when you trade one life for another

I can’t tell you when it happened or how, but it happened through a string of events that took place over the last 26 months. Paraguay became my home. There were many phases: I was enamored with the place and the people, I hated everyone and everything, and finally I came to appreciate the country and the people for what they were, good and bad. Here I am with only 3 weeks left in country, trying to figure out how to pack up and say goodbye to what has been my life for the last two years. Even as I write this, I struggle with what to say and what to leave out because there is so much to tell, so much that has happened, so many events that have made me who I am today. I have already started packing and cleaning out my house, sorting out what things to give away to other volunteers, what to give to my family, and what to leave for my follow-up. I have few material possessions that mean a lot to me, but I am leaving behind the things that mean the most and have been vital to my survival here.
When I started my women’s commission, it was painful dragging them through the meetings and making them participate, but at my last meeting, they conducted the entire meeting and made all the decisions, including when and where my pig would be killed for my despedida. Many of those women have overinflated ideas of what I am capable of, but I appreciate their faith in me nonetheless. I can not imagine a job more fulfilling than watching their progress these last two years. I will soon be trading these commission meetings on tajy benches under my mango tree for classes at Columbia’s School of Social Work in New York City. I don’t think I can speak full sentences in English without reverting to Spanish and Guarani phrases, much less write papers at a masters level. Rather than passing around a terere guampa with señoras, I will be passing around notes and ideas with my classmates.
Upon arrival in Paraguay, I got teased because I complained about the food more than everyone and would refuse to eat the greasy tortillas and dry mandioca. Now if I eat with Paraguayans, I prefer to eat with mandioca and my family makes fun of me when we make chipa guazu because I will eat as much of it as I can get my hands on. If we make tortillas, I ask to put cheese in it because they are absolutely delicious that way. I buy chipa all the time when I’m on the bus and there are very few days that go by without me drinking mate at least once. Terere is a must. I realize I am returning to the land of coffee shops, endless peanut butter, a variety of vegetables, good hummus, pickles, and cheddar cheese, but I will never again be able to gobble down half an asadera of chipa guazu, eating until my stomach hurts. Nor will Claudia ever send me home again with more chipa that I could possibly eat in a week. Also, the idea of having the amount of choices offered in grocery stores just plain intimidates me.
I have come to love and appreciate the outdoors in a way I never knew. I rarely eat inside and want fresh air if I am indoors for more than a couple of hours. I can name all the trees in my backyard and tell you which ones are used for remedios in mate and terere and will sometimes pick plants from the street to smash up later for my terere. I love listening to the rain and the thunder and am fairly good at predicting whether it will rain or not depending on the clouds and the air. I can also usually tell you about what time it is by looking at the placement of the sun in the sky. I am leaving a tropical environment full of trees for the semi-desert of California and the skyscrapers of New York. How I have missed the ocean! But I can’t begin to put into words the aching of my heart for the red dirt and the trees and the indescribable sunrises and sunsets of this place. I wonder how I can give up my wooden house for an apartment and trade my trees for taxis.
I remember the awkward feeling I used to have sometimes just walking down the street, or sitting with people because life here was not normal yet. I don’t know if the awkwardness is still there or if I just don’t notice it anymore because people look at me as one of their own. People have told me that I am an important member of the community, someone that is like family to everyone, and a Paraguayita. While visiting my friends and families, strangers who pass by will ask if I am a daughter, a cousin, etc. because I talk and act like them. My friend Aquilina has referred to me as a granddaughter, my friend Claudia has called me her daughter, and my closest and dearest host family always tells me that I am another member of their family. Even though I live by myself, I will often spend the entire day with my family, showing up for breakfast and leaving at bedtime. I sometimes spend the night and have shared beds with all of my siblings. My sister tells me her secrets and my little brother likes to see how much he can tease me before I yell at him. How do I even begin to say goodbye to that?
It’s not that I don’t miss my family in the states and it’s not that I don’t want to see them, it’s just that I still don’t know how to leave behind this life I have built for myself and transition into another. I will live within easier access to my family, with cheaper phone calls, and better internet, but I will live across the country and a three hour time difference, the same time difference there is currently between California and Paraguay. I am not “coming home” in the way that many people think I am. I am leaving a home I have created here and am going to create another one. It’s not even truly fair to say I am trading this life in Paraguay for one in New York because I will always keep a little bit of Paraguay in my heart just like I will always have roots in Southern California where I grew up and the sun always shines. I will perhaps one day allow the New York skyscrapers to take a place in my heart next to the Californian ocean and the Paraguayan trees.

even more fotos

check out recent photos of my trip to uruguay, my commission and their fogons, and other stuff around my community.

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

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

more pictures

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

updated photos. i changed the photo site to photobucket.

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?

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.