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.
Wednesday, May 11, 2011
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.
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.
Friday, May 6, 2011
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…
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…
Thursday, April 28, 2011
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.
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.
Monday, April 18, 2011
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).
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).
Sunday, April 3, 2011
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.
“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.
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