El Godfather in El Salvador

I’d heard it a million times before, but it took a true encounter to really feel it’s effects: “Sometimes it takes a monkey to remind us what is really important”.

Okay maybe I am remembering it wrong.

But all I know is that Soledad and her spider-monkey companions touched the hearts of my father and I in a remarkable way.

You see in a tiny section of southern El Salvador, in the department of Usulutan and the Bay of highly-un-pronouncable Jiquilisco, there is a protected section of mangroves that hides the only habitat of precious monos in the country. These little monkeys were discovered by a little old man who lives in a little old house tucked away in this little old village. As he will share with you if you ever happen to stumble across this hidden gem, two or three monkeys began to appear by his house when he relocated after the civil war. In his torn collared shirt and with one eye carefully watching over this two naked grandchildren playing beneath the guineo trees, he will tell you in his own words how he innocently placed bananas on the ground and he slowly gained the monkeys trust. Forty years have passed and the monkeys have multiplied to become twenty. The old man still lives in the same old ranch working in the same old fields and he will admit to you that he still knows not a damn old thing about how to raise monkeys.

“Can I hold one?” I ask, playing the part of dumb-tourist waiting to get her camera stolen and eyes scratched out.

“You know, I heard you can get them to do that. Some lady told me there’s a program on TV that will teach you how to hold a monkey. But I don’t have electricity” the old man casually replies.

So they don’t do tricks. You can’t really cradle Soledad and then expect her to put on a bicycle show for you. You won’t see this old man and his family sitting down to a spaghetti dinner with organgutan-Jim and his friends.

It’s just a guy, who lives in a ranch and every so often holds out some bananas while making some jungle sounds and the monkeys come-a-swinging through the trees and hang out for awhile.

It’s as simple as that and there is something so beautiful about it all.

There is one monkey, who was placed in a cage after the other monkeys through her from the trees and left her for dead. This monkey, Soledad, was found in a different area, after her habitat was destroyed. Unfortunately, the monkey tribe from the Bay of Jiquilisco refused to accept her and old man was forced to put her up in a tiny cage for her own protection.

This is the one who will reach out and gently ask for you to hold her hand, as she hides her face with pena.

I believe my father felt the same compassion, the same grief, longing, the same desire for companionship in the hands of Soledad as I did when she reached out to us.

I have read it a million times. I see it everyday. I say it myself. But yet none of us ever seem to want to accept it. Really, nothing matters in life besides companionship; the relationships we form with people. Money comes and goes. Jobs are jobs. We can overcome most any hardships that come our way. But loneliness destroys us.

To share compassion with another human being, another soul, Curious George even, fills us with an invaluable treasure.

And so it was that monkeys laid the footwork for my father’s visit to El Salvador.

From the airport rent-a-car to waking up at the beach on Day 1, our trip was full of fun and a lot of luxuries that I was not exactly used to in my time here. But far more memorable than the 3 lbs of good coffee and the bus/chicken-free day trips, were the conversations, the new experiences, the smiles and laughter shared with my Dad that week in El Salvador.

Day 2 we enjoyed El Boqueron, the infamous volcano of San Salvador where my Dad experienced his first “hike” and we enjoyed fresh cheesecake on the misty cliff of the mountainside. In the capital city we “enjoyed” some cow heart and liver for dinner before checking out the Salsa dance scene in a local bar. Up early the next day, we started the 4 hour drive to my quaint little community in North-Eastern El Salvador.

That Friday afternoon the town Adult Literacy Group was celebrating their successful year and asked me to give a few words, as I had been working with them for the past 2 years as well. My Dad watched, mostly dumbfounded as he witnessed his first day of complete Spanish Language Immersion. The community watched, equally dumbfounded, as my 6 foot tall, 250 lb “Godfather”-father towered through the community.

The next three days were spent exploring La Montana, from ducking into tiny mud-huts to accepting many plates of beans, rice and cuajada. My Dad tried diligently to communicate with the many little children who stared shamelessly up at my father’s Italian eyes, but I can promise you they were much more interested in his great pansa than the words that were coming out of his mouth.

We hiked up to the waterfalls (and then stumbled down them, nearly taking Franklin’s life), shared a few drinks with the local bolos after tasting Dora’s famous pupusas and headed to bed amongst the neighborhood’s barking chuchos and squaking roosters. I slept tranquilo through these quite welcomed community sounds, only to be disturbed by my Dad ringing out his wet laundry.

Monday morning we started to drive west, making a quick detour to drop off my friend Modesta at a local pig farm. It was that first day that we stumbled across the monkeys and also the first opportunity for my Dad to speak English as we spent the night at a private Yacht Club.

We took a little boat right across the Bay where I learned a lot about my Dad’s childhood growing up in Queens and starting a newspaper business with his older brother. I quietly listened to his interesting stories about what made his life what it is, and grin now remembering some parts that I probably shouldn’t write about.

He asked me questions like if I remembered the first day we saw our boat that would later become “King James”, that would hold many hiding-place-cabinets for my sister and I’s hide-and-seek games. The boat that would take traditional summer trips to see the MACY’s July 4th fireworks and be a platform for diving off into the warm coves of Hamburg.

Questions of my first childhood memory, Christmas Eve family parties and growing up with three sisters, all carefully designed by my mother to study hard, play soccer, take piano lessons, eat carrots and always be polite.

We spent the night in a beautiful little 2-story cabin tucked among the mangroves and had breakfast with a Canadian couple who had been sailing around the world for quite some time. Then we continued our journey out west, where we stopped to have lunch at the Port and then drove way out to the Lake of Coatepeque in Santa Ana. We had some dinner overlooking this beautiful crater lake where we ran into a travelling European Shakespeare group. It was quite lovely and rather odd to have stumbled upon this proper theatre ensemble, but the new company and interesting talk was welcomed.

From there we continued out to Ahuachupan where we had dinner and drinks in Ataco with a fellow volunteer. The next morning was spent exploring this beautiful little pueblo where the streets are decorated in amazing artwork and the stores will have you lost in an Alice-Wonderland.

Driving back towards the capital, through the winding roads of the coffee farmlands, we ran into The Waterfalls of Don Juan where we took a quick detour to see the falling-falls. Then it was back to civilization as my heart began to ache as the timekeeper lost his holding on time.

We enjoyed a sushi dinner at Mai Tai and maybe a few cuba libres before it was all over too quickly.

My week with my father was a very happy week. I was really proud to show him what I am doing here, to introduce him to the people I have met and who have come to “raise” me, and proud to show him this country that is often overlooked as a place to fall in love with.

I am happy here and in the work I am doing here and vow to continue my search for a happy life. That is why it was so important to have my Dad here with me to witness it. To share it.

The Art of Happiness says “And as we begin to identify the factors that lead to a happier life, we will learn how the search for happiness offers benefits not only for the individual but for the individual’s family and for society at large as well.”

My experience here has been truly amazing, and to be able to share it with my father, who I think greatly feared/disliked the idea of me coming here in the first place, has been lo maximo. I mean, if you grew up knowing my Tony Soprano, Goodfellas loving, pinky-ring-wearing-Dad, you probably would have never pictured him roughing it in rural El Salvador. But I have the photos to prove it.

And the memories that will last a lifetime.

A Big Thanks...and More Support...

NUMBER 1....

Right now I am at the Professional Development Camp for youth that was made possible by donations from friends and family at home.

I want to sincerely thank you all for donating and supporting my projects here in El Salvador. I am amazed by the successful experience our community kids are having at this camp, as I watch them on day 2. The change in their demeanor, the confidence they have already gained, the laughter, the new friendships, the bright eyes, is very rewarding.

Many of these kids have traveled across the country and are spending 2 nights with a new group of kids from around El Salvador. My fellow 8 PCVs and friends and I have designed this camp to provide Professional Development skills to deserving youth. After months of planning and fundraising, it has been exciting and highly rewarding to see the camp at work and the kids progress.

I want to Thank Everyone who donated for making this amazing opportunity possible. Soon you shall see photos posted on Facebook!

NUMBER 2....

For the past few months, my Community Development Team in La Montana and I have been designing the plans and work committees to build a foot-bridge over a creek in my community. Hundreds of men, women, and children cross this creek to get to school, to the coffee fields, or to the town center. During this time of year, the creek floods making the passage near-impossible.

I have been approved my Peace Corps to make this project possible through writing a Peace Corps Partnership Grant which is posted on the official PeaceCorps.gov project website, under my last name.

If you would be able to spare some fancy dinner money or some happy hour specials to this cause, it would be immensely appreciated.

I have agreed to extend my service to see this project through if needed and while I love La Montana and its members, I deeply miss my family and friends at home and hope that I will be back to see them as planned in March!

So every DAY counts. If you can afford to donate, please DO IT, and most politely, DO IT NOW!!!!!

Thank you so much in advance.

Thank you to those who have already donated. Thank you to those who read. Thank you to those who care and support and love and are spreading the love!

xoxoxo
from El Salvador

Listen

Listen

Let our breath be gentle wind,
Let our ears be of those who listen,
Let our hearts be not ones
That rage so quickly and
Thus blow dramatically,
And uselessly.
Let our spirits attend and be
Most diligent to the soft
Yet desperate whisper of
Hope and peace for our world.

-Mattie J.T. Stepanek
Ambassador of Humanity


It was 5:05am. I was freshly bathed, hair still well and toes rubbery. I swung my backpack around onto my lap and strategically placed one-full and half-the-other butt cheek on the miniature bus benches, using my right hand to brace myself for the dips and climbs and my left hand to cradle my bundle of capital clothes and hot-water-awaiting toiletries tucked safely in my mochila.

My eyes were just rolling back in my head as some old feller (or perhaps young lad) stomped his green rubber boots upon my helpless left foot and I sprung ferociously back to life. Alls I saw was the back of his head as he anonymously marched away and I stared down at the victim that was my foot. Covered in mud, with pieces of corn stalk and grass creeping out from between the crevices, I wondered what percentage of the guck was cow maneur. In my head I replayed the scenario over and over, right eye twitching uncontrollably and mouth taut. My eyes were beating down on my toes like those of hypnotized Aladdin under Jafar’s evil trance and for an undefined period of time I lost all sense of human character traits. Im not sure if it was the frustration of the return to dirty-campo-toes or the actual worms and critters living in the muck upon my foot, but the agony began eating me alive. My left foot began scraping itself against the bus bench in front of me in a desperate attempt to quitar the foot-parasites. I’m not actually sure what else was happening to my body in those moments of internal rage but I can imagine my body rocking back and forth (as I relive this awful memory) and my fingers tapping rhythmically.

My trance was disturbed as a guy my age sitting across from me reached across and handed me a napkin.

My face immediately turned red as my ridicul-osity (some words just make sense even if they don’t appear in Websters) dawned on me. I feared how long this guy had watched me suffer over a dirty pinky toe. Although by that moment I was beyond all concept of time. I cleaned myself off, returning to my abnormal state of having mud-less toes, in a total of 37 seconds and graciously/shamefully thanked my good Samaritan.

The rest of the trip I had random fits of giggles over the mess that I became at the site of my tainted toes, interspersed with revels of my once again sparkling foot.

My month has been marked with stores like this; dreadful nightmares alleviated by wonderful awakenings.

A few weeks ago I came back from that bus trip to find out my beloved chucho had been run over by a car. Before you worry, my dog is alive and well (with the exception of a mangled tail). But for a good week or so, I was not sure. And while I was pained by Vaquito’s suffering, I was glad to see that he had finally learned his lesson and was no longer chasing the passing motorcycles or throwing himself Extreme-Sport-style in front of pick-up trucks.

The story I was told by my 9-year old neighbor was that he “quedo muerto” (was lying for dead) on the side of the road for awhile, after a long fit of ear-piercing yelps for help. It was then that his mara of neighborhood dog-buddies came to his rescue, lifting Vaquito on their backs and dragging him to safety.

I would love to think this as true and am awaiting offers for his leading role in Lady and the Tramp 3. But however it came to be, I am very grateful for his survival. A week he laid upon my dirty patio, echar-ing a smell that I thought was quite indicative of his demise, and I prayed silently for his peace. I even went to the nearest vet I could find and bought him some meds and while the expiration date read November 2007, I was confident he would pull-through. And he did.

And now, I worry practically never for his survival among the moto’s and pick-ups. The bucking bulls and kicking caballos are another story…

Nightmare number 3 can be explained in 2 words: rainy season. If there is one thing I took for granted in New York, it was mold-less clothes. Things just don’t dry here. My clothes were on the line after a weekend by the beach, as a few rays of sun were beaming down upon them in their best efforts to beat the 4pm showers. However, without warning, the hot day turned sour in a matter of seconds as the rain began to fall. I began tearing my clothes down from the line like a maniac, my neighbor and good friend Lucy running to help. As we repositioned the clothes on a line inside my home to await their moldy destiny, Lucy asked me why I washed my other neighbor, Karime’s clothes. Karime is 5. For a few moments I was confused, and then as she gentley placed my mini-jean shorts (stolen from my sister on her visit and ONLY wore when my community is NOWHERE in site) on the line. You see, women in the countryside DO NOT show anything above the knee. My jean shorts worn at the beach and small tank tops could only be perceived as Karimes. Fortunately, my explanation was not needed as we began to hear a pelting sound on my tin roof and ran to look out the windows. It was hailing! Well never in my year and a half here did I think it would ever hail in El Salvador! How cool…

My final story is yet again about the lack of privacy I have here in my little house. I honestly think only a handful of days have gone by when I have not had a visitor. Sometimes my blood starts curdling at the sound of approaching “strangers”. And I feel bad about it, I do. I know they are all in good intentions. And I really love them as people, I do. But sometimes, you just wanna be alone. You wanna read in the hammock or do yoga without someone staring at you.

There is one family, in particular, that comes by for no good reason. I have learned though, I think, to stay in good spirits. To appreciate the fact that they want to spend time with me. And so, as I played with my 4 year old friend the other day, I laughed instead of lamented. As we spent the day listening to Aventura while coloring and then dancing to “Si no le contesto se desespera”, I got to know Franky on a different level. Before he left, his mother asked if he could use my shower, since they do not have running water at his house. I let them, of course, and then Franky and I styled his hair together in the mirror. Before they left that day, his mom told me that he says “Im going to Jaimes house” whenever she is mad at him. That put a smile on my face…for a long time.

As I was reading that poem pasted above by Mattie Stepanek, I was inspired to write this blog. Because amazing things happen when you really listen. Listen to the peace and beauty in the world. Sometimes, you have to find it. And sometimes its so obviously right there in front of your face that you forget to acknowledge it. But it is so important to take the time to do so.

Work Hard, Be Happy

Work Hard, Be Happy

El trabajo es como este valle, refleja la energia que pongas en el. No hay trabjao miserable. Si no estas satisfecho, corre el riesgo de cambiarlo todo y dedicarte a lo que amas. Mejor ser alegre con un pequeno salario que infeliz por tener miedo a cambiar.

O sea…

Work is a reflection of the energy you put in. There should not be any such thing as miserable work. If you are not satisfied, run the risk of changing everything and dedicating yourself to what you love. It is better to be happy with a small salary than unhappy because you were afraid to change.

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Today, I am competing for the crown. I am representing the community’s development group as candidata in an effort to raise money for the local Catholic Church. It is kinda like a beauty contest, except the winner is based on who raises the most funds, and not beauty nor dress nor walk nor talent. I’m not sure which I would prefer…being exploited for my money or being the only “white” contestant in a country where anyone and anything white is the most beautiful thing they have ever laid eyes upon. And while a tiara would fit nicely upon my trophy stand (next to our third place plastic futbol tournament award) I am not sure I actually want to win.

Much of my work here involves training and motivating, encouraging and promoting equality. It took a year and a half to show my community that even though I am a gringa, I do not have an unlimited supply of dinero. That, even though I have “white” skin, I am not invincible. That despite the fact I come from el norte, I do not have internet here on my laptop, nor a car, nor does all of my food arrive pre-packaged and prepared from the states. That I, too, ride the bus. I work hard. I play futbol. I studied. I have sisters and my parents, in fact, had to raise me… I wasn’t born into a life of luxury and ease.

So, a bit of me fears winning. Many people have made comments, expecting me to turn over $1,000 of “raised funds” to the church. Other competing candidatas have told me “ay Jaime, vas a ganar”, almost ready to concede their victory to me even before the competition has started. I fear another stupid reason for people to think “white means money” and/or “white is better”.

But despite all of this, I am making the most of the experience. I have less than 6 months left, and I feel honored to be part of this event. I did my best to raise what money I could for the church and whether people expected more or less I am not sure, but at least it is going toward a good cause. I see the day as an opportunity to build more relationships with my community or to strengthen the ones I already have already formed, instead of a competition. And more than anything, I am looking forward to learning more about the culture and just plain ol’ having a good time.


...Upon returning from the candidata event….

The invitation said to be at the church at 10am, so I was ready by 9am, however my counterpart told me to be there at 11am and that someone would come to do my hair at 10:15am. By 11am, still no one had arrived at my house to do my hair so I started walking to the church, arriving at 11:15am, fashionably late (and probably the 4th person to check-in). The majority of the folk arrived at 12:30pm and we started the whole marching ordeal promptly at 1:30pm. And so, somethings in El Salvador will never change and I will eternally be early for each and every public event…

By selling votes for 10 cents a piece to co-workers and community members, I raised a total of $66.05, ranking in at Second Place. I was quite pleased with my title however quickly my pride was stolen as a car passing by called to me “gringuita fea”.

The next hour or so was spent at the mass and as 5pm rolled around I looked forward to walking home…in the rain. However, my counterpart wasn’t ready to throw in the towel as soon as I and she forced me to talk another mile or so to the house of a wheelchair project recipient. The recipient had passed away and we wanted to ask for the return of the wheelchair to give to another person in need. However, upon arrival the lady informed us the wheelchair was already given away and so my next week’s duty would be to visit all of the other recipients to see if they are actually using the wheelchairs... And if not, steal it back. Not sure I am so into doing that.

However melancholy this blog may seem, don’t get discouraged.

On Tuesday, the scholarship winners leave the community. On Wednesday they fly to Wisconsin where they will spend the next 2 years at the University.

We had a going away party for them last week. We went on a big hike to the community waterfalls and I will never forget the moment of them screaming and laughing, heads submerged under the pounding water. I couldn’t stop laughing myself…one of those all encompassing laughters that makes your limbs shake and your cheeks hurt afterwards.

Later we had lunch at their houses where Brock and I told them how proud we were of them. What I didn’t really expect were their words or those of their parents.

They said to us, “You know, we were talking one day at the end of the school year about what we were going to do. There’s no jobs and no money so going to college just is not an option. You gave us this opportunity that we never would have known about if it weren’t for you. You supported us when maybe even our parents didn’t. We want to thank you guys.”

Their parents said, “We are worried about them leaving. We don’t understand how they are going to adjust. Who is going to help them? How will they eat and communicate? We are happy to know you guys because we know you are there for them. You help us understand.”

Later that week, I had a community meeting with my boss and all the people I have worked on projects with. Dora reflected on the first day they decided to put a volunteer in the community. She said, “It is hard being a leader. I feel responsible for the community and I really care about the future development of it but a lot of people criticize me. I felt alone. With Jaime here, I don’t feel as alone.”

The waterfalls moment, the words of the scholarship kids and their parents, Dora and the community leaders, give me the chills. Those are the moments that don’t make me feel like a “gringuita fea”.

Now, Brock, my closest volunteer and friend has retired after his 2 years of service, the scholarships kids are off to my homeland and I am in the home stretch. 6 months to go… so why does it feel like it should be easier than it is?

With the closest volunteer maybe an hour away, I feel more isolated than ever. With too much time left to surrender and not enough time to develop an impactful new project, I feel unmotivated. With a longing to be home, but anxiety to say goodbye, I feel lost.

The worst part of it all (although I am comforted by the fact that I am not the only volunteer who feels this way) is that sometimes it seems, WE (as volunteers) care more about our communities than they do. We are carrying the weight of 400 households on our shoulders. Dora does not know I bear the pain of her failing heart. Maria doesn’t know how I think of her four mal-nutritioned ninos as I sip on my soup and gnaw on my banana.

But how do I keep pushing to help them, when they don’t really care at all themselves?

Well, that’s our job. And when the waterfall hits you in the face one day, you realize… 6 months, a year, two years, all the struggling; it’s worth it. You gotta keep on fighting. Every day is an opportunity.

My friend (and fellow volunteer) Chelsea, made me realize something. In the states, when you ask people who they are, they respond: a doctor, a lawyer, a teacher. Here, they respond: a mother, a wife, a sister.

It is my job to lift my community. Or at least to try. My whole life I have been taught to study, to work, to grow, to fight, to achieve. Most of the people in my community have been fighting to eat, to live, to love and care for their families. I am a teacher. She is a mother. That’s what I have to remember when it comes to motivating people to work.

And I can reflect on what I have accomplished in the past year and a half. Analyze what went well, what went wrong and what I can do better in the next 6 months:

-Strengthening the Community Development Groups and their functions, soliciting new projects, such as:
• Winning 10 Wheelchairs
• Hammock making Course
• Expanding the Community House
• Community Christmas Event & Town Fair
• Diagnostic for Potential Future Water Project

-Artisan Youth Group
• Winning $2,000 for materials
• Making Jewelry
• Learning to work in a group
• Business Skills
• Selling at the Hotel Lenka & International Fairs
• Excursions to the Beach, Museums & Ruins

-Girls Soccer Team
• Winning uniforms, balls & cleats
• Teaching soccer skills, teamwork, & pride
• Hosting first tournament (winning 3rd place, $100 in prizes from local mayors, $100 in tropheys from INDES)
• Hosting the Peace Corps soccer teams
• Town fundraisers to raise $67
-Helping the Community Literacy Group
• Teaching English
• Improving Literacy in Adults

-Teaching Art at S. Lucas
• 2nd-9th Grade Art classes

-Computers
• Winning 15 computers ($1,500) from mayor for the school
-Planning a Business Camp
-Teaching English at L. Montana
• 4th-7th Grade English Classes
• Letter Exchange Program with Mrs. Brown’s Class
• Winning 2 Environmental Education textbooks
• Competing in Environment Ed Competition by creating a School Garden
-Sports Program at the school
• Winning $500 for sports equipment for the school (first year Phys Ed class)
-Self-Defense for Women Workshop
-Scholarships
• 2 winners from my community to study 2 years in the states

Taking Life for Granted

Perspective and the Theory of Relativity are two important notions to aknowledge in the Peace Corps. By this I mean the difference between seeing your pila as half- empty or half- full can be the determining factor in how your day starts, and that’s before you had even considered the fact that a half-empty pila is a fully-full pila to a man who has no water.

One minute I was standing under the comfort of a plastic tarp that was housing a table of various vegetable offerings, taking a break from the sun and contemplating the purchase of 4 bananas for 2 quarters. The next minute rain was beating down so hard on the temporary roof above that I startled myself and dropped a quarter, sending it pinging and rolling down the river-esque road of Gotera, soon to be in the hands of a lucky winner. I returned the bananas to their respective positions with a snarl. I cursed my clumsiness, the backpack on my back, the 8lbs of dog food piled on top of a week worth of vegetables and powdered milk, as water pelted my pedicured-less toes.

I stood there whining (still not sure if it was silently or outloud to myself) and considered letting my arms drop, tomatoes splattering and potatoes plundering, kicking the box of leche, throwing myself to the ground and rolling side to side in a nina malcriada fit.

It was then that I recognized a pick-up and my friend abruptly came to a halt.

I threw my bags in the back and piled in…wearing a “I’m-a-little-wet-but-it’s-no-big-deal-at-all-Im-a-Cuerpo-de-Paz-way-tougher-than-you-no-sweat grin.” Inside I was all “gracias a Dios”.

Walking in the rain sucks. Squishing wet and smelly people on an unventilated bus with people’s muddy shoes trampling your feet sucks. Slow moving vehicles suck. Pick-ups, good.

We pass an old man bearing a cane taking 2 steps a minute. 1 step behind is a 7 year old child. They have no umbrella, yet they don’t seem to notice the rain. They have no jackets, they look cold, but they don’t wear signs of it on their faces. I have noticed so many people like this in my community. After a certain period of time, do you begin to not feel the rain? Or do you just know how to not let it show?

We slow and ask where the couple is going. “Allinomas”. Literal translate: right over there, no further. Interpretation: they actually may be going right over there, but they are probably going 5 blocks further, up and around the curve, down the bend and a sharp right. As we pull past them, I turn back adoringly, wondering if it is the young child who cares for his old grandpa or vice versa.

There are a lot of things I can quejar about down here. But the truth is, at the end of the day I feel rather foolish about it. Last night I sat up late chatting with Don Jorge at my neighbor’s house. His wife proudly handed me a boiling bowl of vegetable soup and I gratefully accepted. I initially had been sorta rushing to get outta there, truth be told, because I had not been home all day and in my mind I was quite literally starving. As I was eating, one of Jorge’s 6 living in his house grandchildren climbed into his lap in the hammock. “You know these kids have a meal to eat everyday?” Jorge told me. “I work hard to make sure they always have something on their plates. And they still complain. I work hard. I owe some money but I know how important it is to keep them well fed.” He looked at me with pride in his eyes as he lovingly caressed Kilmer’s head.

“When I was a kid, we ate hard tortillas with salt and drops of lime. I was really mal- nutritioned. We lived in a poverty that, hmph, that was poverty. I know how important it is to keep your kids good and fed” He continued and then gazed up at the ceiling.

I sipped on my soup, now feeling a pain in my stomach. I knew that was not his intention, but I cursed myself for all the times I have complained.

Kilmer looked over at me, his cheek still resting on Papi’s stomach, and smiled. Now this family is blessed in many ways, their kind hearts and beautiful family, but I’m sorry, the dimples take the gold. You know, this little boy, he can be a real pain…like all little kids. But it’s like those dimples have a power over me.

Earlier in the day, Karime ratted out her buddy. “You know what?” She told me, eye brows raised and mouth pursed in her most serious composure, “Kilmer pushed Lili over walking home from school today. Yup, and her hand is cut and her knee is cut, too.”

“Hey Kilmer, did you push my friend Lili today?” I asked him that night. “Yea I did!” He told me excited, proud and giggling a little. “And you know what, she’s got a real good cut on her hand!” He was trying to impress his 2 older brothers.

“Okay, Kilmer. Well, now you gotta apologize buddy because you can’t just go around pushing all my friends! I will have none left to play with. So, let’s practice. I will be Lili and you are Kilmer and it’s the next day at school.”

“Hola, Kilmer. Como estas? Vas para la escuela?”

All the kids startled giggling.

But good old Kilmer, dimples in tact, replied “Hola Lili. Perdoname.” And then he collapsed in my lap in hysterics.

“Okay Kilmer, good job. The other option you have,” I told him “is to sing that song…Te Pido Perdon…”

After which we all started singing and laughing on the floor of Don Jorge’s humble abode.

Relatively speaking, in terms of finances and status, maybe this family does not have it so good. But more and more I have learned that, really, the theory of relativity has little to do on one’s happiness in life. The relationships you have with your family and friends, strangers and even enemies for that matter, will be what makes your life what it stands for. Maybe there are people out there who can roll around on the floor at the end of the day with their piles of money, but I think Kilmer and Lili make much better company.

Amar lo que Somos

Love What We Are

Banana = banana. Escuela = school. Bicho = kid

As I sit here writing a Spanish review sheet for my adult English class, much of which is consisted of Spanish words that, in fact, do no exist in the Spanish dictionary, I question my presence for the umpteenth time in this chicken-infested countryside of El Salvador.

It is true that I have less than eight months left to salvage this little community from the disaster of which it is not and I am running out of ganas to do so. Let’s face it, in eight months the students of my adult English class will have forgotten 80% of the words (although most likely 100%) they have learned and will once again not know their culo from their codo (in English that is). So, it dawns on me that while I sit here spending two hours translating banana to banana, biembenidos to welcome (Spanish spelling lessons- much more valuable project) and chucho to dog, I probably could be using my time in a more efficient manner. But fret you not, surely one of my fifteen students will successfully enter the states mojado where s/he will whip out my recently typed up review sheet and say “My name is Jaime”…(afortunadamente, my name works for both genders). And so, my project is deemed effective.

But its every now and then that the “Peace Corps moments” prove to be more important than the small, or sometimes large, successes we find in our community projects.

I headed out west this past weekend for a few reasons. One, because if I headed east I would shortly end up in Honduras and my project scope is El Salvador, two because I was invited to some events at the US Embassy and therefore needed to pass through San Salvador and three because I had plans to visit my best friend Chelsea who coincidentally resides in beautiful Chalatenango, the complete opposite side of the county. Celebrating July 4th and also 50 years of the Peace Corps at the US Embassy was nothing more than magnificent…besides for a rude slap in the face as to what life is like outside of the Peace Corps or outside of the campo. (By the way, for those not understanding, when you think “campo” think “the bush”). But what this entry is really about is my visit to see Chelsea.

We arrived in a beautiful little “tourist” town of El Salvador (when you think “tourist” do NOT think “Disney World”) where I ate the most delicious grilled pineapple and vegetable sandwich of my life and spent the afternoon exploring artesan shops and artwork painted with coffee beans. We spent the night at a quaint little $10 a night hotel, where we slept for approximately 3.5 hours and woke at 4am to catch a ride with the milkman (think milkman) on his little motor boat. At 4:30am sharp we were cruising across Lago Suchitlan where soon after I jerked awake as we nearly collided with our first clients (think livestock). Roberto climbed off the little rowboat, strategically causing it to teeter-totter me back to sleep, and proceeded to milk cow 1 and cow 2. Before I could finish my lovely dream of a Chipotle barbacoa burrito, we were chugging off. Yet again, I awoke as we pulled up a skip-and-a-hop away from Chelsea’s house and I smiled at the lovely site, waved goodbye to the milk man, and headed for her bed (think 5:30am).

We awoke a few hours later and stepped outside to enjoy our home cooked platanos and eggs by the lake. Just as the jealousy sit in that my friend lives on the water and takes a boat to get to her site, the sun reflected off the water, blinding me in the eyes and causing sweat to pour out of my forehead. And so goes it, that every rose has its thorn. We spent the next couple of days teaching her youth how to make recycled jewelry, taking a quick tour of the community and the lake, watching families make cheese and chatting the night away.

To know another community is to get to know your own all over again.


It is time to quote Paulo Coelho…
Amar lo que hacemos es transformor la esclavitud en libertad. =
To love what we do is the transform slavery into liberty.

It can be really hard being here and sometimes I think, what have I done in a year in a half? But I see that we are all doing a lot. And sometimes the “projects” we have do not hold enough to show for all the work that we really do.

And when times get hard, I start to get hard on myself. But I do know, that I am trying hard (keyword here if you have not picked up on it = hard). And that is the most I can ask of myself. So I like to change a little what my good friend Paulo writes and instead say...

To love what we are is to transform slavery into freedom.

We often worry about ourselves…how we look, our weight, our clothes, how much money we’re making, the size of our chest or our biceps or our kankles for that matter.

But it does us no good. If we love ourselves, we release ourselves from this sense of entrapment. To be happy with oneself is to feel this sort of freedom that is so liberating it gives you the power to do anything.

When times start to get hard, I take a look at the bigger picture… At communities like mine and Chelseas and how we each have affected the lives within. At how hard I am trying. About how much of myself I am giving. And I feel good.

So as I often go from journal writer, to blog publisher, to story teller, to spanglish rambler, to motivational speaker, I end on this note:

Put your all into everything you do. Do things will good intentions. Find compassion, share it with others and love yourself. Do what it takes to bring out the best in yourself and love yourself without worrying about your imperfections and what others think of you. I believe you will feel liberty.

If not, think…

Vaca = cow, Chavo = friend, Hot dog (replace New York Accent with spanglish) = hot dog (aka hot dawg).

Sick Again and More Dalai Lama

I never thought I’d say this, but I gave up trying to watch a movie in my house this evening because I couldn’t hear it over the neighbor’s cow’s never-ending moo-ing. Several times I got up from the hammock and peered out the window, expecting to see a calf fall to life from the beckoning vaca. But there was none. 15 months and I still don’t understand a word of their language. Alls I know is I wanted to finish my movie or I wanted a medium-rare Filet Mignon … and neither was happening.

I hate to bore you with the “I’m sick” stories…but I’m sick. After a few days of living in the latrine and a few nights of restless sleep, I was certain the stool sample was unnecessary, as after infection #3 you automatically become a certified-amoeba-diagnoser (you get to put this on your resume after you complete your 2 years of peace corps). Either way, I deposited my specimen at the laboratory and then setup shop in the air-conditioned comfort that only San Sal can offer you in The Savior. I promise you I have been somewhat productive in this downtime, although I can only remember a few hours that I have been awake. These meds are strong and at times I wonder if I’d rather be squatting in my outhouse all week or lying helplessly in my hammock with these headaches. On the bright side (and I think I shamefully speak for most of us gringas) we silently hope we will emerge from this parasitical infection with Marissa Miller stomachs…but it never quite works out that way. Its true that you lose all desire to eat while running back and forth in the rain and mud to the mosquito infested porta-potty… but you do, however, have the ganas to finish the entire box of Oreos your friend sent you, in one sitting. And when that is your only nutrition for the day I promise you each cookie sticks to your love handles and inner thighs so that you can practically read the cookie name bulging out from your skin. That’s what it feels like at least. And so you realize, and wish to divulge to Kelly on The Office, that the parasites…no valen la pena.

So they tell you to wash your hands (believe me, with all the bichos and chuchos, lodo and monte) I never pass up this opportunity. They tell you to bleach your fruits and veges, to filter your water, to say no to frescos and to turn down food that you are not sure has been cooked properly. They tell you not to eat the curtido and the snacks that are sold in little plastic bags on the bus. They tell you to say NO to “fresh” salads and fruit picked right off the trees. And I want to comply.

But upon returning to my house after abandoning my community for far too long, little Leslie walks up with a plate of comida. My head is ringing after a 6 hour journey home (thank you Gotera Special for not running and San Miguel Special for breaking down twice, and for the following bus that was approximately 120 F, and for the next pick-up ride around the dusty rocky roads in which 4 bicyclers passed us) and I want nothing but to be sleeping. But she has a smile that kills you and 2 dimples on her right cheek that you wanna steal away and make your own. And she stomps right up to you as you sit miserable outside in your plastic chair waiting for cell phone service. And she puts the plate of food on your lap, wraps her arms around you and says “Te Quiero Jaime, teeeeeeee quieeeeroooo.” And you say “Te quiero tambien Leslie, me hacia falta”… and you know that you are going to eat that whole plate of food.

After some time out of site, it can be hard to return to the countryside. To the solidarity of living alone, to be the only English-speaker in a Spanish land, to put away your shorts and back-on your long skirts. But it is just the adjustment that is hard. A few days and you remember how you fell in love with how the rain calms the land as it blankets the countryside. You see your little buddies hopping puddles as they head to the molienda and you hear the pito from the soccer field. Fidel asks you to help him practice English and you feel warm inside when you remember he will be shortly leaving for the US to study in a University. You think about some few pending projects and how there are only 9 months left to your service… and you realize you have a lot to do here in this Little Mountain before your time expires.

I have written many times about the struggles I face here. This may be the reason I so often find myself reading such books as those by the Dalai Lama (although I promise you I do read others) and Paulo Coelho. But today, after finishing The Lincoln Lawyer (see I told you so), I decided it was time to bring back out The Art of Happiness.

“Our days are numbered. At this very moment, many thousands are born into the world, some destined to live only a few days or weeks, and then tragically succumb to illness or other misfortune. Others are destined to push through to the century mark…But whether we live a day or a century, a central question always remains: What is the purpose of our life? What makes our lives meaningful?”
-Dalia Lama

I could keep going quoting my favorite parts of this book, but it would be easier just to buy you a copy.

You know what stresses me out sometimes being here? That one day, I will forget what makes life meaningful. I will forget the purpose of life. Because, for me at least, the purpose of life is to be happy. Right here, right now, it’s easy to me. I am doing something I love. I don’t rely on too much, because I don’t need too much. I’m not afraid of losing or ruining what I have, because I have little to lose. No one is judged by the job that they have or the brand of jeans that they wear. I feel more rewarded knowing I helped one child receive a scholarship, than at any job I have ever worked at or pay check I have ever received. I feel more proud jumping up and down, hugging my girls on the soccer team, than any game in any sport I have won in the states.

People have thanked me for joining the Peace Corps. People ask me how I do it. Sometimes I laugh to myself, not in a mocking way, but in a kind of awkward confusion. For me, this experience is a Blessing. I truly feel blessed to be able to be here. I actually fear when it will be over because I do not know if I will ever have the chance to do something like this again. I’m afraid I will lose everything I have learned here. I am afraid I will forget the beauty of this land, of these people, of this experience. I’m afraid I will forget What is the purpose of our life and What makes our lives meaningful.

Last Thursday I sat in a small room crowded with Salvadoran parents, grandparents, brothers, sisters, aunts, uncles, cousins, nieces and nephews. Together we all stood and pledged the Salvadoran flag, approximately 120 Salvadorans and 2 North Americans (fellow volunteer and amigo Brock and I). After a year teaching in the school, I was proud to sing along with the Salvadoran National Anthem. As the song ended, we went to take our seats, but it was then that we heard “Oh say can you see…” on the speakers. We stood back up, as a larger wave of pride rolled through me. A few Salvadorans gawked at us, incredulous to the fact we knew the words…but Brock and I sang along, off-pitch and red-faced. A few others smiled and the bravest of the braved moved their lips along too.

We were at the presentation of 2 students whom we helped win scholarships to study for 2 years in the states. Let me be perfectly honest, by helped, I mean I responded to an email offered by USAID and found a way to pick up the application. I contacted community members to find eligible applicants and was introduced to this young man who will be leaving in August to begin his studies. He is 100% responsible for all of the work he put into winning this scholarship and 100% deserves and needs this opportunity. He was one of 25 out of 400 Salvadoran applicants to win, and standing in the audience that night, I was so very proud. I was proud that he invited me, proud to be a US citizen, proud to be a Peace Corps volunteer, proud to be working in El Salvador and proud of our world.

As I looked around the room, at the smiling faces of family members seeing their loved ones shine, I smiled too. As parents watched with pride as their children exemplified how they would be successful studying the states, I felt pride too. As the children hugged their brothers and cousins, sisters and grandparents and loved them for coming, I loved my family too. As our scholarship recipients, as well as strangers, came to thank us, I felt thankful too. Because who else in the world would ever get to experience something like this? How many people can sit in a room of a hundred strangers, yet feel so recognized? How many people who meet our scholarship recipients in the states, will have shared this moment of joy when they celebrated their success with their friends? How many will know they came from a 2 bedroom house without electricity or covered floor? That they walked the cows to the fields everyday, or cut corn or sang in the church with their little brothers. How many people have gotten to wave and call “Salu!” to them as they marched happily down the muddy road with a pile of firewood on their backs. How many people have gotten to climb to the tippy top of a splashing waterfall with them and then hurry down, nervously laughing as the first few drops of rain began to fall?

As I looked around the room that night at the USAID scholarship recipients and their families, at the smiling faces and the teary eyes, I felt a warmth that I hope to find many more times in my future.

And as I lie here now reading the Dalai Lama, I hope I never betray him in the quest to find happiness.

Crayons

A lot of thoughts were going through my head as I hitched a ride for the umpteenth time out of La Montanita. The wheels in my mind started turning, as always, to the tune of Bedouin Soundclash "Im on a rocky road, heading down off the mountait slope..." as we rounded the bend and headed toward civilization.

As a kid, I remember getting frustrated with crayons. Id take a break from coloring the pages of my Disney book to eat some Dungaroos (as long as Mommy didnt intercept me first with a bag of baby carrots) and return to a torture chamber: On the table before me lay more than 8 different shades of green (insert scary movie sound effects)...and silly me had left the grass half-painted. Forest green, Jungle green, Lime green, Pleasantville-AYSO-Soccer-Jersey green...how would I ever know the right crayon to use??! WHYYY was it necessary to have so many different green crayons?


And so for years (as 50 cent so eloquently advised)I have been "patiently waiting". Patiently waiting for the day I would come to use all 8 greens of the Crayola pack. The day I would understand WHY my childhood was plagued with nearly-perfect Mickey paintings with just a smear of unmatching green in every field.

Bumping down the mountainside in El Salvador many years and many more crayons later, I yet again have come to curse Crayola. The hills in front of me have clearly been ambushed by those devil page-painters. Not only has each and every shade of green been used until demolishment (is that a word?), but the shades have even been melted down to liquid form and mixed to create EVEN MORE greens. I find myself mesmerized (which I promise you is not an easy feat clinging to the back of a pick up, holding my skirt down, squinting through dust and bouncing voilently) looking at the hills ahead. Each range of mountains is a different green. The layer closest me that lines the road side is Banana Leave Green, the next row in line screams Maguey Plant Green, and that behind reads Rolling Hills Green. There are speckles of Iguana Green and splashes of Bola green. If you look at it all together you get Rejuvinating Green and if you just close your eyes and feel it it feigns Fresco Green.

My point is, I had come to realize why 8 shades of green had been created. The most frustrating part was that for years I cried over those 8 shades, all for the wrong reason. Yes my poor Disney book was scarred with color deviations...but my complaining would get the best of me.

Looking at the mountainside, I realized the problem was not the abundance of green crayons but the lack there of.

I thought again back to my childhood. I remembered watching my older sister receive a painting leasson from one of our tenants. Learning by example, she painted the canvas of a flourishing landscape. I pictured myself doing that now. How I wished I could re-create the sight before me. Preserve it forever. Not only the way the fruit trees spring from the bountiful corn fields, but the way they sway silently on the mountainside. The way the coconuts sound when they break free of their ties and tumbles along the ground below. The pungent smell of podrido mangos and the prickley feel of the maguey points.

I often think, what am I going to do when I can no see and feel this every morning? When I no longer can jump in the back of a random car and show up fashionably late and sexy-windy-frizzy-pickup-truck-hair later at a reunion. When I can no longer go to sleep to the lull of rain pounding on my tin roof and wake up to the sweet chirps of roosters in the morning.

What if it all ends someday?

I blame Crayola.

Natural Disasters

Natural Disasters

A tickle on my chin and I instinctively slap myself in the face. This self-abuse is shortly followed by a slew of four forceful and panicky nostril-only exhalations and the thrashing of my head violently from left to right. Unfortunately, my obsessive-compulsive-disorder-like-fanatic-cleaning-syndrome, combined with a mosquito net and random Raid fumigating sessions, does little to ward off, as one would say here, “animal-itos”, aka bed bugs or any assortment of crawling, hopping or flying nighttime critters. Furthermore, while (much to his newfound delight at having crossed over into “manhood” ((se cayeron los huevitos)) in a country where the canines run wild and the fish in the sea are plentiful) Vaquito does not sleep inside, but from time to time he does pass on through. I shamefully should bring it to your attention that his cleanliness is comparable to a guanaco bolo who has been on a chicha drinking binge for 9 days straight without not even one huacal worth of a bucket bath and a bed that puede ser the ditch next to the dirt-road-side or the pile of firewood in his neighbor’s yard. Mind you I do bathe him once a week in anti-flea-and-tick product, but even before I am finished he is legs up in the dirt and weeds behind the house. Either that or he’s imitating a Mike Tyson match on the neighbor’s…well, I’ll call it a dog…but there’s plenty of room for argument. Anyway, Vaquito's occasional entrances into the Jaime-cleaning-zone have the possibility and likely threat of leaving behind, (I’ll put it in Spanish for those sheltered-gringitos), pulgas y garapatas. O sea, bugs. (Okay, only a few more run-on sentences to go…)

Well, preventative-health has quickly become a priority of mine due to some recent medical issues and so intermittent nightly face-slaps have now become a pleasant wake-me-upper. I like to know that I can count on myself to be OCD even while I am sleeping.

So, after I finished my morning convulsions and realized there was no scorpion tail jammed into my cheek, nor could I feel any swelling around my eyes to indicate a 10-year delay in organ malfunction, I reached around for my phone. I pressed some buttons and the emitted light burned my dilated eyes: 4:47am. I hadn’t been up this early in awhile. Nor had I gone to bed as late as 11:10pm in the campo since my prior lifetime. Unfortunately, before I even had the chance to consider falling back asleep, my mind was flooded with dreams and visions from the other dimensions…Realizations that often taunt me…

Being a Peace Corps Volunteer is hardest, for me at least, in the moments that you realize that maybe…even though you are a white-(although Salvo-heart-breaking-ly not blonde)-college-graduate-CPR-certified-bank-account-holding-world-travelling-teeth-bearing-North-American….maybe, just maybe, you don’t have all the answers. Maybe you cannot always help.

When one of your good friends, a 64 year old 4’8” lady shows up at your house with a black eye and tells you that she regrettably has to move next month to help out a family with housework to whom she owes money. My dear friend is not complaining, just merely advising me that she will no longer be able to help support me in ways she has in the past: offering me her last cup of coffee, her tattered hammock to put my feet up in, her pansa-shaking funny stories…like the time she visited the mayor’s office forgetting to put on a bra. This same lady has recently lost her second husband and single-handedly raises her grandson, as his mother works in a nearby town making less than $10 a day. My friend has never asked me for a dime, while she often offers to help me hand-wash my clothes for free. She has not 5 years of formal education, while her wisdom astounds me everyday with sayings such as “if you are not excited about tortear-ing you are not going to make pretty tortillas”. She has been a Peace Corps counterpart for 5 years, while her friends continue asking her how we have helped her?

There are 4 brothers in town ranging from 5 years old to 10… and maybe it is because I, too, am a one-gender-only sister of 4, or perhaps it is their ever-smiling caritas, but they have grown very dear to my heart. They often roam the streets dirty, but they skip instead of walk. I can’t think of one time while they have passed my house without a vigorous wave or a song-like “Salu!” and my day is complete with just half-a-hug from either one of them. But their house-of-sticks is in shambles and as the rainy-season starts, the impracticality of the roof is ever-so more apparent.

My neighbors own a store; two parents with a boy and girl, the perfect family with what qualifies here as a steady-income. The music is often playing (some religious tune or another), Dad swaying in the hammock, boy kicking a plastic ball around the front yard. The Mom is watering the banana trees and the daughter is sweeping the store, while tending to infrequent shoppers. But a week has gone-by and the girl has not been seen. As my egg supply is running low, I stop by for a purchase. “Fijese que she has moved in with her boyfriend in such and such town” the mother tells me. “Really? So young?” I think out loud. “She’s 14” the mother replies stoically. Immediately my mind flashes to my baby sister (yes, you’re still a baby) and I want to swallow, although my mouth is dry.

If I could, I would give my friend $1,000. She wouldn’t have to move, she wouldn’t have to worry about her grandchild. I would buy the 4 boys a new house, or at least a durable roof. I would bring my neighbor’s girl back home and tell her, you are too young to have a baby.

But I wouldn’t be fixing anything. The money would soon run out, the roof would eventually falter and another baby would be born into the hands of a child.

I could give talks about saving and investing money. I could start a project to improve houses. I could bring people in to talk about protected sex and planned parenthood.

But my community is over 400 households and I am one person. It’s pulling teeth to get people to come to “talks” and “if you give a mouse a cookie, he’s going to ask for a glass of milk”. (And so the favorite childhood story of Danielle and I, comes back to haunt me as a reminder of an important Peace Corps warning).

I am not trying to be pessimistic. And I have FAR from given up on my work and my community. In fact, the point of all this is that I am trying TOO hard. I want desperately to make people happy. I want to give my community, my new friends, my prestar-ed kids, my Latin family, the world. But some things you cannot change. I can’t sponsor the world with money and I can’t teach a friend a business she doesn’t have the time or patience to learn. I can build someone a house, but there’s always going to be someone else who needs a new house, too. I can suggest planned parenthood, but who am I to tell someone who has been doing housework since she was 4 and is forbidden continued education that she shouldn’t begin to start her own family at 14?

Sometimes, you just have to take things for what they are. I am working hard and I will continue to do the best that I can for my community, but for those of you out there who expect to hear that my village went from mud-huts to stone mansions and that Rosa convinced her “husband” to stay home and watch the kids, so she could return to school, I am sorry to let you down.

I am hard on myself. And I am sorry I cannot help everyone. Sometimes I do look at my community and say “What have I done here? It looks the same as when I started?” It is then that I curl up in a ball in my hammock, hoping if I close my eyes tight enough I will transform into a bear that is about to embark upon a 10month hibernation… That when I next slowly release the hinges of my promising right eye lid, I will see the familiar living room of my New York home. Or, in a tad-bit more practical effort, I call one of my friends.

He may tell me to calm down. That I am helping. That the kids in the Artesania group are learning to make jewelry. That they have an opportunity that didn’t have before. That the girls on the soccer team have a break from washing dishes. That the families who received wheelchairs feel touched. That the kids won’t forget how we ran the field, laughing and tripping, as we tossed water balloons. That one school has new computers and another a fresh vegetable garden. That 2 boys will go from working the fields to studying in the States. That a group of young women have learned self-defense. That a handful of people think, with new-found confidence, (just as I do) that they can speak another language.

Maybe you expect more. To tell you the truth, I do too. I will always expect more of myself. But sometimes, to keep myself from having just a small-little panic attack that leaves me dry-heaving in desperation on my dusty floor, I need to remind myself of these small accomplishments I have made. So, this isn’t for you. I am not here to prove myself or my work. I am just taking a deep breath to think out loud that I AM TRYING. That it is easy to get down as a PCV and we all need to pat ourselves on the back once in awhile.

Every community is different. Every volunteer is different. All we can ask of ourselves is that we try. There is no superstar volunteer and there is no failure. If you are here and if you are trying, you are making a difference.

Because in the end, my community probably won’t remember the projects I helped create. In the end, I might forget Ovidio used to be inside all day before he got his movable chair. But I will never forget the soups Lena offered me or the giggles of little Frankie and Damian. And I hope, and like to believe, that they won’t forget me either. At least the time I ran around foolishly (with pride) on the boys soccer team or had a birthday party with not one person over the age of 8 at my house (my most memorable party yet). The walks to the waterfalls or the chats about chuchos. The most important part of our work here is that. The intercultural exchange and the genuine bonds we are forming between different peoples of the world. And this, for me at least, is done without trying. One by one, sharing in friendship, we are spreading the peace, changing the world one person at a time.

So, I slap myself in the face, one more time, to bring myself back to reality. Peace Corps may do this to you. Once in awhile, 3 hours will pass like a flash of lightning before your eyes, as you come to realize you have been lying in a daze… John Lennon “Imagine All the People…” on repeat in your head… Man, how did I get from the story of my buggy bed to my pensive pondering, I wonder blushing?

Just then, the hammock starts to tremble, but as it dangles freely, I have no way to brace myself. I listen for a truck that may be about to pass, but I hear nothing. Nor is it grumbling from my stomach since it has been 2 months since I finished my Amoeba-fighting-meds and over 11 since I have craved eggs, beans and rice. I live alone and my doors are still locked from the night before, so, it could not be a vagabond child that shakes my hanging abode. And so, I smirk, feeling the vibrations of the earthquake, realizing that there are certain things in life that you just have to accept you cannot control…that you just have to roll with.

Chicken Chase

My feet were up in the hammock, fan on full speed, coffee on my coffee table and book in hand. Music hummed quietly in the background and my eyes were softly drifting into oblivion. It was a perfectly relaxing ending to an exhausting day.

It was then that I heard the undeniable buya that came next. The gawking of a rooster in panic and the gnarling of 3 mangy dogs (wait, 2 mangy dogs- 1 was my Vaquito). The rooster screamed, “Holy Sh*********t, wa-baaaaaalk, SH********TTTTTTTTT, balk, balk, balk, AYUUUUDAMEEE!!!!” …as 3 perros pranced around the yard after their prey.

I dropped my book on the floor, poured my coffee on my lap, Jackie Chan-rolled out of the hammock, landing swiftly on my feet in fighting position and screamed “Vaquito NOOOOOOOOOOO!”

As fate would have it, in the very moment I reached my door, broom in hand, the rooster and the siguiendo clan of dogs came crashing into the puerta. Now, I love animals, but I wasn’t about to risk having a bloody massacre in my own “living room”, so do not think for a second I considered opening that door to those little furry warriors. Fortunately, my door opens in 2 parts, allowing me to only open the part above, leaving a barrier to keep the outside world out. And so, leaning over the bottom-half of the door, I frantically began beating the $h*t out of the perros. The broom was only partially effective in scaring away the dogs (or maybe it was my gentle nature), but at least I was buying time. I guess the rooster never learned that it’s best to remain calm in trying situations because he flapped and feathered a storm that obstructed my vision as I did my best to salvage (at least a few more weeks of) his life.

Just as Vaquito had the rooster by the back of his neck, his mara of perros urging him on from behind, my little neighbor showed up and swept the rooster up into his arms. I straightened myself out, as I was still doubled over the door, wiped the hair out of my face and plucked the feathers from my eyes. I retracted my broom and let out a deep sigh, as I tried to determine if David was looking at me, (rooster cradled in arms), with confused disgust or quiet, but grateful admiration. “Will he live?” I asked. “Maybe” replied David.

Later that evening, Marjori thanked me for saving her rooster. She told me that that rooster was the son of a chicken she had received as a birthday present last year, and so, inherently it was her own. I think back to the “Secret Santa” game we played at home for Christmas. As a joke, I had given a machete…but I’m starting to realize a live chicken would have made for a much better gift…

Body, Mind, Spirit

“See every detail around you, smell the air, let everything in the environment come to you.” –Deepak Chopra, The Third Jesus

How amazing moments in time can be…

Lying on your back in the “posa” of a waterfall, nothing but the sound of water crashing down around you, looking up at the falling white “chorreon”.

The smell of a savory chicken soup, prepared above a wood-burning fire, the billowing smoke burning your eyes.

The reverberating laughter of 7 Salvadoran children competing to kill a tarantula as “la gringa” skips around screaming.

Tasting the bitter bite of a mango “tierno”, right-eye twitching, mouth contorted, tongue curling…all in pure enjoyment.

The feeling of a child’s innocent arms wrapped tightly around your neck, a warmth that lingers even after the release.

“Whenever you have a flash of love, innocence, inspiration, awe, wonder, or joy, remind yourself: This is the real me. Don’t let such moments simply pass you by. Stop and appreciate them, and ask that you receive more in the future.” –Deepak Chopra, The Third Jesus.

Appreciate your experiences, but don’t try to own them.

Avoid thinking of the path as “my” path.

Let things come and go without attachment.

Don’t pretend to be more positive than you actually feel.

Don’t exaggerate your experiences, to yourself or others.

Share your path only with someone you trust.

Offer thanks with simplicity.

Don’t allow your experiences to set you apart from or above anyone else.

Summertime And The Livings Easy

Quietness has a strange, spongy hum that can nearly break your eardrums. (Sue Monk Kidd, The Secret Life of Bees).
The rhythmic inhales and exhales of my own breath are the only things I can hear as I concentrate on keeping as still as possible. The sound of silence only exacerbates the sense of feeling. The trickle of sweat walking down my forehead, creeping around the curve of my eyebrow, rolling along my cheekbone and crawling up and over my chin is torturous, but I do not dare to expend the energy to wipe it away. Instead, I let gravity do its job as I feel the sweat droplet plummet and splash across my chest. My clothes are in a pile nearby, the cold side of the pillow only lasts 3 minutes before it has to be flipped, and the stagnant air is lightly, but noticeably alleviated by the fanning of flies flirting overhead.

I don’t remember this summer last year. Everyday, I swear I have never sweated so much before in my life. Not after running stadiums in The Swamp at college, not during soccer practice on the Pleasantville high school’s turf, not waiting 70 minutes in line at Disney’s Rock N Roll’er Coaster ride and not walking across the scolding sand at Jones Beach. Certainly, today was the most I have ever sweated.

Soo let me tell you about it. And as sure I am that I will hear at least 4 Aventura songs before I reach Gotera, I am sure that my bus stories NEVER get old, so this is how the morning started. Jam-packed and personal-space-free, I rode the bus to town cradling a 65 year old man on my lap. Not that he weighed more than the backpack hung across my back, but this would have been much easier if I were seated. Instead, I clenched the handrail overhead as old man Michael Finnigan hobbled over (with a line of supertramps on his heels) and setup shop upon my 2 patas without a sense of recognition for their caretaker. Although my baby toes of each foot cried out at each bend in the road, I couldn’t help but laugh out loud and all alone as I saw 5’2” Miguel’s expressionless face and glazed over eyes ride the bus to town, immovably planted upon the gringa. When he finally disembarked La Barca Jaime, his eyes met mine and we shared a sense of closeness and we silently said our goodbyes.

The day carried out equally as beautifully but dreadfully hotter as I entered the Gotera market. I briskly maneuvered the dried fish section, dodged the splatters of oil from revuelta pupusas and coaxed myself along passed baskets of pan dulce. When I finally arrived at the Self Defense for Women training center, I was ready for my first water break.

All complaining about the summer heat aside (I hate whiners), I was ecstatic that 4 girlies from my community were ready to learn about self-defense. We talked about the importance of being a confident woman, of walking with pride and being aware of your surroundings. We talked about the respect we deserve and ought to demand and how to prevent possible attacks. Finally, we got to the fun part. We beat up pillows. I walked out of that course looking like I had just swam 25 laps in the UF pool, but the smile on my face was fatigue-less.

Back in La Montana, it dawned on me that some angel from Gringo-Land had once sent me a package with todavia-untouched water balloons. If any volunteers have been so smart as to read my blog, and lucky to have amazing friends like I have who send you packages, I urge you to pedir water balloons. I filled up about 120, and headed to the soccer field with a guacal of painfully heavy-entertainment on my shoulders (Note: learn how to carry things on head like normal people). The war that endured was some of the most fun I’ve ever head. I hate to brag (you know me) but I kicked some 4 year old @$$.

After cooling down in this 102F weather with some innocent but highly aggressive water balloon-fun, we decided it was time to sweat again….sooo we began to run the soccer field in some plastic futbol, flip flop wearing, skirt flapping, toe-stubbing fun.

Foot-tall Franky got pegged with shot-on-goal #1 but quickly recuperated to retake his position as portero. Older brother Damian had to be Heimlich-ed back to life (do not give out candy before sports) but you would have never known he suffered had you not seen the blue dulce projectile out of his esophagus. Fredi and I ran the field, swerving around pigtail princesses and diaper-wearing-Diegos. But the bee swarm of children running behind me will be an image forever burned in my memory that 24 gallons of sweat could never erase.

I promise you that even after standing under an ice cold shower from 5pm up until the sky was sprinkled with stars, I was still sweating. And so that is how I ended up, sprawled across my bed in a desnuda mess, begging a cold front to miraculously knock three times on the ceiling.

So, the point of it all is, it’s f#ck(ng hot. I hate to complain (obviously) but it can be painful to try to sleep concentrating on moving as little as possible, focusing on not thinking about the heat, but yet the only thing on your mind is the feeling of sweat beads emerging from your pulsating pores. I commend those who live by the beach. I beg sugerencias from those in Usulutan or San Miguel. I welcome the moldy inviernos to this everlasting sauna!

But you know what, it’s worth it. After a day of teaching an invaluable life skill and rewarding yourself with the smiling faces of two dozen children, the heat doesn’t matter. The REAL point of it all is, my job is f#ck(ng awesome. I’d never normally put on a skirt and make-up and run the soccer field in rubber flip flops. But I’ve never had so much spontaneous fun in my life. My feet hurt over the rocky field and slapping the plastic ball, I was certain I was going to trip over my long faldita and the dust burned my squinting eyes… But I ran my heart out, laughed like a maniac and scooped up falling ninos that I’ll love for the rest of my life. The FINAL and MOST IMPORTANT point of it all is, ….
Don’t sort-of-maybe live, but live like you’re going all out, like you’re not afraid. (Sue Monk Kidd, The Secret Life of Bees).

Familia

Familia

“She’s flirting with the customs man!” We watched from the windows outside the airport as Christina smiled and twirled her hair in her fingers, the customs man with his back towards us. “So she can speak Spanish?” my friend asked. “Nope. Shes speaking English Im pretty sure” I replied. How long are they going to talk for? Whats going on?

She finally comes outside, curses the heat and enlightens us with the customs man extensive English vocabulary and even better pick-up line “facebook?”

I know I do this with every visitor, but I cant believe she is gone already. I remember a poem I read in high school about the Time Keeper. Sometimes, I hate that bastard. He is pretty inconsistent you know? A veces turning minutes into hours and then just as suddenly hitting fast forward. Don’t you think we should have just a little more control? But then again, I’ve also read time doesn’t exist…

From night 1, to changing in the gas station bathroom and hanging with friends at a Guns N Roses cover band, to night 9 at the same bar we started, burned faces and sleepy eyes, I could not have asked for a better week…or sister (Gracias a Dios, I was given triple).

Day 1, we beat the sun to the horizon and headed to the beach from the dark and dreary Eastern Bus Terminal. The ride was long and sweaty but the viejito behind me only clawed my head with his extra long Salvo nails 3 times (instead of 5) so we pretty much arrived unharmed.

We got down to business and covered ourselves in paint since the Ultimate Frisbee Gringo Tournament was about to start. We played our hearts out, as the photos can tell you, and then ran down the beach to do our best to rinse off in earth’s largest Jacuzzi. The night was spent bonding with volunteer friends, scarred-for-life questioning by Greg and Tyler and the occasional “Ice-ing” (Christina’s voluntarily).

Day 2 was my dinamica for the sis to the Safety and Security charla, so we hitch-hiked our way to San Miguel, to the desvio, to Gotera, to Osicala and finally my community, effectively paying $0 from the $0 I andar-ed (don’t let your debit card expire). We arrived, once again tired and sweaty, (summer’s here!) and Christina “oh shit!-ed” her way through her first ice-cold shower.

We wasted no time traversing my entire community and so my sister met everyone from my wheel chair recipients and scholarship winners, to no-teethed-Tina and always-giving-me-Papayas-Pedro. Before racing the sun, yet again, we had swayed in approximately 14 hammocks and eaten 8 refrigerios. With every food offering, Christina would look at me with wide-skeptical eyes and ask “Can I eat this? Is this okay to drink?” and I would shrug my shoulders while cocking my head and already be swallowing… (Confianza 1, Immune System 0). Note: See blog “Amoebas”.

Day 3-5 were more of the same, visiting my community. One particular day we did a hike through the mountains, visiting a molienda where we watched my diligent piropo-ers turning sugar cane into honey. We tasted the sweet candy they had made, as Vaquito stole sips from the pila. Interesting how dogs are. I leave the little guy running loose without food for a week in my community and yet when I return, he is never more than 4 feet by my side. Actually, upon my return I was sitting outside in my plastic chair and cell-service-spot when he came bounding across the fields and jumped straight up onto my lap, nearly botar-ing me backward and covering me in paw prints of cow dung. But that’s another story…

So, there we were, Christina and I hiking through the mountains, nibbling on bananas and swimming in the waterfalls that irrigate my community. We laughed at how awkward we looked in pictures and lamented at Vaquito’s insistence to be welded to my shin. More than once I was forced to go rescue the helpless canine since he had subir-ed where he was unable to bajar.

And por fin, Thursday had arrived and we were being awaited by La Playa Tunco so we woke at 3:30am, did our best to bathe in the dark of the morning and the wintery water and hopped on the 5am bus to San Miguel. We stood almost 2 hours, since I guess everyone was headed to the beach that morning (actually none were) but at least looked forward to the next “special” bus that would provide us with 2 hours of air conditioning. Much to our dismay, there were no seats left on that bus either and so El Salvador is never a surprise.

The next few nights were spent at the beach, fighting off the local surfers “yes we know you LIVE at the beach, no we’re not going to “date” you, yes that’s cool you’re a local, no we’re still not going with you, yes you have nice abs….”.

We played ping pong and soccer, swam and surfed (AKA watched surfers), ate good food and had good drinks. By day 3 the color of Christina’s skin told us it was time to go and my butterflies multiplied exponentially as I realized her time was coming near.

Back to San Sal for the last remaining hours, the car ride was quiet. The panes were down and we each looked out our respective windows, feeling nothing but the summer breeze across our faces. It reminded me of the serenity of silence. The loudness of the wind that is almost unperceivable as you let it envelope you; Equivalent to the utter calm of water. When you completely submerge your body and head and you are alone, completely alone in the world. It is why I love the water… Because you can go under there and hear nothing but the peace in the world. I think I smile every time I am underwater and I feel and hear the peace and I think to myself “I Love this, I want to live here”. It doesn’t matter if your eyes are opened are closed; it is the greatest feeling.

And so, again, alone in my thoughts on the windy car ride back to reality, I long for another week. But, for the better, I feel my world has changed. They say you live by a city your whole lifetime and may never really get to know it. 19 years I’ve been with my sister, yet there was so much I didn’t know. I blame myself for not getting to know her sooner.

For not appreciating her song-like laugh that is undoubtedly exactly the same as that which she had when she was 4 years old while watching Homeward Bound, and the same laugh I hear when I look at the photo on my wall of her running toward the horsey at my Dad’s yacht club. For not acknowledging her desire to learn and not admiring her shameless yearning to understand the unknown. For not recognizing sooner her incapability of hurting someone’s feelings and not hugging her enough for it. For the maturity with which she carries herself, yet the humbleness that keeps her level (prestame some por favor?) For her genuineness; I don’t think I’ve met someone more genuine. For her confidence and independence, which impressed me more with each passing day. For the way she talked to me and made me feel. For being my sister, for loving me and for letting me love her. For hopefully letting me show her (and believing) how important she is to me and what she means to me. For forgiving me for maybe not showing her sooner.

Because really, my world changed a little since having her here. I realized that estoy enamorada de mi familia.

Paraiso

Just when I thought things couldn’t get any worse, they got 100% better.

Two Fridays ago, around 3:30pm, I was finishing up washing my dishes outside in the pila. I was going to make myself a nice, fresh salad from groceries recently purchased at the market. I had some romaine lettuce with tomatoes, onions and avocado in mind and in my eagerness to get chopping I lifted the large chopping knife out of my guacal of dishes. Overly ambitious, as always, I thought I should start multi-tasking, so I used my left hand to hold the bucket, right foot to start walking, my right hand to grab for the cutting board and cooking utensils, my left foot to shut the door behind me and, running out of usable appendages and just as any right-minded individual would do, stuck the large chopping knife under my right armpit, point down.

Everything was going smoothly until my phone rang. Not wanting to miss the call and waste any of my precious saldo, I reached for it without thinking. The ringing continued, although this time it was in my head, as I stood there in shock wondering what the throbbing was my foot. It was then that I looked down and saw the knife on its side on the floor, blood spurting from a hole in my goal-maker. I had forgotten the knife was there and just as carelessly as I had placed it, I released it- into my foot. Just kidding about the spurting, it wasn’t that bad…but it hurt and I wanted my Mommy. Actually, I wasn’t all that concerned, except for the little piece of meat (as my neighbor described it, carne) popping out. I called the Peace Corps doctors.

A few minutes later a driver was on the way from the capital to pick me up, where we would turn around 4 hours later to head to the San Salvador hospital. A little bit of digging, cleaning, cutting out the bit of meat that was protruding, 2 teeny stitches (embarrassing I know) and some bruised toes later, I was fine. But, being its summer and my site now consists of walking through a daily cloud of dust aaaand I have also been prone to skin infections, the doctors wanted me to stay in the capital a week until the stitches were out and wound closed.

Gracias a Dios, I did stay, because what for the next 3 days I thought was heartburn, turned out to be Amoebas and the little eggs they laid growing in my stomach; A parasite infection from dirty food/water. Once again, I felt my pride in eating everything pisotear’ed upon as I learned my all-ingestive diet had failed me, yet again. But with 3 pills a day, I am slowly recovering. I’ll spare you the details but lets just say my digestive and excretory systems are being to display their proper functions.

Anyway, the point of this story is that things are better! Right… Okay…

So Tuesday, oh aquel beautiful Tuesday, 2 vans pulled into La Montanita: 1 was an ambulance full of Salvadoran workers of Comandos en Salvamento carrying 10 brand-new, bike-tire bearing wheel chairs. The other was a micro-bus overflowing with “White People” carrying regalitos, but more importantly love and smiles.

You see, maybe 3 months ago, I started working with a group of people in my community in economic development. A dear lady of the group introduced me to Angel, a 4 year old boy who can’t walk but wears a smile that is highly contagious. They asked me if I could help him. I felt sorry that I didn’t work in health and could think of little I could do. Time passed. I worked more with the group and I saw Angel more often. He giggled as I took a sip of my juice every time he did and afterwards we raced to see who could finish our cookies first. He got over his pena to give me a hug and showed me how he can swing in his chair. Needless to say, I fell in love and added one more child to my ever-growing list of adoptee candidates.

I carry a list of NGOs in my notebook and one day at the cyber I came across the Free Wheelchair Mission. I filled out an inquiry and sent an email and 3 weeks later I had a response. I thought it was all too good to be true. 10 free wheelchairs, they could offer me! I immediately contacted the Health Promoter of my community and asked if there were others in La Montanita that needed a wheelchair. He knew of 6: 4 kids and 2 elderly. So I opened up the offer to my fellow PCVs. 3 wheelchairs were sent to neighboring communities in Morazan and the final wheelchair was given to a last lady in my community who recently turned 92!

We spent a day working with members of my community to assemble the wheelchairs. I went around the community, seeing parts I have never seen before, taking pictures of the wheelchair recipients, talking to the families, filling out paperwork and inviting them to the ceremony. I walked deep into the outskirts of La Montanita, coming across houses barely standing with bed springs as walls and rooms solely bearing a hammock. I met Ovidio, a 10 year old who’s cuteness gives Angel a tough run for his money; His biceps put me to shame and it was clearly evident he would be the wheelchair master.

And then Tuesday, the vans arrived. The people disembarked and Paraiso descended upon us. We gave the families their wheelchairs and little gifts. There were teeth I had never seen before between widespread lips. Warm embraces. Sweet words. And unforgettable eyes. I am so thankful for the help of these organizations and for the people who came to visit. It’s not often you get an opportunity like that. The 7 Americans were wonderful and it was so exciting for us to host them in our community. I am also very grateful to have a community like mine, to have met Angel and the rest of the gang. I look forward to visiting the wheelchair recipients next week with my little sister, and you will surely hear updates!

What a blessing it is that I was able to join the Peace Corps. And I don’t think Ill ever forget that day or stop smiling when I think about it. The chills I got looking out over everyone in their wheelchairs and their family. It’s those moments that make 75 mosquito bites below my ankles bearable and waking up everyday to roosters worthwhile. It’s the same as I felt when Fidel paid me back $10 I lent him 3 months ago (without me ever asking), or when I saw my soccer team practicing without my lead, my jewelry group making a new design, Lucinda freaking out that I only have 1 year left!!

And just went things couldnt possibly make me any happier. I got one of the best phone calls of my life last night.

I was sleeping because I had to wake up really early to head to the airport to pick up my lil sis (so excited). But I saw the name on my caller ID...low and behold-Fidel. The same kid who just paid me back $10. "He ganado la beca, he ganado!" HE WON. He told me he won the scholarship to study in the states.

Peace Corps emailed me about this opportunity 5 months. I ask aruond my community and came across Fidel. A smart kid who has studied his whole life receiving top grades, working 4am mornings cutting coffee, beans and corn in the fields and spends his evenings with a Youth Group, playing guitar for the church.

He made it to the interview level, but it required traveling to San Salvador. A 4 hour trip to a scary place he has never been. He couldnt even afford the transportation. Reluctantly, I lent him $10, assuming I'd never see it again (but he proved me wrong and proudly paid me back) and knowing its a bad precendent to set, but knowing it was for a good cause.

On Monday, he will have a passport. In months he will be in the US studying Business at the University level. He didn't have $10 and now he will have a formal education. And in 2 years he will return to beautiful El Salvador and do amazing things for his community, I am sure. I am so proud of him!!!

…Help me find a job like this one the rest of my life…

Special Thanks to:

Free Wheelchair Mission
World Emergency Relief
Rescue Task Force
Comandons en Salvamento

And to my beautiful and wonderful community. My angelitos and tan lindo jovenes. Te quiero mucho!!!

Dear Diary...

Monday, 28 February 2011

Day Dream

I woke up in a cloud. It has been awhile since this has happened, since it is now the dry season, but lately we have been blessed with some passing storms. It rained last night and so this morning, I woke up in a cloud.

It was a combination of that eerie feeling that you get in the beginning of Beauty and the Beast…you know, when Belle’s father is lost in the woods and has to choose between the smoky path and the one soaked with wolves? And a feeling of sweet anticipation for what the day will bring on this road less traveled, as I look through the eyes of Robert Frost.

I’m not sure just how long I was in this day dream for, but I certainly stood there outside my door in my raggity shorts and oversized t-shirt at 6:30am on a Monday, the kids on the street gawking at me through the mist as they waited for the bus, myself in oblivion as my arms hung limp at my side and my head cocked slightly to the left as I peered into my thought bubble. It was lovely to be frozen in time, but just as suddenly as Zach returns from his second-universe narrative to tend to Slater and Screech, I dropped out of fairy-land as Vaquito plowed into my leg. I’m not sure where he goes or what he does between 10pm and 6am outside my squat, but he is certainly excited to see me in the morning. I only know this because of the several laps he makes around my house and the neighbors, swerving in and out of the bamboo fences, ducking below the barbed wire, jumping over the arena pile and sliding down the dirt barrier. He runs like he’s in a horse race, but the grace he has as he dodges the banana trees shouldn’t fool you, as with every lap he makes he is sure to knock into my legs and become disoriented at each passing, forgetting if he were going clock-wise or counter…but then again it doesn’t really matter for the chickens distract him, once again, and he sets off in another sprinting frenzy, roosters squaking, shooting feathers and flapping wildly, as if prey in a video game.

And so the cloud dissipates, the bus honks and the children disappear, Vaquito collapses onto his side in the dirt, panting. I shake my head, rub my eyes, take a deep breathe and see there is only one path ahead of me. And, so, I carry-on to the outhouse. Just another day in El Salvador…
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Sabado, 26 February 2011

I Eat Everything

I have always prided myself on the fact that I can eat anything. “I eat everything” –Brian’s face wants to laugh, yet illustrates disgust, as his mind travels back to my 3-scoop ice cream cone. Actually, being here in El Salvador, that is one of my best traits; that I eat everything. Because there is no bigger compliment you can give your neighbor than to tell them “that is the best tortilla and beans I have ever eaten”. You smile as you crunch on a pile of tiny fish heads, gurgle mmmmmm as you slurp on chicken feet soup, and ask for more of the lizard gizzards. True stories.

But, alas, my ally has become my nemesis. My stomach has literally turned on me. I lie here in my hammock, closed off to the world, to endure quite possibly the first day here in country that I will do absolutely nothing. Why? You ask. Because…

There are bumps on my arms. My neck and chest are burning with the sensation of 1000 fire ant bites. My face has swelled into a form than can only be comparable to Quazimoto. My eyes look like I have been crying for days, (which may in fact come true if I have this allergy one more time). My mouth is swollen and itchy and the hives have only spared my forehead.

This is the 3rd time since January I have been plagued with this unknown alergia. My community tells me its an allergic reaction to the dust, to the cattle hay, the sun, the heat…it’s from bathing at night, playing soccer (is bad for women), I’m drinking too much cold water… I may have gotten sick (Ojo) from a person with the “strong vision”, my dog has passed his fleas, I’m reading too many books and haven’t gone to church enough.

They tell me to bathe with salt water. To rub lime on my arms. Or, wait, I should not bathe at all and I should stay away from all fruit.

I need to go to the Clinic. Or, wait better, see the community witch doctor.

I shouldn’t eat anything. But I need to eat more to become fat. Fat = good.

The first trip to the doctor, I’m tended to for 5 mins and given Benadryl and hydrocortisone. Thank you but I had these in my Med Kit.

The second trip to the doctor entails an additional trip to the Dermatologist. “It’s weird,” he tells me and he is not sure what it is. But it looks like, it could be an allergic reaction to zacate- the shredded plants given to cattle. I am given Benadryl and a cream that is comparable to hydrocortisone.

This would make number 3. I have 2 options. Shower. Take some Benadryl and throw on some cream. Wait for the bus in the sun and dust, likely to increase my itching 10 fold. Sit on the bus. Sweat. Want to scratch my eyes out. Count every passing minute on the bus, swearing there are well over 500 minutes in 2 hours. Want to punch anyone who rubs up against my bumpy arms. Jerk forward 57 times as we wind around the mountain, sporatically and unmethodically using the breaks. Pickup just enough passengers that I essentially am straddling 3 people at the same time, have a baby in one arm and a chicken in the other, a smelly campesino’s machete resting against my back, all while I am croutching awkwardly, so as to not hit my head on the shelf above the seats which has been effectively designed to fit half of your backpack. Finally to arrive in San Miguel a week later on a bus that supposedly takes 2 hours. At this point, the baby, chicken and machete-man have disembarked and I am pushing passed an elderly lady using a stick as a crutch carrying a bucket if tomatoes on her head, trying to get out into the fresh air. Except there is no fresh air in San Miguel and I am, in turn, looking forward to the next bus ride to the doctors office. I will wait at the bus stop trying to ignore the stares (is it simply because I’m a white person or look like quazimoto? And which is less offensive?), the high-pitched voices of belly-shirt wearing-overweight-ladies advertising “yuuuuuuca, papas friiiiiiitas, te llevo tostaaaaaadas”, and the combined smells of fried food and fresh urine. When I do finally see the doctor, there is a 75% chance that they will give me Benadryl and Hydrocortisone cream.

So, that brings me to option 2. Does the 25% chance that they can cure my inflated face vale la pena? Are the abusive bus ride, the sadistic sun, the pestering passengers worthwhile?

Or, do I instead, sit in my hammock. Drink some warm tea. Alternate between reading a book and watching Season 1 of Boy Meets World on my laptop. Sway in the hammock as I hum along to Bedouin Soundclash. Nap…

but I will surely wake up to scare myself in the mirror. Feel the tickle of a bug running across my chest, only to realize the Benadryl has worn off. Beg for the itching to stop. Pray that at any moment the doctor’s will knock on my door and instantly cure me. Swear this is the worst pain I have ever come to know. Worse than slipping and slamming my head into the corner of the door in kindergarten.Worse than falling off the back of my boat onto the swim platform when I was 12. Worse than Mono in 9th grade. Worse than my first heart-break and last cigarette (well, if I smoked).

Well, how did this happen? You ask. Because…

I eat everything. I never say No. I like food. I like other people thinking I like their food. I like knowing that people like that I am liking the food they have given me.

But apparently, I have met my match. Apparently, this so called maranon, this juicy fruit that bears a hidden cashew inside a coffin enclosure, me hace dano. Apparently, I am allergic to it.

And so begins my demise. Its only a tiny red fruit; A maranon, you say. Yes, that’s where it starts. But where does it end? First, it’s a maranon. Then a jocote… a zapote…dare I say it? A mango?? Fruits become vegetables, which turn into soup, which leads to carne and before I know it, I’m saying NO to lizard gizzards. They will stop offering me the curtido with pupusas, they won’t give me pan dulce when I enter their homes, they will turn their backs on me in the streets and shun me in reunions. They won’t remember the soccer tournament, the jewelry group, the wheelchairs, the Art class…I will forever be “the allergy girl”, la gringa alergia.

For the past 2 months, I have been living in the “denial” phase. I refused to believe that this is what has become of me. I continued eating anything and everything in my path. I did not believe that it could have been a food that was making me break out. After all, with all the cold water I was drinking and bathing at night, I assured myself it was one of the two.

I can only hope that once I have come to accept my fate, I will be able to deal with it in a healthy manner. I will turn down food. I will shun my neighbors and reject the refrigerios in reunions. I will regalar all of the mangos on my mango tree and reiniciar my Salvadoran diet.

It’s 10am on day 2 of the inflamed face and I still have not decided on Option 1 or Option 2, but at least I have determined my destiny. But, how can I not, not eat everything?

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Friday, 25 February, 2011

Te Amo

“The greatest weakness of most humans is their hesitancy to tell others how much they love them…” –OS Battista

I wanna be in the front seat of a car; Driving down the highway with the windows down and music fuerte, squinting blissfully into the friendly wind. I could close my eyes for 20 minutes, sleepfully awake, without realizing a second had passed. I would guarantee there had never been a moment in the world that felt better than this.

The sun would warm the landscape and the trees would whistle as we passed through their waving hojas. The music would be loud, but you would only hear the words if you listened. Your thoughts would be rolling, but you could stop them without trying. Your mind is at ease and your body, weightless, yet you are awakened as you inhale every small gust of wind and you feel each pelito on your arm rise.

It would be just me. But the driver would be there too. He would be staring ahead, concentrating on the road but driving aimlessly…occasionally glancing in my direction. Maybe our eyes would meet and they would smile knowingly, or maybe not. It wouldn’t matter. We would drive for hours, not knowing where we were going, but each of us knowing simultaneously when it was time to turn back. The company would be essential but the physical interaction ephemeral. We probably would rarely talk, but the quietness would be the opposite of silence.

Occasionally one of us may say something…the other may not respond. But there would be content smiles. The kind you get when you can feel it in your eyes. Where you don’t need to show it on your face for the other person to know it was there. You would agree without talking, turn to see each other for a moment, and then turn back to your own world.
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I have had many moments like these in my life. Where two birds playing outside my window make me drop my books and forget about work for the day. Where the neighbor’s cow turns his head and our eyes meet and my mind drifts up into the mountains behind him. Where I’m sitting on the front of my Dad’s boat, my hands gripping the rails as we bump forcefully over each passing wave and I want it to never stop. Where the crowd is screaming so loud in The Swamp that the only way for my friends and I to communicate is to lock bright-smiling-widened eyes and throw our heads back in laughter. Where music calms my soul and I don’t need anything more.

I have truly had a fortunate life. People have given me these blessings I talk about. Yet how often do we tell people how we really feel? Especially when we like them- that’s when it becomes even harder. I know that, personally, this is a challenge of mine. I cannot always express directly and in words, how much people mean to me. How much moments have meant to me. I hope that I can become better at this. Because I have been so grateful for the people who have come into my life. For the people who have given me life. For the people who have made my life. For these moments that are unforgettable. Irreplaceable.


“I met this little girl. And what she said was something beautiful; I love all of you…” –Red Hot Chili Peppers



Wednesday, 23 February, 2011

The Toughest Job You’ll Ever Love

“I am fine with just me and my guitar. But sometimes I am wishing on a little more.” -Joe Purdy

I like my community. I like the Peace Corps. I like El Salvador. But sometimes, you just don’t feel right. You want to be friends with the girls on your soccer team, but if you’re always joking around, they don’t take you seriously. You want to teach them discipline, to be serious and work hard, but then they don’t see you as their friend. What is more important: to develop productive and sustainable community projects? Or to have close friends in your community? To be a hard-working volunteer? Or to have fun for 2 years? How do you find the balance?

Peace Corps is hard. It’s different than I expected, but harder than I thought. I worried when I first applied. I worried about not having running water, about not having electricity. I cringed at the thought of cockroaches in my drawers and rats on my roof. I pictured myself as the boy in Slum Dog Millionare falling deep into my latrine. I was certain a natural disaster would leave me homeless and I assumed I’d burn all my money and venture Into the Wild.

I do have scorpions and I often find cockroaches in my drawers. I woke up last night to my bed trembling from an earthquake. I will never feel comfortable again in San Salvador. But that is not what makes Peace Corps hard.

You are put in a community hardly knowing how to speak the language and even less capacitated in getting your shirt clean on a rock without ripping it. But overtime, you begin to understand people without realizing how and you clean your clothes by hand with pride.

You see how smart Rosa is when she helps you with projects, but you hear how little confidence she has in herself. How she doubts she will ever study beyond high school. You see the excitement in Nelli’s eyes when you tell her about a free excursion you can offer her to visit a museum, but the disappointment when her mother tells her she can’t go because she has to stay home and cook and care for her daughter. You see the potential of a community development group and you want to shake them and say “we can do this, we can improve our community” but they want to relax in the hammock after a hard day of working in the coffee farms.

I am okay here in El Salvador. In fact, I am happy. But sometimes I am wishing on a little more.

I worry at the end of the day. I care a lot about people. Some may find this hard to believe if you know me…my sarcasm, my inability to give and/or receive compliments, the difficulty I have in expressing myself correctly in person. But I wish the best for people and I like to help when I think I can. I like to be a friend and it makes me happy when people will have me as theirs. So at the end of the day, when I’ve tried really hard to help someone…when I think maybe my suggestions have made them feel like I criticized them, I feel bad. Also, at the end of a good day, a day of laughter, I wonder if I should have worked harder. If maybe my community thinks I am “solo paseando” and not working hard enough. When I am too stressed out by my projects, when the dust has lined my throat and infected my poors long enough, and I make a trip to the capital to see my friends, I feel guilty watching my neighbors see me leave. When I’m busy in my site holding soccer tournaments and fundraising activities, I regret not calling my Peace Corps friends enough. And then I think of my family and friends so far away at home and I wonder about the 2 years I’ll have spent away and how it has affected us.

There is some consolation I find from all this thinking. And, yes, I realize I often do too much thinking. Sometimes there are people who come into your life and make you see things differently. Sometimes someone says something to you, that sticks with you forever. Rarely, do you tell these people how they have affected your life. I think we all have people and moments like these. Yet the people who have changed us so, will probably never know.

I can think of well over 10 people who have touched my life. Yet they have no idea how. And it wasn’t anything extraordinary. It was a look in their eye when they smiled at me. It was a surprise breakfast bagel. It was a letter. It was a phone call.

These people get me through the Peace Corps. And I can only hope, that maybe, just maybe, Ojala, that I have been that source of help for someone in my community. If not, someone in the Peace Corps. If not here, someone at home. I hope that me being here, does some good, somewhere. And once in awhile, I do see a sign on people’s faces or a reaction that I have done some good. I can only believe that if I am true to myself, and I do things with good intentions, there will be good results.

So while I feel not so right, right now, while I am wishing on a little more, I remind myself to be content with the mini accomplishments I have seen so far. To pat myself on the back once in awhile and tell myself I am going to be okay and I can do this.