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.
Tuesday, June 7, 2011
Thursday, June 2, 2011
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.
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.
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