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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.