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.

The Start of Year 2

February just started and there’s barely a week left. It truly is the shortest month.

Time really flies. They say your second Peace Corps year goes faster than your first, but that is hard for me to imagine. I can’t believe I’ve been here 1 year already.

We rented a beach house to celebrate completing 1 year in this beautiful yet peculiar little country. Can you imagine, $25 for 2 nights, a fully equipped house with hammocks, a pool, a maid, air conditioned rooms with beds, situated on a private beach? Needless to say, it was a lovely time and delightful vacation.

I headed back to the countryside after spoiling myself for too many days at Playa Barra de Santiago, knowing I had a busy week ahead of me.

You see, every month, somewhere in this country, some pueblo is celebrating a Patron Saint’s Day. This means, lots of dances, festivals, community events, etc. Returning from the beach, I was ready for my community’s first time celebrating in my site. I helped plan most of the events so I was excited to see how it would turn out.

Most everything went well. We had a day we celebrated for children: creepy clowns, men dancing on stilts (not too exciting) and a parade (not fun on dusty, rocky road). We had competitions for the men: who can ride a horse and try to grab a greased duck’s head and pull it off (kid you not- see facebook photos), who could climb a greased pole to find money on top, and who could win a soccer tournament (no greasing). We had a dance at night where the girls had a beauty contest. I was proud to have a representative from my Artesania Youth group and my Girls Soccer team. And I planned and hosted a girls soccer tournament with my team, of which we got 4th place (out of 5) but we had a fun time. We also got the mayor to donate money for prizes and tropheys from another institution.

I finished the fiestas with a smile on my face, and decided to make an overnight trip to visit my old host family in San Vicente. It was great to see them again. I can’t believe it was a year ago that I lived with them during training!

Returning back to my site this week I found some lovely packages of soccer equipment from friends back home and dog supplies from my Daddy at the post office :D. I entered my community with successful news that the organization I contact will be donating me wheelchairs for some people in need in my community. I have been working on filling out the forms and checking in on my other community projects.

I decided tonight I needed some chill time so I went to visit some friends.
I decided to stop by my neighbor’s house. A nice little 74 year old lady lives across the street from me. She lives alone and she invited me in for coffee. We spent over an hour talking over coffee. I learned about her hard past, her war-time experience of being held captive, the children who abandoned her and the husband she lost. She told me stories of people in the community, pasts I had never known about. She told me how she gets sad to live alone and how people have robbed many of her precious belongings. Yet she said she was happy. She said there are good people here in El Salvador. She said people will help you. She said she couldn’t live how you live in the US, with so much stress, in so much of a hurry.

She ended our conversation by telling me about a program she saw on the TV about people in Africa. She told me about how poor they were. How some didn’t have clothes and how they would eat just whatever. She asked me if that was true.

She has very little. Yet she does not complain. In fact, she feels for those who have even less than her.

I’m glad I had coffee with her and I’ll be sure to visit her often.

This weekend I head to San Salvador to participate in the “Yo Amo El Salvador” Half-Marathon. I have barely trained and I have seen better days of running. But I believe you can do what you put your mind to. And when I’m in a good state of mind, things come easy. People like my neighbor are my motivation...