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.
Sunday, April 3, 2011
Friday, March 18, 2011
Paraiso
Just when I thought things couldn’t get any worse, they got 100% better.
Two Fridays ago, around 3:30pm, I was finishing up washing my dishes outside in the pila. I was going to make myself a nice, fresh salad from groceries recently purchased at the market. I had some romaine lettuce with tomatoes, onions and avocado in mind and in my eagerness to get chopping I lifted the large chopping knife out of my guacal of dishes. Overly ambitious, as always, I thought I should start multi-tasking, so I used my left hand to hold the bucket, right foot to start walking, my right hand to grab for the cutting board and cooking utensils, my left foot to shut the door behind me and, running out of usable appendages and just as any right-minded individual would do, stuck the large chopping knife under my right armpit, point down.
Everything was going smoothly until my phone rang. Not wanting to miss the call and waste any of my precious saldo, I reached for it without thinking. The ringing continued, although this time it was in my head, as I stood there in shock wondering what the throbbing was my foot. It was then that I looked down and saw the knife on its side on the floor, blood spurting from a hole in my goal-maker. I had forgotten the knife was there and just as carelessly as I had placed it, I released it- into my foot. Just kidding about the spurting, it wasn’t that bad…but it hurt and I wanted my Mommy. Actually, I wasn’t all that concerned, except for the little piece of meat (as my neighbor described it, carne) popping out. I called the Peace Corps doctors.
A few minutes later a driver was on the way from the capital to pick me up, where we would turn around 4 hours later to head to the San Salvador hospital. A little bit of digging, cleaning, cutting out the bit of meat that was protruding, 2 teeny stitches (embarrassing I know) and some bruised toes later, I was fine. But, being its summer and my site now consists of walking through a daily cloud of dust aaaand I have also been prone to skin infections, the doctors wanted me to stay in the capital a week until the stitches were out and wound closed.
Gracias a Dios, I did stay, because what for the next 3 days I thought was heartburn, turned out to be Amoebas and the little eggs they laid growing in my stomach; A parasite infection from dirty food/water. Once again, I felt my pride in eating everything pisotear’ed upon as I learned my all-ingestive diet had failed me, yet again. But with 3 pills a day, I am slowly recovering. I’ll spare you the details but lets just say my digestive and excretory systems are being to display their proper functions.
Anyway, the point of this story is that things are better! Right… Okay…
So Tuesday, oh aquel beautiful Tuesday, 2 vans pulled into La Montanita: 1 was an ambulance full of Salvadoran workers of Comandos en Salvamento carrying 10 brand-new, bike-tire bearing wheel chairs. The other was a micro-bus overflowing with “White People” carrying regalitos, but more importantly love and smiles.
You see, maybe 3 months ago, I started working with a group of people in my community in economic development. A dear lady of the group introduced me to Angel, a 4 year old boy who can’t walk but wears a smile that is highly contagious. They asked me if I could help him. I felt sorry that I didn’t work in health and could think of little I could do. Time passed. I worked more with the group and I saw Angel more often. He giggled as I took a sip of my juice every time he did and afterwards we raced to see who could finish our cookies first. He got over his pena to give me a hug and showed me how he can swing in his chair. Needless to say, I fell in love and added one more child to my ever-growing list of adoptee candidates.
I carry a list of NGOs in my notebook and one day at the cyber I came across the Free Wheelchair Mission. I filled out an inquiry and sent an email and 3 weeks later I had a response. I thought it was all too good to be true. 10 free wheelchairs, they could offer me! I immediately contacted the Health Promoter of my community and asked if there were others in La Montanita that needed a wheelchair. He knew of 6: 4 kids and 2 elderly. So I opened up the offer to my fellow PCVs. 3 wheelchairs were sent to neighboring communities in Morazan and the final wheelchair was given to a last lady in my community who recently turned 92!
We spent a day working with members of my community to assemble the wheelchairs. I went around the community, seeing parts I have never seen before, taking pictures of the wheelchair recipients, talking to the families, filling out paperwork and inviting them to the ceremony. I walked deep into the outskirts of La Montanita, coming across houses barely standing with bed springs as walls and rooms solely bearing a hammock. I met Ovidio, a 10 year old who’s cuteness gives Angel a tough run for his money; His biceps put me to shame and it was clearly evident he would be the wheelchair master.
And then Tuesday, the vans arrived. The people disembarked and Paraiso descended upon us. We gave the families their wheelchairs and little gifts. There were teeth I had never seen before between widespread lips. Warm embraces. Sweet words. And unforgettable eyes. I am so thankful for the help of these organizations and for the people who came to visit. It’s not often you get an opportunity like that. The 7 Americans were wonderful and it was so exciting for us to host them in our community. I am also very grateful to have a community like mine, to have met Angel and the rest of the gang. I look forward to visiting the wheelchair recipients next week with my little sister, and you will surely hear updates!
What a blessing it is that I was able to join the Peace Corps. And I don’t think Ill ever forget that day or stop smiling when I think about it. The chills I got looking out over everyone in their wheelchairs and their family. It’s those moments that make 75 mosquito bites below my ankles bearable and waking up everyday to roosters worthwhile. It’s the same as I felt when Fidel paid me back $10 I lent him 3 months ago (without me ever asking), or when I saw my soccer team practicing without my lead, my jewelry group making a new design, Lucinda freaking out that I only have 1 year left!!
And just went things couldnt possibly make me any happier. I got one of the best phone calls of my life last night.
I was sleeping because I had to wake up really early to head to the airport to pick up my lil sis (so excited). But I saw the name on my caller ID...low and behold-Fidel. The same kid who just paid me back $10. "He ganado la beca, he ganado!" HE WON. He told me he won the scholarship to study in the states.
Peace Corps emailed me about this opportunity 5 months. I ask aruond my community and came across Fidel. A smart kid who has studied his whole life receiving top grades, working 4am mornings cutting coffee, beans and corn in the fields and spends his evenings with a Youth Group, playing guitar for the church.
He made it to the interview level, but it required traveling to San Salvador. A 4 hour trip to a scary place he has never been. He couldnt even afford the transportation. Reluctantly, I lent him $10, assuming I'd never see it again (but he proved me wrong and proudly paid me back) and knowing its a bad precendent to set, but knowing it was for a good cause.
On Monday, he will have a passport. In months he will be in the US studying Business at the University level. He didn't have $10 and now he will have a formal education. And in 2 years he will return to beautiful El Salvador and do amazing things for his community, I am sure. I am so proud of him!!!
…Help me find a job like this one the rest of my life…
Special Thanks to:
Free Wheelchair Mission
World Emergency Relief
Rescue Task Force
Comandons en Salvamento
And to my beautiful and wonderful community. My angelitos and tan lindo jovenes. Te quiero mucho!!!
Two Fridays ago, around 3:30pm, I was finishing up washing my dishes outside in the pila. I was going to make myself a nice, fresh salad from groceries recently purchased at the market. I had some romaine lettuce with tomatoes, onions and avocado in mind and in my eagerness to get chopping I lifted the large chopping knife out of my guacal of dishes. Overly ambitious, as always, I thought I should start multi-tasking, so I used my left hand to hold the bucket, right foot to start walking, my right hand to grab for the cutting board and cooking utensils, my left foot to shut the door behind me and, running out of usable appendages and just as any right-minded individual would do, stuck the large chopping knife under my right armpit, point down.
Everything was going smoothly until my phone rang. Not wanting to miss the call and waste any of my precious saldo, I reached for it without thinking. The ringing continued, although this time it was in my head, as I stood there in shock wondering what the throbbing was my foot. It was then that I looked down and saw the knife on its side on the floor, blood spurting from a hole in my goal-maker. I had forgotten the knife was there and just as carelessly as I had placed it, I released it- into my foot. Just kidding about the spurting, it wasn’t that bad…but it hurt and I wanted my Mommy. Actually, I wasn’t all that concerned, except for the little piece of meat (as my neighbor described it, carne) popping out. I called the Peace Corps doctors.
A few minutes later a driver was on the way from the capital to pick me up, where we would turn around 4 hours later to head to the San Salvador hospital. A little bit of digging, cleaning, cutting out the bit of meat that was protruding, 2 teeny stitches (embarrassing I know) and some bruised toes later, I was fine. But, being its summer and my site now consists of walking through a daily cloud of dust aaaand I have also been prone to skin infections, the doctors wanted me to stay in the capital a week until the stitches were out and wound closed.
Gracias a Dios, I did stay, because what for the next 3 days I thought was heartburn, turned out to be Amoebas and the little eggs they laid growing in my stomach; A parasite infection from dirty food/water. Once again, I felt my pride in eating everything pisotear’ed upon as I learned my all-ingestive diet had failed me, yet again. But with 3 pills a day, I am slowly recovering. I’ll spare you the details but lets just say my digestive and excretory systems are being to display their proper functions.
Anyway, the point of this story is that things are better! Right… Okay…
So Tuesday, oh aquel beautiful Tuesday, 2 vans pulled into La Montanita: 1 was an ambulance full of Salvadoran workers of Comandos en Salvamento carrying 10 brand-new, bike-tire bearing wheel chairs. The other was a micro-bus overflowing with “White People” carrying regalitos, but more importantly love and smiles.
You see, maybe 3 months ago, I started working with a group of people in my community in economic development. A dear lady of the group introduced me to Angel, a 4 year old boy who can’t walk but wears a smile that is highly contagious. They asked me if I could help him. I felt sorry that I didn’t work in health and could think of little I could do. Time passed. I worked more with the group and I saw Angel more often. He giggled as I took a sip of my juice every time he did and afterwards we raced to see who could finish our cookies first. He got over his pena to give me a hug and showed me how he can swing in his chair. Needless to say, I fell in love and added one more child to my ever-growing list of adoptee candidates.
I carry a list of NGOs in my notebook and one day at the cyber I came across the Free Wheelchair Mission. I filled out an inquiry and sent an email and 3 weeks later I had a response. I thought it was all too good to be true. 10 free wheelchairs, they could offer me! I immediately contacted the Health Promoter of my community and asked if there were others in La Montanita that needed a wheelchair. He knew of 6: 4 kids and 2 elderly. So I opened up the offer to my fellow PCVs. 3 wheelchairs were sent to neighboring communities in Morazan and the final wheelchair was given to a last lady in my community who recently turned 92!
We spent a day working with members of my community to assemble the wheelchairs. I went around the community, seeing parts I have never seen before, taking pictures of the wheelchair recipients, talking to the families, filling out paperwork and inviting them to the ceremony. I walked deep into the outskirts of La Montanita, coming across houses barely standing with bed springs as walls and rooms solely bearing a hammock. I met Ovidio, a 10 year old who’s cuteness gives Angel a tough run for his money; His biceps put me to shame and it was clearly evident he would be the wheelchair master.
And then Tuesday, the vans arrived. The people disembarked and Paraiso descended upon us. We gave the families their wheelchairs and little gifts. There were teeth I had never seen before between widespread lips. Warm embraces. Sweet words. And unforgettable eyes. I am so thankful for the help of these organizations and for the people who came to visit. It’s not often you get an opportunity like that. The 7 Americans were wonderful and it was so exciting for us to host them in our community. I am also very grateful to have a community like mine, to have met Angel and the rest of the gang. I look forward to visiting the wheelchair recipients next week with my little sister, and you will surely hear updates!
What a blessing it is that I was able to join the Peace Corps. And I don’t think Ill ever forget that day or stop smiling when I think about it. The chills I got looking out over everyone in their wheelchairs and their family. It’s those moments that make 75 mosquito bites below my ankles bearable and waking up everyday to roosters worthwhile. It’s the same as I felt when Fidel paid me back $10 I lent him 3 months ago (without me ever asking), or when I saw my soccer team practicing without my lead, my jewelry group making a new design, Lucinda freaking out that I only have 1 year left!!
And just went things couldnt possibly make me any happier. I got one of the best phone calls of my life last night.
I was sleeping because I had to wake up really early to head to the airport to pick up my lil sis (so excited). But I saw the name on my caller ID...low and behold-Fidel. The same kid who just paid me back $10. "He ganado la beca, he ganado!" HE WON. He told me he won the scholarship to study in the states.
Peace Corps emailed me about this opportunity 5 months. I ask aruond my community and came across Fidel. A smart kid who has studied his whole life receiving top grades, working 4am mornings cutting coffee, beans and corn in the fields and spends his evenings with a Youth Group, playing guitar for the church.
He made it to the interview level, but it required traveling to San Salvador. A 4 hour trip to a scary place he has never been. He couldnt even afford the transportation. Reluctantly, I lent him $10, assuming I'd never see it again (but he proved me wrong and proudly paid me back) and knowing its a bad precendent to set, but knowing it was for a good cause.
On Monday, he will have a passport. In months he will be in the US studying Business at the University level. He didn't have $10 and now he will have a formal education. And in 2 years he will return to beautiful El Salvador and do amazing things for his community, I am sure. I am so proud of him!!!
…Help me find a job like this one the rest of my life…
Special Thanks to:
Free Wheelchair Mission
World Emergency Relief
Rescue Task Force
Comandons en Salvamento
And to my beautiful and wonderful community. My angelitos and tan lindo jovenes. Te quiero mucho!!!
Monday, February 28, 2011
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…
___________________________________________________________________
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?
_____________________________________________________________________
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.
--------
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.
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…
___________________________________________________________________
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?
_____________________________________________________________________
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.
--------
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.
Friday, February 18, 2011
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...
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...
Thursday, January 20, 2011
Mailing Packages and Information
Hello Everyone...
First of all, to everyone who has sent me packages, THANK YOU SO MUCH. I know it is really expensive and a pain to do, so I appreciate your efforts to help out mi vida here in El Salvador.
Just a Note...
Anything I have asked for in the past, I do not need anymore. So Please save your money...I´m starting to feel guilty!
Really, the only thing I need right now are 10 pairs of soccer cleats for girls, sizes 5-8 and 12 pairs of shin guards. I am working on seeing if I can get local support here from the mayor, as well as doing fundraising activities with the girls, but it is always a challenge. Currently, we have 10 pairs of cleats and 8 shin guards, but I cannot give them out fairly until I have a set for the whole team! We have temporary uniforms...that are old, worn and oversized, but they are doing the job for now. If anyone has a complete set of at leat 11, for girls ages 12-18yrs, let me know!
If you have the need to throw in something extra... my dog is covered in fleas- if anyone has any remedy for that.
USPS Only Mailing Address Still Same:
Jaime Posa
Barrio Centro
Municipio de Osicala
Departamento de Morazan
El Salvador
America Central
______________________________________________________
If you are interested in learning more about El Salvador, I recommend the following movies...usually available in english and/or spanish.
Sin Nombre (¨Without Name¨- English Subtitles) -- about the gangs in El Salvador
Innocent Voices (Voces Inocentes) -- about the life of a child during the El Salvador war
Romero --The life and work of Archbishop Oscar Romero who opposed, at great personal risk, the tyrannical repression in El Salvador.
_____________________________________________________________
Quick Cute Story:
I was at my neighbors house and they were asking me about my trip home. David was asking me, ¨Does Santa Claus really come in the US?¨ Tough question to answer for kids who don´t get gifts. But he was really precious when he said that ¨You think if I write a letter and leave it outside and maybe and animal or something will carry it to the US and Santa Claus will get it and send me and my brothers gifts?¨ 0:)
First of all, to everyone who has sent me packages, THANK YOU SO MUCH. I know it is really expensive and a pain to do, so I appreciate your efforts to help out mi vida here in El Salvador.
Just a Note...
Anything I have asked for in the past, I do not need anymore. So Please save your money...I´m starting to feel guilty!
Really, the only thing I need right now are 10 pairs of soccer cleats for girls, sizes 5-8 and 12 pairs of shin guards. I am working on seeing if I can get local support here from the mayor, as well as doing fundraising activities with the girls, but it is always a challenge. Currently, we have 10 pairs of cleats and 8 shin guards, but I cannot give them out fairly until I have a set for the whole team! We have temporary uniforms...that are old, worn and oversized, but they are doing the job for now. If anyone has a complete set of at leat 11, for girls ages 12-18yrs, let me know!
If you have the need to throw in something extra... my dog is covered in fleas- if anyone has any remedy for that.
USPS Only Mailing Address Still Same:
Jaime Posa
Barrio Centro
Municipio de Osicala
Departamento de Morazan
El Salvador
America Central
______________________________________________________
If you are interested in learning more about El Salvador, I recommend the following movies...usually available in english and/or spanish.
Sin Nombre (¨Without Name¨- English Subtitles) -- about the gangs in El Salvador
Innocent Voices (Voces Inocentes) -- about the life of a child during the El Salvador war
Romero --The life and work of Archbishop Oscar Romero who opposed, at great personal risk, the tyrannical repression in El Salvador.
_____________________________________________________________
Quick Cute Story:
I was at my neighbors house and they were asking me about my trip home. David was asking me, ¨Does Santa Claus really come in the US?¨ Tough question to answer for kids who don´t get gifts. But he was really precious when he said that ¨You think if I write a letter and leave it outside and maybe and animal or something will carry it to the US and Santa Claus will get it and send me and my brothers gifts?¨ 0:)
Sunday, January 16, 2011
I´m Back
“Buenas Morning”. “Como are you?” Time passed so quickly that I cannot believe that I already flew home, spent 2 weeks lying on the couch wondering strangely why I was enjoying touching a chucho and am now back again eating mangos in one of the few places you can’t find on Google Earth. The only blatant reminder that I was, in actually, alla is the fact that 2 weeks without speaking Spanish has sent my mind hayward trying to form proper sentences.
Home was … home. My friends and I had our annual Cotton Headed Ninny Muggin Christmas Party where we overdosed on pasta salad, cupcakes and Pam’s Grandma’s cookies. Not enough people were wondering where my Stuffed Mushrooms are but I was content on the handful of requests for my “meat pie”—its SALAMI PIE people. Damnit. We played the secret santa gift giving game and although Cate may not invite me back next year for giving a Machete to intoxicated men (?), we all walked away smiling, even the 8 people who went home with a Shake Weight. Concluding the night singing the 12 Days of Christmas, in rounds, was the icing to the pastel.
The next day or two was spent on my couch, ahhh cushions, with a few breaks to walk my dog through the winter wonderland outside or get up to go to the bathroom, ahhhh toilet seats.
Christmas Eve was spent gorging at my Dad’s Sisters house. A 50ft long table where all you can hear is New York Italian accents screaming over each other while waiting for the foot and all you can see when the food arrives are the tops of black haired heads working through anti pasta, shrimp cocktail, crab legs, lobster, linguini….
Christmas morning my Dad made a typical family breakfast of sloppy Joes (?) while we waited for Christina to wake up… We then headed to the living room to exchange gifts while Grandma worked on her 5th cup of coffee. Danielle got stuff for her NYC apartment, I got ant traps. Christina got mascara, I got multi vitamins…Then we headed to my Mom’s brother’s house in Long Island where the food binging continued…
The rest of the week was spent relaxing at home. It was so good to be at my house and so nice to have family around. Grandma entertained me by yelling everytime someone drove up the driveway... “Who’s Here?! Someones here!!!”. It was usually my Dad.
And as the days neared my return to El Salvador, my heart beat faster and faster. Do I want to go back? How will I say goodbye again? But, I neeeed hot water. It’s the night before and I just don’t want to go. So I read over the Christmas card my littler sister, Christina, gave me. She writes like she’s been doing it for years. As if it’s effortless. The words she chooses are not only sophisticated but fit in their places in the sentences like pieces to a puzzle. The message reads like a story that you ease through but keep with you forever. And the note is not written with her hands but spilling out from her heart. She makes me look at the Peace Corps in a new light. She talks about not only reaching out to others, but letting them inside of you. She says how she looks at the look on a stranger’s face when she smiles and says good morning. She says “Lili’s waiting for you”. And I am reminded of something I read in Buddhism—Let The World Be Your Teacher. And I know that I need to go back.
I was blessed to have the two weeks at home with my friends and family, catching up with people I haven’t seen in awhile or spoken to in forever. And I am blessed to be able to return here.
It wasn’t easy. It still isn’t. But….life is beautiful.
Day 1- I walked into a house covered in dust and a latrine full of flies- But, that I expected. A firecracker went off sending the bees in the hive on my house in a frenzy stinging me on day 2 and a spreading rash appeared on my arms on day 3, but that I could have even told you would happen. But no one told me they were cutting my mango tree. I sat in disbelief as 2 men hacked away the branches of my beloved tree, in preparation of the new road that will be passing through my community. This was one of the hardest moments of all. Later, I scoured the ground like a scavenger, not wanting to leave a single fallen soldier behind. Oh my dear dulce mangos.
But joy came in other areas. Two representatives from the US Embassy made the 4 hour trek to visit my community Wednesday. From them I won a grant to provide the materials for my Artesania Jewelry Making Youth Group. I was ecstatic with the turnout and so so so very proud of my kids for the presentation they gave to the Embassy folk. I met with my Girls Soccer Team to talk about re organizing and fundraising and they all showed up, ALMOST on time (!!) and planned their own fundraiser event. I successfully (I think) performed conflict resolution with my counterpart over an ongoing issue and I believe I will soon be picking up a set of new computer for my school. Other than that, I am working on stage 2 of a scholarship to study in a US University for a boy in my community and planning to host a girls tournament next month. All and all, I feel I have had a successful week… but never too cocky to count my pollitos before they hatch.
So I keep trucking along, seeing what else may come my way. They can’t take me down. And I’m not giving up my mangos.
************
If you can’t fly, run; if you can’t run, walk’ if you can’t walk; crawl.
–Reverend Martin Luther King Jr.
Home was … home. My friends and I had our annual Cotton Headed Ninny Muggin Christmas Party where we overdosed on pasta salad, cupcakes and Pam’s Grandma’s cookies. Not enough people were wondering where my Stuffed Mushrooms are but I was content on the handful of requests for my “meat pie”—its SALAMI PIE people. Damnit. We played the secret santa gift giving game and although Cate may not invite me back next year for giving a Machete to intoxicated men (?), we all walked away smiling, even the 8 people who went home with a Shake Weight. Concluding the night singing the 12 Days of Christmas, in rounds, was the icing to the pastel.
The next day or two was spent on my couch, ahhh cushions, with a few breaks to walk my dog through the winter wonderland outside or get up to go to the bathroom, ahhhh toilet seats.
Christmas Eve was spent gorging at my Dad’s Sisters house. A 50ft long table where all you can hear is New York Italian accents screaming over each other while waiting for the foot and all you can see when the food arrives are the tops of black haired heads working through anti pasta, shrimp cocktail, crab legs, lobster, linguini….
Christmas morning my Dad made a typical family breakfast of sloppy Joes (?) while we waited for Christina to wake up… We then headed to the living room to exchange gifts while Grandma worked on her 5th cup of coffee. Danielle got stuff for her NYC apartment, I got ant traps. Christina got mascara, I got multi vitamins…Then we headed to my Mom’s brother’s house in Long Island where the food binging continued…
The rest of the week was spent relaxing at home. It was so good to be at my house and so nice to have family around. Grandma entertained me by yelling everytime someone drove up the driveway... “Who’s Here?! Someones here!!!”. It was usually my Dad.
And as the days neared my return to El Salvador, my heart beat faster and faster. Do I want to go back? How will I say goodbye again? But, I neeeed hot water. It’s the night before and I just don’t want to go. So I read over the Christmas card my littler sister, Christina, gave me. She writes like she’s been doing it for years. As if it’s effortless. The words she chooses are not only sophisticated but fit in their places in the sentences like pieces to a puzzle. The message reads like a story that you ease through but keep with you forever. And the note is not written with her hands but spilling out from her heart. She makes me look at the Peace Corps in a new light. She talks about not only reaching out to others, but letting them inside of you. She says how she looks at the look on a stranger’s face when she smiles and says good morning. She says “Lili’s waiting for you”. And I am reminded of something I read in Buddhism—Let The World Be Your Teacher. And I know that I need to go back.
I was blessed to have the two weeks at home with my friends and family, catching up with people I haven’t seen in awhile or spoken to in forever. And I am blessed to be able to return here.
It wasn’t easy. It still isn’t. But….life is beautiful.
Day 1- I walked into a house covered in dust and a latrine full of flies- But, that I expected. A firecracker went off sending the bees in the hive on my house in a frenzy stinging me on day 2 and a spreading rash appeared on my arms on day 3, but that I could have even told you would happen. But no one told me they were cutting my mango tree. I sat in disbelief as 2 men hacked away the branches of my beloved tree, in preparation of the new road that will be passing through my community. This was one of the hardest moments of all. Later, I scoured the ground like a scavenger, not wanting to leave a single fallen soldier behind. Oh my dear dulce mangos.
But joy came in other areas. Two representatives from the US Embassy made the 4 hour trek to visit my community Wednesday. From them I won a grant to provide the materials for my Artesania Jewelry Making Youth Group. I was ecstatic with the turnout and so so so very proud of my kids for the presentation they gave to the Embassy folk. I met with my Girls Soccer Team to talk about re organizing and fundraising and they all showed up, ALMOST on time (!!) and planned their own fundraiser event. I successfully (I think) performed conflict resolution with my counterpart over an ongoing issue and I believe I will soon be picking up a set of new computer for my school. Other than that, I am working on stage 2 of a scholarship to study in a US University for a boy in my community and planning to host a girls tournament next month. All and all, I feel I have had a successful week… but never too cocky to count my pollitos before they hatch.
So I keep trucking along, seeing what else may come my way. They can’t take me down. And I’m not giving up my mangos.
************
If you can’t fly, run; if you can’t run, walk’ if you can’t walk; crawl.
–Reverend Martin Luther King Jr.
Wednesday, December 15, 2010
Rewards
“HOLA!” I look up from my plastic table and lean forward on the plastic chair I’m sitting on outside. Jose smiles and takes one had off the pile of fire wood he wears over his back, to wave at me. My smile grows wide as I wave back and I lean back in my chair with a quiet, but happy giggle. “Hola” me dijo.
For the past 8 months in La Montanita, 13 year old Jose has been cat calling me. When I walk by, he whistles. When I’m farther down the street “tss,tss” and “venite mi amor, I ‘love you mamasita!” he calls at me. It’s bad enough when the teenagers and old, married men do it to me. But its even more humiliating and frustrating coming from someone barely through puberty.
On my birthday part last month, Jose had the nerve to show up, hover at my door and finally ask for a piece of cake. There were 2 tiny slices left. I put one on a paper plate and walked over to him. I said “You can have this last piece of cake, but you are not going to hiss at me when I walk down the street anymore.”
He still looked up at me with googly eyes when I walked by, but he stopped saying things. Or at least he was quiet enough that I couldn’t hear him.
Last weekend, he was outside while I was loading up a pick up truck with my soccer team girls to travel to an away game. I asked if he wanted to tag along, free of charge, but he would have to ref the game. He agreed.
Today, he walks by my house and says “Hola.”
Sometimes, I get so frustrated here. I work 2 hours at night, planning a meeting for my girls soccer team so that they will be able to own a pair of cleats… And 3 girls show up the next day for the meeting. I offer to help solicit gifts for a Christmas Party for the town (500 of them!) and my community leaders won’t meet with the mayor for the snacks because he is from a different politic party. Maria knocks on my door asking for $3 and Mario laughs as he tells me that he lost all his drawings from Art Class.
No one gets me. I shouldn’t be here. They don’t appreciate my work. They don’t want me here. No one likes me. I have no friends. They just want money. I’m just a big gringa to stare at.
It’s so easy to think like this. I fear this stuff a lot.
But then people surprise you.
Happiness comes in weird ways.
You reap rewards in ways you never thought of.
It just took a “Hello”. An “Hola” from Jose. And I can’t stop smiling. He gets it. I want to be here.
I lean back and good memories come flooding to my mind…
The girls from my Artesania group who came over to my house this week when I invited them. An hour late, but they all showed up. We spent 3 hours making decorations for the Community House for the Christmas Party. We talked and laughed and listened to music…it felt good. One girl even wrote up a description of the community and our project to show my friends at home, as I asked. I was so proud of her. Together we wrote a Thank You card for our Artesania group leader. The message came from the group and it touched my heart. They do appreciate my work.
Last night, some girls invited me to a bull riding show in a neighboring community. We laughed as a soccer game was played while a bull ran loose on the field. Kids trying to make goals while avoiding getting stuck with a horn. Not the safest game but man, funny to watch. We huddled together as it got late and a whole lot colder than I ever thought it’d get here. We giggle, a giant group of girls, arms wrapped around each other. They do want me here. They do like me. I do have friends.
Esmeralda tries to wash her cup from the coffee I offered her during our Artesania Christmas Decoration making session. “Leave it” I say. “No Jaime. When someone offers you something, you return the favor”. They don’t just want my money.
“Hola” Jose called to me as he waved, smiling. I’m not just a big gringa to stare at.
For the past 8 months in La Montanita, 13 year old Jose has been cat calling me. When I walk by, he whistles. When I’m farther down the street “tss,tss” and “venite mi amor, I ‘love you mamasita!” he calls at me. It’s bad enough when the teenagers and old, married men do it to me. But its even more humiliating and frustrating coming from someone barely through puberty.
On my birthday part last month, Jose had the nerve to show up, hover at my door and finally ask for a piece of cake. There were 2 tiny slices left. I put one on a paper plate and walked over to him. I said “You can have this last piece of cake, but you are not going to hiss at me when I walk down the street anymore.”
He still looked up at me with googly eyes when I walked by, but he stopped saying things. Or at least he was quiet enough that I couldn’t hear him.
Last weekend, he was outside while I was loading up a pick up truck with my soccer team girls to travel to an away game. I asked if he wanted to tag along, free of charge, but he would have to ref the game. He agreed.
Today, he walks by my house and says “Hola.”
Sometimes, I get so frustrated here. I work 2 hours at night, planning a meeting for my girls soccer team so that they will be able to own a pair of cleats… And 3 girls show up the next day for the meeting. I offer to help solicit gifts for a Christmas Party for the town (500 of them!) and my community leaders won’t meet with the mayor for the snacks because he is from a different politic party. Maria knocks on my door asking for $3 and Mario laughs as he tells me that he lost all his drawings from Art Class.
No one gets me. I shouldn’t be here. They don’t appreciate my work. They don’t want me here. No one likes me. I have no friends. They just want money. I’m just a big gringa to stare at.
It’s so easy to think like this. I fear this stuff a lot.
But then people surprise you.
Happiness comes in weird ways.
You reap rewards in ways you never thought of.
It just took a “Hello”. An “Hola” from Jose. And I can’t stop smiling. He gets it. I want to be here.
I lean back and good memories come flooding to my mind…
The girls from my Artesania group who came over to my house this week when I invited them. An hour late, but they all showed up. We spent 3 hours making decorations for the Community House for the Christmas Party. We talked and laughed and listened to music…it felt good. One girl even wrote up a description of the community and our project to show my friends at home, as I asked. I was so proud of her. Together we wrote a Thank You card for our Artesania group leader. The message came from the group and it touched my heart. They do appreciate my work.
Last night, some girls invited me to a bull riding show in a neighboring community. We laughed as a soccer game was played while a bull ran loose on the field. Kids trying to make goals while avoiding getting stuck with a horn. Not the safest game but man, funny to watch. We huddled together as it got late and a whole lot colder than I ever thought it’d get here. We giggle, a giant group of girls, arms wrapped around each other. They do want me here. They do like me. I do have friends.
Esmeralda tries to wash her cup from the coffee I offered her during our Artesania Christmas Decoration making session. “Leave it” I say. “No Jaime. When someone offers you something, you return the favor”. They don’t just want my money.
“Hola” Jose called to me as he waved, smiling. I’m not just a big gringa to stare at.
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