. I lived with her family my third month in site and we got into a good rythm of communicating with her limited Spanish and my limited Guarani. Our conversations were full of repeated sentences, explanations, laughs, and an occasional translation from her daughter. Even with my somewhat improved Guarani, our conversations go back and forth between my white girl Guarani and her 5th grade Spanish.

I think most Americans would consider her poor, but what she lacks in monetary wealth, she more than makes up for in her hospitality and generosity. As different as our income levels are, and as popular a subject as my money is here, she manages not to see a problem or injustice in that. If money is ever mentioned with her, it is said as a fact, not a complaint. When I am getting ready to leave her house and she hasn't already found something to give me, she says, "mba'epa ame'e ndveve," (what will I give you?). She tells me that I have won her heart and that I bless her, so she is always trying to give me gifts. Five kilos of mandioca, a grocery bag of peanuts, more green peppers than will stay fresh in a week, 2 liters of milk, 50 bananas, half a dozen eggs, half a kilo of pig meat, mandioca flour,a bottle of honey, an entire asadera of chipa guazu, and anything she can think of to give me and make me agree to carry home with me.

Her hostpitality, generosity, and guaponess remind me of the good things here and why I truly love this country. It is people like her that remind me why I am here and make me feel like I am actually making some sort of difference here. It's really not about getting projects done, it's about the people and having friendships like hers that make my job worthwhile.

Tuesday, January 11, 2011

the case of the lost underwear

I was 18 years old in my college dorm laundry room, sitting on one of the dryers and facing the boy I imagined myself in love with. We were using the toasty dryers as chairs, chatting, and waiting for our clothes to dry. A mutual friend, David, came in and joined the conversation as he changed his clothes from washer to dryer. He stopped and chuckled, “Oops, someone dropped their undies.” My mind froze and silently prayed to God that it wasn’t mine. The guy I liked leaned over to check out the lost underwear, thereby socially forcing me to join the peep show, and sure enough they were mine. They were the pink stripped ones that I hated. I laughed uncomfortably, trying to figure out the best plan of action. I though for a few seconds too long, and by the time David asked whether they were mine, I felt the option of claiming them had long since passed. I don’t know if I denied that they were mine because of the guy I liked, or because they were pink, but it was done and there was no backing down. When I exited the laundry room with the rest of my clothes and the boy I liked, I left the pink underwear on the floor. I pondered for a few minutes on returning to claim the underwear but didn’t’ want to find myself in the embarrassing position of running into either of the two boys and with the undies in my hand. Instead, I told my friends who laughed heartily at me, secretly found them, washed them in the sink, and left them in my mail box with a fake note from the boy I liked. To this day, I am ashamed of that denial.
I am not however, ashamed of my underwear anymore. Not to say I have nice underwear. They are actually mostly worn through pieces of fabric, decorated with barbed wire holes. I just don’t care if people see them, and really don’t have a choice in the matter. Washing clothes in Paraguay is very different than from my college dorm. I first put soap and water into a shallow bucket called a palingana along with the clothing. Then I use a bar of soap to suds the clothes more and scrub each piece of clothing thoroughly with my hands. When it comes to the tougher stuff like jeans, towels, and sheets, I lay it flat on one of my wooden chairs and scrub it with my bristle brush that conveniently doubles as my foot scrub, removing not only the red dirt, but also the top layer of skin. Once clean, and slightly more worn looking, the clothes are thrown into another palingana and I go through the process of rinsing and wringing out everything four times, dumping out the palinganas, and refilling as I go. This can be an exhausting process when the laundry includes a load of sheets, or a heavy blanket, or just half my wardrobe. Then everything has to be hung out to dry in my yard. This is all in plain site of my neighbors, with a nice, pretty row of colorful underwear and bras for good measure. People often walk by my hanging laundry while passing through my backyard. There is no option of denying whose underwear is whose. It’s all mine.
When I lived with host families, I had people wash my underwear for me, and comment on how nice it was. I had people take down all my underwear from their spot on the barbed wire to save it from the rain. Not only did people see my undergarments, but they touched them and talked about them too. When I do my laundry, one of my neighbors will typically comment on it. “You did laundry today Ali?” they ask, while looking over at my dripping clothes. No, I have let go of those reservations of claiming my pink or otherwise colored underwear. I now think it’s normal for guys to pass the row of underwear, neatly lined up outside my house. Maybe to them it’s just not as big of a deal, it’s just norm
al. Underwear is underwear and everyone has it (or should at least).
That same pink piece of underwear somehow lasted me through the rest of college and made it to Paraguay. Sometimes I laugh when I see it hanging outside my house for the world to see. If it happens to fall off the clothesline, I won't wait for a friend to claim it for me first.