Carrie in La Montana

“In the life of a New Yorker, there are several unpleasant things one will inevitably have to face: having your bag stolen, public urination…”

…and I believe what follows is “having the door that swings behind a businessman carrying a Starbucks-to-go-cup slam on your face.”


I am known as the Carrie Bradshaw of La Montana, El Salvador… Besides for the fact that I am not a tiny, skinny, bouncy blonde, nor do I wear any designer clothes… or have a 100 pairs of $4,000 shoes… I don’t even have finished floors in my house for that sake. Imagine?

But as I sit with my legs up on my wooden bench, typing away and re-reading out loud, I cant help but feel like this is my own New York column. That I am an sweet, innocent young gal just trying to find her way in a world of bustling strangers. That this is my mode of communication with the world. And, yes, maybe I have been hauling water for a week street since it hasn’t been falling, and, yes, Im sorry, but I often drip-dry because the majority of my neighborhood doesn’t use toilet paper, and okay, fine, yes sometimes I wear the same shirt twice without washing it… But, I sometimes like to imagine I am Carrie Bradshaw. I sit outside with my neighborhood ladies, on some plastic chairs and benches and we chat over brunch. Leslita is 7, Catherine is 9, Marjo is 11, we gossip about last nights telenovelas and brunch is peeling mangos and dipping them in a handful of salt, but we do it in our most-fanciest vestidos and most-limpias flip-flops. Later on, I strut my stuff down a good old Salvadoran village street with the confidence of a real New York woman. The street is a dirt path and the confidence only comes because I know no matter what assortment of rags I pull on, the 15 road workers I pass will whistle.

Actually, I am the first person of La Montana who has come to know of Carrie and it was, in fact, El Salvador that took my full-episode- “Sex and the City” virginity. (Will they even let me back into Manhattan after that release of information?) So, I guess I should re-phrase. I am known as the New Yorker living in La Montana. And lets be honest, this is no Sex and the City...nor anything that has to do with the name of it.

As I watch Carrie pay for a $15 brownie with my 15 cent tortilla in hand, I wonder which one of us is the crazy one?

They say “every blessing is a curse” but I think down here sometimes we are forced to look at it the other way around. I mean, there IS something, so liberating in the feeling of ice-cold water slapping at your skin while you bathe outside beneath the beaming sun and with the fallen leaves of the neighboring mango tree collected at your feet. There IS joyous laughter in the breaking of a $3 pair of sandals, as you try hitching a ride along the roadside back to your no-named-street little village. There IS satisfaction in the freedom you get dangling in your hammock, while spitting orange seeds onto your unfinished floor. Imaginese?
Sometimes, the things we curse, may very just well serve a most beautiful purpose.

New York and La Montana are VERY different. But do NOT get me wrong, in El Salvador there are many stolen purses and much more public urination.

My heart is torn in two.


Today, standing in the back of a pickup truck, riding to town, was like a 20 minute vacation. The changing scenery, the sweeping landscape, the kids screaming “saluuu” on the road side, cows grinding the browning grass, all while I swing back and forth, face into the wind.

As my days dwindle down in La Montana, I start to wonder what I will miss most. While the answer flashes before my eyes like a Polaroid film strip of smiling faces, I count the second-runners-up.

The view from my house of the mountains in the morning.

My beloved mangy dog, scratching at the door in the morning and then bouncing after the neighbors roosters.

The toots and calls of the passing “camion”, chuck full of sweaty “jugadores”.

A cold swim in the country river, head-to-toe clothed.

Greasy pupusas, but more importantly the burnt fingertips from trying to tear those suckers apart.

But there is no doubt, what holds first place in my heart. Its those faces. Lili and Karime. Leslith, Caterine, Marjori. Jilmer, Gerson and David. Dora and Nena. Leo. Otinia. Franklin, Damian, Miguel and Cristian. Gerson, Efrian and Lucinda. And all the parents, uncles, grandmas and grandpas that come with them.

I am going to miss their curls. Their speckle-toothed smiles. The giggles. The running after Vaquito. The drawings. The soups shared and sodas spilled. The time I said this and the time she did that. Watching them march the dirt roads with “lena” on their backs or “guacales” of “masa” on their heads. The way they talk to each other across the fence like some regular old granny neighbors. Their kiddie hugs and their kiddie hands. The way they say “jeyymiiii” when they see me. Or sometimes “profe”, or “papito” when theyre feeling real funny.

The moments. The understandings. The misunderstandings. The occasions. The times just purely paseando.

That makes me think of Christmas.


There is no way I will ever be able to compare Christmas in New York with my first Christmas in El Salvador…and so I am glad that I will not have to. Because instead, I will talk about my most memorable Christmas-Eve-EVE, EVER.

It started with a 5am wake-up call and a 6am bus ride out. The next 5 hours were spent running back and forth to my dear friend’s car, Christmas-preparation shopping. For those of you unfamiliar with Christmas in the campo, this does not mean stuffed animals, board games, play-dough… nor Gucci bags, rolex watches or whatever it is Carrie wears these days, kind-of-shopping. This means, 5 pounds of potatoes, green peppers, tomatoes, and a whole lot of consome-de-pollo. This means canastas basicas and cellophane- wrapped balons de futbol. This means, my poor, abused friend and I were running around 1000s of Salvadorans sweating our asses off in the most horrendous market in the world (San Miguel), preparing for a Bridge Inauguration and Community Christmas Party.

But that morning of misery paid off. I beamed from ear to ear as I watched a group of girls create pinatas from a workshop we had given awhile back. These piñatas would be used for our Christmas Party 

Later that evening, we had a Christmas celebration with my Artesania Group. I talked about remembering the first time I orgaznied the group. How hard it was for me, and how nervous I was. And now, 2 years later, look how far we had come.

They surprised me with amazing speeches, a sweater, a necklace, earrings and bracelet, a dress designed by them and 2 pages of lovely letters. It took my breathe away. I was so surprised and happy that I don’t think I have stopped smiling until now. Wait, let me check the mirror…they gave me wrinkles.

As the time is drawing near to say goodbye, people ask me if I am sad to leave. Others ask me if I am happy to go see my family. Am I sad? Or am I happy? Well, what damn good questions.

New York or El Salvador? The city or the countryside? Paved floors or fresh air? Toilets or toilet paperless? Stolen purses or public urination?

Two years here have been very hard. In ways many of you will probably never understand. (oh how true they saying “to walk in another mans shoes”). And I could never put it into words. But these two years have also been very amazing. They have changed my life.

So, how do you say goodbye? And then, how do you say hello?

Its quite apparent that this blog entry has no overall theme. I wanted to talk about Christmas. I wanted to talk about the hard times here and how I have turned them into experiences. I wanted to talk about coming home. I wanted to show you how I may just be the next Carrie Bradshaw. I don’t think this entry passes the requisites for a proper paper for any of the aforementioned themes.

However, it is the perfect blog. Because, that is where I am right now. In f-ing Never Never Land. I am confused. Peace Corps has given us little over a month to finish our projects, our reports, our interviews, our paperwork, our health exams and logistics, all the meanwhile saying goodbye to our new friends and families. And I am supposed to make sense of it all.

I am going to be totally honest. I don’t know. I don’t know what I am feeling. I don’t know if I am sad. I don’t know if I am happy. I don’t know if my dog is better off getting hit by a car in NY or starving in ES. I don’t know if my community will remember me, I don’t know if anyone at home cares I can milk a cow. I don’t know if I want a real job. I don’t know if I can live poor the rest of my life. I don’t know if I will miss them forever, or forget them in a year. I don’t know if I can make it at home. I don’t know if I can last down here. I don’t know if you will remember me. I don’t know if I have changed. I don’t know if you are who I remember you to be. I don’t know if you have changed. I don’t know who I am, who I was, or who I am going to be. I just don’t know.

If it makes you feel better, I will tell you what I DO know. I do not want to stay. But I do not want to say goodbye. I want to see my family. I want to stay with Lili and Karyme, Gerson and Efrian, Nena and Marilyn, Dora and Otinia. I want to walk up and down NYC, eating great bagels and slices of thin-crusted pizza. I want pupusas 3 for a dollar. I want nice clothes. I want to forever not care about what I am wearing. I want nice restaurants and to be able to drink good drinks (with alcohol) publicly. I want to eat with my hands. I want a hot shower. I want to pour a bucket of cold water over my head under a sky full of stars, breasts for the whole community to see. Well, that’s just how it is here. Like it, or not, Carrie.

Do you feel better? Now you know how I feel.

Be it what it will; see you March 14.

Im Back...Kinda

It has been so long since my post that I have actually become to fear my own blog. When friends and family ask about it, I shy away awkwardly, fake left and then jolt the other direction. When I scan my facebook and see other Peace Corps volunteers have published something, I frantically quadruple click my mouse encima the X on the top right corner of my internet page.

But as life has cold-heartedly taught me, the only way to overcome your fears is to face them.

And so you find me here, staring you, JaimeinPC.blogspot.com, in the face. Yes Im slightly chapuda in shame, and yes I am uncertain of how my readers will receive this, but there is no turning back now.

So, how, you ask, will I come to explain all that has happened since September 2011? In the following unorganized, confusing, spontaneous, incoherent paragraph. Please stop reading now if you have a headache, or foresee one.

My father visited for a beautiful week in September, but abruptly left me on my doorstep, alone yet again, with nothing but a few monkey-nail scars and a suitcase full of American-brand coffee. My Peace Corps Partnership Project was approved and my amazing friends and family helped me with $5,810 to build a bridge in my community. December 23, 2011 the bridge was finished and we had an AMAZING Inauguration followed by community Christmas party. I drank table wine and ate 17 bread with pulled chicken sandwiches. My Youth-Jewelry Group bought me a sweater and made me a dress, earrings, necklace and bracelet for Christmas… all with skills learned and money earned through this group. Brought me to tears. My dog abandoned me for another chucha in the community…he will soon be a proud father. I went to Costa Rica for my birthday where I was overwhelmed by how expensive things were (okay maybe El Salvador is cheap), but had an amazing time with my best friends Kim and Jackie (and Adrien). My community dirt road is becoming paved and I now live beside a large hole and a CAT giant machine. Barca beat Madrid over a hundred times. I went to Guatemala for New Years where I had another amazing time…besides for New Years Day where I was assaulted for the third time (gun point). Im fine and safe and actually got away (running- thank you pink sneakers) unharmed. I hiked the Parque Imposible (National Park Impossible). I did a Flea Market fundraiser that gained me lots of points with the community. I ate liver. El Salvador was listed First as most violent country in the word. And Peace Corps decided to take drastic measures to secure the situation in Honduras, Guatemala and El Salvador… evacuating volunteers from Honduras, and temporarily suspending the program in Guate and ES. Looks like I may be home early.

It is probable that I will write another blog soon, explaining selected parts of this disarray of words further. But for now, that is what I have been doing.

Hopefully, if you are a donor to my bridge project, you received an email with photos or have seen my facebook. The project was an enormous success and I owe every ounce of it to you guys.

Hopefully, if you were somebody who used to be a dedicated “JaimeinPC.blogspot.com” reader you will excuse my hiatus and accept me back into your blog-life.

Hopefully, I gain the courage to put these 3 months of blog-neglect behind me, and once again shower you with my words of wisdom from down here in chicken-ville for the short-sweet time that remains.

El Godfather in El Salvador

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

Okay maybe I am remembering it wrong.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And the memories that will last a lifetime.

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

NUMBER 1....

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

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

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

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

NUMBER 2....

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

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

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

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

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

Thank you so much in advance.

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

xoxoxo
from El Salvador

Listen

Listen

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

-Mattie J.T. Stepanek
Ambassador of Humanity


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Work Hard, Be Happy

Work Hard, Be Happy

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

O sea…

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

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

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

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

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


...Upon returning from the candidata event….

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Taking Life for Granted

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

All the kids startled giggling.

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

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

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

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