Death is an unfair mistress. She lurks behind corners until a bounce accompanies your step and then she trips you. She watches your parties, your invincibility, your recklessness for the laws of man and nature alike and she pulls the rug out from under you as you dance upon it with a drink lifted high in your hand. The drink spills. The dream dies. You fall down.
After a three-day HIV/AIDS workshop in Asuncion, the seven hour bus ride to Encarnacion commenced. I was on my way to a much-anticipated pool-side Thanksgiving celebration with other Peace Corps volunteers- three days with no community development (whatever that is), no Guarani headaches and no house calls. Vacation time. VACATION TIME!
After hours of sweaty, running-out-of-gas, no-I'm-not-married-but-no-we're-not-going-to-date-mr.-bus-driver, we arrived at Hotel Tirol. Upon entering the property, we were greeted by a pool full of slightly crispy Peace Corps volunteers, floating face-up in inner tubes, hues reminiscent of Life Saver candies, wearing over-sized sun hats with quickly-mixed drinks in their hands, electronic pop blaring from a borrowed sound system and a volleyball net set up on one side. We had arrived.
The next two days were a blur of slathering on layer upon layer of sun screen (still missing spots, of course), floating in an array of creative positions in the inner tubes and then ravenously eating catered food like cows called home by the bell three times a day.
Even though we were in this Shangri-La of generously provisioned food and poolside volleyball tournaments, there were tensions. Here we were: A large group of our friends together in one place for the first time since training activities. You might think we'd be overjoyed to see each other again, to be reunited and have it feel so good. But, being over-emotional women in a unique circumstance outlined by life-defining challenges and exhausting personal development, things become more complicated than that. It seems that in our own isolated communities, talking everyday (or close to it) on the phone, we have become accustomed to having our own friends- all. to. our. selves. And to share becomes something of a trial. So the underlying passive agressive jealousy that we would never admit ourselves capable of because we are good people trying to do good in the world and eliminate poverty, world hunger, teenage pregnancy, parasitosis, cavities, bad fashion choices, ingrown toe nails for God's sake! it starts to creep up in totally novel ways. Things are fun! For certain. But things are tense as well. We are doing our best to ignore the problems and take in as many cosmic rays as we can before it's time to leave Zion.
Thanksgiving dinner rolls around and I find, mysteriously, that I've lost my ability to over-eat. After living without a refrigerator and surviving on popcorn and watermelon for the last month, I can hardly choke down my first plate of delicious, so-authentic American Thanksgiving food before I am nauseous and wondering how long it will take for this dinner to become a scary trip to the nicer-than-usual-but-still-doorless bathroom at this joint. But don't worry yall. Like I've said before, I can get at some desert like Mike Tyson at a fresh plate of ears so I obviously destroyed four different options after declaring it impossible to eat another bite. The night and day that followed the feast did well to prove itself worthy of it's forebearing fodder: Turkey (Juuuui-cy), mashed potatoes, yams with marshmallows, green bean casserole, mac n' cheese, stuffing and a fresh salad which I didn't touch.
Mm.
Saturday afternoon everyone packed up their sopping wet stuff, trying not to wonder if it was beer, pool water, sweat or some other unmentionable and ate our last lunch at the hotel. As things were winding down and we were talking logistics, a few people came into the dining area to make an announcement. We had been making a lot of announcement these last couple of days: Beer pong tournament starts at 9; stop dropping bottles into the pool; thank you's to so-and-so, you get the drift. This one was different. This one wasn't good. The girl talking wasn't smiling at us. Her voice was shaking. People were frantically shushing other guests at the hotel who were still mumbling in spanish or other languages. This one wasn't good.
Death is an unfair mistress. She waits until your belly is full, your body is satiated and then she starves you of air. She watches your parties, your invincibility, your recklessness for the laws of man and nature alike and she pulls the rug out from under you as you dance upon it with a drink lifted high in your hand. The drink spills. The dream dies. You fall down.
I barely recognize the name but I feel acutely the fear and the loss, like the prick of a hot needle at the nape of your neck. I feel the stomach-churning, discomfort of losing someone who is supposed to be untouchable. Someone who is blond and beautiful and smiling, exploring the world at 24 can't be- dead? Can't be dead. But death is unfair. Death is unfair. And people fall down.
For the rest of us, we can pour another drink, dream another dream and stand up again. But not if it's you. Not if you're the one she found.
So what are we supposed to take away? Are we supposed to forget all the inconsequential tensions of the day and love each other unconditionally? I would like to do that but even though she died I still feel irritated at things I know are inconsequential. So what? I don't get it. I'm in Paraguay sweating bullets surrounded by people who love me but I know I'll still be irrationality irritated at stupid things so what? Am I broken because I can't see the divine light that death has shed on the ugliness of the world? I don't get it.
Death is an unfair mistress. She is inescapable and unrelenting. The only thing for it is to live while you can and see what happens. Is that true?
28 November 2011
17 November 2011
You Want Me To Do What?
I can do anything.
In Paraguari, a major city center, situated about 3 kilometers from my town, there rests a pleasant little building titled, Regional Hospital Paraguari. In this hospital there sits a special area designated for youth titled, Zona Joven. The Young Zone. An obstetrician who works in the Zona Joven heard through the grapevine that I possessed the triple threat of youth obstetrics: Yoga, teenagers and pregnancy experience. I've only directly experienced two of the three but had pretty intimate contact with the third. Lots of blood and screaming. Anyway, this obstetrician named Laura rooted me out in my little town down the road and asked me to lead a yoga class for pregnant youth.
You might be wondering... Is Carly certified to instruct yoga classes? Then again, you might not care enough to wonder. Either way, the answer is... In what context? .... okay technically in the United States well no not really. I'm not licensed or anything. But hey- this is Paraguay. And my mere access to Google makes me an infinitely better resource for yoga classes than the overwhelming majority of the gente (people) around me. So ah ha! The answer now is yes: I'm certified. Don't worry about it.
Obviously I said yes and after about a month we have organized the group. Se llama Mama Felices, Bebes Sanos: Happy Moms, Healthy Babies. Hopefully by increasing the mothers' awareness, we can increase the likelihood of a healthy, educated upbringing for the child.
This morning I had my first class. But let's back up because the class is important- it was a huge moment for me- but even before that a huger moment presented itself to me for which I'll be infinitely grateful. And that's a for real statement. An un-exaggerated-yes-I-mean-it-life-changing kinda' thing.
So it's 10 o'clock this morning. I've just finished the first in a sequence of radio broadcasts on the topic of women's health with my dear friend Anna Banana Sanger. Hey- we spoke in another language on the radio. I'm kind of proud of myself. Anna and I are eating unhealthy food on the way to yoga class because that's how we roll. I got a sweet tooth that would put Cookie Monster to shame and I am not messing around with that statement either. You're shameful Cookie Monster. Anyway, I'm thinking to myself... I'm thinking... after all this managing spanish, it must be so nice to go willy nilly and teach classes in your native language. What a breeze!! What a break!!
Thinking this I feel a little bit ... what...?.... a little bit like my hubris has up and abandoned me? Like I'm flourishing my bravura a little too brazenly? I don't care. I can feel the power of my thoughts welling up inside me and I've got to say them out loud and hey, there's Anna, a fluent English speaker and the ever-present sounding-board of my sometimes frightening thoughts so I say to her, "I think I can do anything," and before I can even finish tacking on, "after this experience," an ambiguous statement in itself, she's already nodding her little head and pointing affirmatively at me. "Yeah!" We both say how relieving it would be teach a class - on anything- in our native language considering we frequently teach classes in Spanish and Guarani on topics we knew almost nothing about 10 months ago. I can't imagine ever being very nervous for a job interview again- unless it's going to be in Russia.
Considering this incredible feat- having acquired the confidence to tackle any obstacle- the two years are worth it. Two years away from friends and family, two years of not 'climbing the corporate ladder' or advancing academically are suddenly worth it when weighed against the backdrop of personal development that comes from constantly living outside of your comfort zone. If the Peace Corps dropped me off in April of 2013 with nothing more to show than this confidence in myself, the two years are worth it.
Now consider this, my friend. Add on top of the personal development and leaps and bounds in self-worth the fact that I am affecting other people live's positively and -WOAH- the two years become more than worth it. Pile on top of that the fact that I'm learning a set of personal skills that will benefit me the rest of my life- for example, I can now do anything by hand- and top it off with the cherry of life-long friendship.... uhhhh. I would have paid a lot of money for this junk. Hey. Maybe they should put me in a commercial. As much as the bureaucratic stuff is stupid, I kind of love this.
So let's re-focus on what's happening. I'm in town preparing to lead this group of medical professionals in their first ever yoga class. I've just finished a radio program with Anna on the importance of exercise. We have declared the importance of the ever-elusive-to-define "Peace Corps experience" in our lives and affirmed our ability to rock out job interviews, university lecture halls or Broadway stages. It's whatever. But here we are preparing for yoga. And I have a strange feeling. It's a somewhat familiar feeling but I can't identify it, like a smell in the air that takes you back to a specific place in time but you have no idea what the smell is. It smells like... it smells like.... It's creeping in around the edges of my consciousness and I can almost identify it but there's something out of place... something missing.
Anna and I grab our power health bars from GNC and we're off. We're picking our way through a poor excuse for a sidewalk in a major city center along the country's most well-known highway. In my head, I'm reviewing all the words I looked up last night to make the yoga narrative as eloquent as possible: Let your arms relax; the head hang; the bones to sink; the muscles to melt... and there's that feeling again. Like a twinge of something in my stomach. A little light-headed maybe? I don't know.
With the hospital in site, a large-ish one-story building painted a dull yellow but well-maintained, Anna and I cross the street, once again miraculously not plowed down by any manner of "vehicles" on the highway. I'm always waiting for the impact. Anna spotts a familiar old man drinking terere on the sidewalk so we stopp to chat for awhile. He mistakes me for another white girl in the area (per usual) and after much confusion and correcting, I'm starting to get anxious to move on and start this class already.
BAH!
That was it. Anxiety!
Anxiety!! How stupid! My old friend! It wasn't until that moment when this old man whom I'd never seen before was chastising me for leaving his wife waiting (who was she?) and thinking I was some other white girl who lived 20 miles away (that's you, Stephanie) that my foot took on a very American life of it's own, started tapping, tapping, right there on the sidewalk and I identified my anxiety. My stomach! My head! My foot! I was nervous! I was feeling anxious and the feeling was so incredibly foreign that I had lost my ability to even identify it. You're a weirdo, Carly.
This is what Paraguay has done to me. I have to say it again, if the Peace Corps left me with nothing but my ability to relax the two years would be worth it.
Class went beautifully. I spoke in spanish. Sometimes I messed up. That's life.
FAST FOWARD
It's 2 o'clock. I'm sitting in my house after running around Paraguari all morning. What have I done today? I have transmitted a radio broadcast to the departamento (county) in Spanish. I've taught a yoga class in Spanish. I've created a calendar of events for the hospital in Spanish. I've reviewed the plan of submission for our pregnant yoga class. In Spanish. Hake! (Watch out!) I speak Spanish!
I find myself a little tired. A wee bit sleepy. It's hot out and I've walked 6 kilometers today which isn't that much but it's nothing to scoff at in 90 degree heat either. I feel- full. I feel satisfied. I feel physically and mentally exhausted for the moment and if I had the energy I might be blushing with pride but for now, it's just sweat tinging my hairline. I've done what today needed and tomorrow can wait for tomorrow. This is life. And we can do anything.
10 October 2011
Guilty as Charged
It may come as a surprise to some of you that I suffer from a moderate to severe guilt complex, instilled in my sub-conscience sometime between the childhood phases of, "Lying to your mother puts black spots on your heart," and, "Those tiny wooden elves are watching you and they will rat you out". And, I mean, I don't know, I guess the persistent phase of, "There are poor, suffering children in China who would really appreciate that food you just threw away," might have played some role as well, but it's really hard to say in hindsight.
This complex results in deeply-rooted feelings of guilt. Sometimes it's legitimate: White lies, ex-boyfriends, divorces, people dying. Sometimes it's not. I used the choke chain on my Dad's dog Isabelle. God, she loved to chase squirrels and I just couldn't stop her unless I really pulled hard and then I would get really irritated (!!!! anger problem, next post maybe !!!!) and then she was choking and coughing and people were staring and oh God why did I do that to her?!? I'm sorry Isabelle. I miss you quite a lot and I'm sorry for using that choke chain, but I didn't know what else to do.
With so much free time on my hands, guilt that I've been carefully harboring for a half decade-ish, pruning and shaping it just so, carefully tweaking the edges and gripping tight-tight-tightly to the bulk of it (ooo, my knuckles are turning white), just pops up again! These feelings... they come bubbling up to the surface like a dreaded case of heart burn that you stupidly brought on yourself- it was a double-fried cheese stick, you idiot. But it looked so good! Now you have to suffer. But, wait- it gets worse. In addition to the physical shame- a burning in your chest, the inability to open your mouth without embarrassing yourself and a rumbly- you're also kicking yourself for doing it in the first place. What the hell?! You knew this would happen!
Double whammy.
The sudden excessive free time is to blame here. Look. I'm considered a 'busy' person in the context of this culture: I teach 12-24 classes a week; I organize/take home/'grade' one big project for my students every week; I visit at least two families a day; I help out with an exercise group and I'm starting a project with the regional hospital to teach pregnant yoga to teenage mothers-to-be (which will hopefully develop into a don't-get-pregnant class). And yet- with all of this- I have an average of 8 hours a day where I. Am. Doing. Nothing. As you can imagine, the mind wanders.
I have to thank my lucky stars (thank you, lucky stars, thank you) that I have the network of friends and family that I do. They not only keep me sane during these mental meanderings, but they are helping me to become a better person through the tiring, frightening task of facing my emotions. Emotions- woah. Hang on a second. Let me introduce you to my emotions: These days, they are my constant companions and although they demonstrate definite signs of Multiple Personality Disorder and/or bipolarity/manic depression, they are not to be under-estimated as sources of personal growth and development, okay? Be careful not to insult my emotions: They're very sensitive. Highly explosive, even. What? Oh, well, yeah, it's true that they have a rebound rate of approximately 16 seconds but that doesn't mean you should go tromping all over them like an abandoned garden project. They have potential. I'm serious.
What do I do with all of these emotions? Well, we enjoy long walks on the beach (stumbling lost through the campo), firelit talks that last until the wee hours of the morning (mate by the brasero) and just relaxing and having a good time (crying)! You know!
No really, while those things are true (I don't cry, don't worry, Dad- I'm just making my readers feel better about how much they cry into their pillows made of other people's moldy old t-shirts stuffed into a ripped and re-sewn sack that gives them rampant, almost painful and certainly embarrassing allergies every night and morning), my emotions take part in much more constructive activities lately. It's called: Talking It Out.
Talking it out goes like this. I find a friend. Their name might be Emery, or Herre, or Anna, or Taylor or Kendrick. Sometimes they have more exotic names like Matchi. It just depends on the day or the tema. Then I hit them with a, "What's up?", "How's work?" or "Mbaecha'pa". It just depends on the person. I follow with something that will hopefully steer us in the direction of my most current guilty feeling. It sounds something like, "I've been thinking," or, "Dude I. Am. Freaking. Out." or, "Ay, mama, che corazopohyi!" It just depends. And then, you know, I just have to drop the bomb. I gotta let it out. The last couple of times I've done this it has resulted in this gush of emotions comparable to the levees after Katrina, and we all know they were not built to withstand storms of that magnitude. Well, neither was my heart y'all. This shit (sorry) is getting serious.
My fellow volunteers will agree that throughout most of our previous lives (pre-Paraguay lives, that is) we were not conditioned to withstand such a barrage of emotions in such a short period of time. Was anyone? We don't know what to do with them. What resources do we have to handle this? We're sitting here in the middle of some strangely-half-way developed third-world country looking at people pooping in holes in the ground while they facebook their brother-in-law from their Blackberry being told to 'help the people' and do the 'sustainable development' and hey, here's a stick a paperback book to do it and by the way, we forgot to tell you, you're about to experience the ultimate mind-f*ck. Our resources are each other and some God-bless-you-thank-you-Lord-in-Heaven-for-existing friends and family and, if we can dig it out from the rubble, our own inner-strength. That's the hardest one to find. Dig past the guilt, the self-doubt, the confusion, the loneliness- pull that one out because the others are no good without it.
Whew, I got pesada on myself! Revelations! Confessions! Forgiveness! I am not in church, I am just preaching my life! Hallelujah, brothers and sisters!
To leave you with a heavy lightness, it is my pleasure to give, you once, the genius himself: Dr. Seuss.
- "I'm afraid that sometimes you'll play lonely games too. Games you can't win 'cause you'll play against you."
- "Be who you are and say what you feel. because those who mind don't matter and those who matter don't mind."
This complex results in deeply-rooted feelings of guilt. Sometimes it's legitimate: White lies, ex-boyfriends, divorces, people dying. Sometimes it's not. I used the choke chain on my Dad's dog Isabelle. God, she loved to chase squirrels and I just couldn't stop her unless I really pulled hard and then I would get really irritated (!!!! anger problem, next post maybe !!!!) and then she was choking and coughing and people were staring and oh God why did I do that to her?!? I'm sorry Isabelle. I miss you quite a lot and I'm sorry for using that choke chain, but I didn't know what else to do.
With so much free time on my hands, guilt that I've been carefully harboring for a half decade-ish, pruning and shaping it just so, carefully tweaking the edges and gripping tight-tight-tightly to the bulk of it (ooo, my knuckles are turning white), just pops up again! These feelings... they come bubbling up to the surface like a dreaded case of heart burn that you stupidly brought on yourself- it was a double-fried cheese stick, you idiot. But it looked so good! Now you have to suffer. But, wait- it gets worse. In addition to the physical shame- a burning in your chest, the inability to open your mouth without embarrassing yourself and a rumbly- you're also kicking yourself for doing it in the first place. What the hell?! You knew this would happen!
Double whammy.
The sudden excessive free time is to blame here. Look. I'm considered a 'busy' person in the context of this culture: I teach 12-24 classes a week; I organize/take home/'grade' one big project for my students every week; I visit at least two families a day; I help out with an exercise group and I'm starting a project with the regional hospital to teach pregnant yoga to teenage mothers-to-be (which will hopefully develop into a don't-get-pregnant class). And yet- with all of this- I have an average of 8 hours a day where I. Am. Doing. Nothing. As you can imagine, the mind wanders.
I have to thank my lucky stars (thank you, lucky stars, thank you) that I have the network of friends and family that I do. They not only keep me sane during these mental meanderings, but they are helping me to become a better person through the tiring, frightening task of facing my emotions. Emotions- woah. Hang on a second. Let me introduce you to my emotions: These days, they are my constant companions and although they demonstrate definite signs of Multiple Personality Disorder and/or bipolarity/manic depression, they are not to be under-estimated as sources of personal growth and development, okay? Be careful not to insult my emotions: They're very sensitive. Highly explosive, even. What? Oh, well, yeah, it's true that they have a rebound rate of approximately 16 seconds but that doesn't mean you should go tromping all over them like an abandoned garden project. They have potential. I'm serious.
What do I do with all of these emotions? Well, we enjoy long walks on the beach (stumbling lost through the campo), firelit talks that last until the wee hours of the morning (mate by the brasero) and just relaxing and having a good time (crying)! You know!
No really, while those things are true (I don't cry, don't worry, Dad- I'm just making my readers feel better about how much they cry into their pillows made of other people's moldy old t-shirts stuffed into a ripped and re-sewn sack that gives them rampant, almost painful and certainly embarrassing allergies every night and morning), my emotions take part in much more constructive activities lately. It's called: Talking It Out.
Talking it out goes like this. I find a friend. Their name might be Emery, or Herre, or Anna, or Taylor or Kendrick. Sometimes they have more exotic names like Matchi. It just depends on the day or the tema. Then I hit them with a, "What's up?", "How's work?" or "Mbaecha'pa". It just depends on the person. I follow with something that will hopefully steer us in the direction of my most current guilty feeling. It sounds something like, "I've been thinking," or, "Dude I. Am. Freaking. Out." or, "Ay, mama, che corazopohyi!" It just depends. And then, you know, I just have to drop the bomb. I gotta let it out. The last couple of times I've done this it has resulted in this gush of emotions comparable to the levees after Katrina, and we all know they were not built to withstand storms of that magnitude. Well, neither was my heart y'all. This shit (sorry) is getting serious.
My fellow volunteers will agree that throughout most of our previous lives (pre-Paraguay lives, that is) we were not conditioned to withstand such a barrage of emotions in such a short period of time. Was anyone? We don't know what to do with them. What resources do we have to handle this? We're sitting here in the middle of some strangely-half-way developed third-world country looking at people pooping in holes in the ground while they facebook their brother-in-law from their Blackberry being told to 'help the people' and do the 'sustainable development' and hey, here's a stick a paperback book to do it and by the way, we forgot to tell you, you're about to experience the ultimate mind-f*ck. Our resources are each other and some God-bless-you-thank-you-Lord-in-Heaven-for-existing friends and family and, if we can dig it out from the rubble, our own inner-strength. That's the hardest one to find. Dig past the guilt, the self-doubt, the confusion, the loneliness- pull that one out because the others are no good without it.
Whew, I got pesada on myself! Revelations! Confessions! Forgiveness! I am not in church, I am just preaching my life! Hallelujah, brothers and sisters!
To leave you with a heavy lightness, it is my pleasure to give, you once, the genius himself: Dr. Seuss.
- "I'm afraid that sometimes you'll play lonely games too. Games you can't win 'cause you'll play against you."
- "Be who you are and say what you feel. because those who mind don't matter and those who matter don't mind."
19 September 2011
Oh, darling, I don't wanna grow up
It's the inevitable conundrum of the human experience: We are young and we want to grow up, we are old and wish we were young.
In the Peace Corps, this ongoing battle against age takes on a new light against a backdrop of cultural mysteries and struggling to focus on the 'right now'. But 'right now' is rarely as important as the 'just a second ago' and the 'two years from now'. The battle of time and age take a back seat to the actual war we're fighting: The War of Where.
In Paraguay, we honor a couple of go-to questions on the road. It's guaranteed that each time you step outside the house in this country (whether 'you' are a seventeenth generation local farmer or a recent US import such as myself), two questions will affront your sense of privacy, if you still maintain one. 1- Where are you coming from? and 2- Where are you going? Many times, these questions precede even the globally mandatory, How are you?
Why?
Well, the people in Paraguay seem to require some sort of space-time continuum to cement each person in an ever-expanding grid. To be unaware of someone's location immediately before or after an interaction is a risky business and seems to blow an air of uncomfortable mystery upon the interaction. To insinuate that you are simply walking, aguata, no mas, is likely to cause a bit of distress in the ever-worrying heart of your new Paraguayan friend. To be sure of you as a person, it's necessary to first establish your geographical place on the grid.
Also included in this placement system are your marital status and age. These two factors seem to be inextricably connected. To incite one without mentioning the other is a possibility only after many months of friendship and shared hours together not speaking. I mean.... to be married indicates an entirely separate line of your grid of life. To be married insinuates another half to the whole that you might have been and links you not only to another human being but to that other person's entire grid as well! Things can get messy.
Age on the other hand seems like a fairly straight-forward issue but of course, in the unwavering tradition of the Peace Corps, the people here have found a way to make it depend. Depend on what, you say? It's your age for God's sake, how much more straight-forward could it be? Age is a number changeable only by time itself- time! Unfortunately, age is also a number that can be used as a basis to judge all accomplishments in life and to anticipate the impending accomplishment of your dark, uncertain future. That shadowy, uncertain road I mentioned on which people keep rudely pushing you forward.
The issue of age depends greatly on whom you are speaking to. If I say, "I'm 24," to my 86 year-old abuela she inevitably comes back with "Jovencita, todavia!" - translated as, Still a young little thing! She means to say that my entire life is ahead of me and feebly reinforces my cries that now is the time for work, for gaining new experiences, for making new friends! She agrees that love will come later. I mean, hey, she's got 60 years on me - been there, done that.
However, when I reveal my age to a campo man of 55, he is quick to tell me that time is running out, I must hurry! What am I waiting for?! If I don't buck up and find a Paraguayito soon, it may to be too late! All of the sudden, I'll find myself living in a hut in some beaten-down border town all alone, with only my pigs to comfort me when I cry at night because, as we all know, it is impossible to either travel or find the will to live without a man to push us forward.
Haikuepete! What I am doing here?!
I must tell myself... Resist, resist, resist.... from telling these panic-enabling farmers of an alarming trend that connects developed, first world countries with a higher number of women in the workforce and a lower average age of women marrying for the first time. Such a chuchi statistic seems a little pish-poshy, riff-raffy anyway ... or some Guarani equivalent of such.
So, do I want to be young or old? I DON'T KNOW! But it's impossible to stop thinking it as we are constantly reminded of our age and beat down with the question, What are you going to do when your two years are over?
Hey, didn't I come to stop thinking about the future for awhile? Wasn't one of the points of inserting myself into a foreign culture, a much slower culture, to focus on the here and now and stop worrying so much about the future?
What am I going to do when I get back? Do I have to think about that now? Do I have to remove myself from the reality of my current situation to start planning for a future that seems completely disconnected from the cow-poop, sand mortar wall in front of me? My life is suddenly full of allusions to that shaded, dangerously windy road of the future. Allusions full of pressure... and high expectations! Bah!
I'm 24. I'm single. I'm surely on my way from the market and probably headed home to hide out for awhile. Hide from all these people probing into my future which is supposed to be sitting on the back burner while I focus on myself and the present. Ah, the best laid plans of mice and men.
In the Peace Corps, this ongoing battle against age takes on a new light against a backdrop of cultural mysteries and struggling to focus on the 'right now'. But 'right now' is rarely as important as the 'just a second ago' and the 'two years from now'. The battle of time and age take a back seat to the actual war we're fighting: The War of Where.
In Paraguay, we honor a couple of go-to questions on the road. It's guaranteed that each time you step outside the house in this country (whether 'you' are a seventeenth generation local farmer or a recent US import such as myself), two questions will affront your sense of privacy, if you still maintain one. 1- Where are you coming from? and 2- Where are you going? Many times, these questions precede even the globally mandatory, How are you?
Why?
Well, the people in Paraguay seem to require some sort of space-time continuum to cement each person in an ever-expanding grid. To be unaware of someone's location immediately before or after an interaction is a risky business and seems to blow an air of uncomfortable mystery upon the interaction. To insinuate that you are simply walking, aguata, no mas, is likely to cause a bit of distress in the ever-worrying heart of your new Paraguayan friend. To be sure of you as a person, it's necessary to first establish your geographical place on the grid.
Also included in this placement system are your marital status and age. These two factors seem to be inextricably connected. To incite one without mentioning the other is a possibility only after many months of friendship and shared hours together not speaking. I mean.... to be married indicates an entirely separate line of your grid of life. To be married insinuates another half to the whole that you might have been and links you not only to another human being but to that other person's entire grid as well! Things can get messy.
Age on the other hand seems like a fairly straight-forward issue but of course, in the unwavering tradition of the Peace Corps, the people here have found a way to make it depend. Depend on what, you say? It's your age for God's sake, how much more straight-forward could it be? Age is a number changeable only by time itself- time! Unfortunately, age is also a number that can be used as a basis to judge all accomplishments in life and to anticipate the impending accomplishment of your dark, uncertain future. That shadowy, uncertain road I mentioned on which people keep rudely pushing you forward.
The issue of age depends greatly on whom you are speaking to. If I say, "I'm 24," to my 86 year-old abuela she inevitably comes back with "Jovencita, todavia!" - translated as, Still a young little thing! She means to say that my entire life is ahead of me and feebly reinforces my cries that now is the time for work, for gaining new experiences, for making new friends! She agrees that love will come later. I mean, hey, she's got 60 years on me - been there, done that.
However, when I reveal my age to a campo man of 55, he is quick to tell me that time is running out, I must hurry! What am I waiting for?! If I don't buck up and find a Paraguayito soon, it may to be too late! All of the sudden, I'll find myself living in a hut in some beaten-down border town all alone, with only my pigs to comfort me when I cry at night because, as we all know, it is impossible to either travel or find the will to live without a man to push us forward.
Haikuepete! What I am doing here?!
I must tell myself... Resist, resist, resist.... from telling these panic-enabling farmers of an alarming trend that connects developed, first world countries with a higher number of women in the workforce and a lower average age of women marrying for the first time. Such a chuchi statistic seems a little pish-poshy, riff-raffy anyway ... or some Guarani equivalent of such.
So, do I want to be young or old? I DON'T KNOW! But it's impossible to stop thinking it as we are constantly reminded of our age and beat down with the question, What are you going to do when your two years are over?
Hey, didn't I come to stop thinking about the future for awhile? Wasn't one of the points of inserting myself into a foreign culture, a much slower culture, to focus on the here and now and stop worrying so much about the future?
What am I going to do when I get back? Do I have to think about that now? Do I have to remove myself from the reality of my current situation to start planning for a future that seems completely disconnected from the cow-poop, sand mortar wall in front of me? My life is suddenly full of allusions to that shaded, dangerously windy road of the future. Allusions full of pressure... and high expectations! Bah!
I'm 24. I'm single. I'm surely on my way from the market and probably headed home to hide out for awhile. Hide from all these people probing into my future which is supposed to be sitting on the back burner while I focus on myself and the present. Ah, the best laid plans of mice and men.
02 September 2011
Nobody knows... the trouble I've seen...
The normal cycle is as follows: You leave high school to attend a college and whether that college is near or far away you begin socializing with at least a few people who have no idea of your past. Your first car, first kiss, family history, high school experience- all of it's a total mysterious to these strangers who wander in front of you. Eventually, people get a good idea of what your life is probably like in that 'other' place - your home. Then you leave college and you go- where? To work somewhere? Alright, good job finding work first of all and second of all- isn't it daunting to imagine?!- you have to explain your ENTIRE.LIFE. to a new group of strangers with whom you share cubicles, lunches, stories about your significant others, etc. You share such a prominent chunk of your time with these people and yet, this is not your life, is it? There is a mysterious entity floating just beyond the reach of what these used-to-be-strangers could possibly comprehend because they float around in the realm completely opposite of it- your home life.
This process of explaining what has happened before, the actions that carried you forward to the place where you stand now, literally becomes longer everyday, doesn't it? Our histories stretch out behind us in a winding trail with every step we take forward toward the future. Every minute, every second, that slow and laborious (although certainly entertaining) story of our past stretches on and on and the eventual re-telling inevitably becomes less accurate, more exhausting.
Now, what makes this relating of your past so much less daunting is that the people with whom you interact, those would-be-strangers would gradually acquire the titles of co-workers, friends, lovers, spouses, likely have similar backgrounds. Thus it becomes unnecessary for you to dive into the tedious details of how your family ate dinner (with what utensils, in what room of the house, consuming what food) or what high school was like (were there desks? what time did you start and finish? did you have summer vacation?). Instead you can float on the surface of those experiences, including only the really moving or entertaining details that catch your eye from a distance.
However, imagine if you moved to a far-off land where those similar backgrounds disappeared into the abyss of the cultural grab bag that threatens and simultaneously enhances international travel. Really, you don't have to expend the energy to imagine the situation. I will describe it for you vividly as it's happening to me at this very second. Now you can use that saved brain power to do something productive like pulling the stick of Congress's ass or complete a Rubik's cube. Good luck.
Here in Paraguay, most people I meet assume that it's impossible for us to share any common history beyond the physically evidenced fact that we are of the same species both breathing this stuff called air. What luck! We're both humans. But honestly, there aren't really clouds in the US are there? No, no, that's not right. Do you really celebrate Christmas there? And you go to high school too? Well that's poppycocks!! Surely two continents so spread apart couldn't have developed in such a similar social fashion.
Well, remember, Paraguay, it isn't so similar as you think but, yes, we also indulge in weather patterns, education and family traditions - even in the US.
But honestly, back to the point. These would-be-strangers from a different country who now comprise the majority of my social life have no inkling as to my 'past life,' as I like to think of it. Not the past life where I desperately hope I was a lady-in-waiting for Her Royal Highness Queen Elizabeth as this would explain my abnormal interest in the time period, but my past life where I shopped in downtown Philly, got professional hair cuts and ate fat-free frozen yogurt all at a moment's notice. These aspects of my life, along with my family, friends and education, are all beyond the realm of the people around me. They did not experience them with me and therefore I must begin the re-telling. The differences this time? The re-telling is done in another language, an automatic point deduction from the categories of clarity and accuracy. Secondly, the re-telling is done in the setting of a different culture; there go points from realism and relatedness. Finally, many of the pictures I'm trying to paint with my Guarani and Spanish words are non-exist in this place (e.g. la-z boys, bunk beds, maple trees, smores, Ghostbusters, sledding) and so the re-telling of my life becomes a fanciful story of made-up objects and mutant plants, not unlike a Dr. Seuss book.
Por eso (for this), I often feel as though my strings have been cut and I might easily float off into the void where no one knows who I really am or what I come from. I'm ungrounded. In this first real opportunity for me to completely re-invent myself and plant my strings again, attaching them to whichever foundation I see fit, I find myself desperately trying to pinpoint the exact locations from which my strings were cut upon disembarking the plane in Asuncion: In Hudson, Michigan; in sipping hot chocolate after rolling around in the snow; in my grandparent's lake house; in learning to drive with my Dad on back roads. I tell anyone who will listen in any language available to me every scrap of past I can remember. I babble on to strangers on the street about, Oh Che Dios! My Mom does the same thing! I joyfully recount my life in a series of mythical Dr. Seuss-like journeys around places that surely don't exist in the real world (do they?): Mackinaw, Philadelphia, Tampa Bay, Sleeping Bear Dunes (yes, she's talking about a Dr. Seuss story, for sure). Because I suddenly realize, staring into a blank future and a present that- I'm serious now- is a Dr. Seuss hybrid with an episode of the Twilight Zone, that all I really want are the simple things that I so despised before. I'll save the world for now but after that I want what's simple. I want a rocking chair, a faithful dog, Sunday dinners and yes, I want to live in a country song. So what? If I chose to take extravagant vacations twice a year to satisfy the burning itch that is the travel bug (is that what that is? I was looking at pamphlets...) you don't get to judge me. Because I know what I want- and that took long enough.
To sign off, a quote from the One-and-Only, the most appropriate inspiration in my present life (not my past): Dr. Seuss (only minimally related to the topic above).
"You have brains in your head. You have shoes on your feet. You can steer yourself in any direction you choose. You're on your own. And you know what you know. And YOU are the one who'll decide where to go."
-Dr. Seuss, Oh, The Places You'll Go!
This process of explaining what has happened before, the actions that carried you forward to the place where you stand now, literally becomes longer everyday, doesn't it? Our histories stretch out behind us in a winding trail with every step we take forward toward the future. Every minute, every second, that slow and laborious (although certainly entertaining) story of our past stretches on and on and the eventual re-telling inevitably becomes less accurate, more exhausting.
Now, what makes this relating of your past so much less daunting is that the people with whom you interact, those would-be-strangers would gradually acquire the titles of co-workers, friends, lovers, spouses, likely have similar backgrounds. Thus it becomes unnecessary for you to dive into the tedious details of how your family ate dinner (with what utensils, in what room of the house, consuming what food) or what high school was like (were there desks? what time did you start and finish? did you have summer vacation?). Instead you can float on the surface of those experiences, including only the really moving or entertaining details that catch your eye from a distance.
However, imagine if you moved to a far-off land where those similar backgrounds disappeared into the abyss of the cultural grab bag that threatens and simultaneously enhances international travel. Really, you don't have to expend the energy to imagine the situation. I will describe it for you vividly as it's happening to me at this very second. Now you can use that saved brain power to do something productive like pulling the stick of Congress's ass or complete a Rubik's cube. Good luck.
Here in Paraguay, most people I meet assume that it's impossible for us to share any common history beyond the physically evidenced fact that we are of the same species both breathing this stuff called air. What luck! We're both humans. But honestly, there aren't really clouds in the US are there? No, no, that's not right. Do you really celebrate Christmas there? And you go to high school too? Well that's poppycocks!! Surely two continents so spread apart couldn't have developed in such a similar social fashion.
Well, remember, Paraguay, it isn't so similar as you think but, yes, we also indulge in weather patterns, education and family traditions - even in the US.
But honestly, back to the point. These would-be-strangers from a different country who now comprise the majority of my social life have no inkling as to my 'past life,' as I like to think of it. Not the past life where I desperately hope I was a lady-in-waiting for Her Royal Highness Queen Elizabeth as this would explain my abnormal interest in the time period, but my past life where I shopped in downtown Philly, got professional hair cuts and ate fat-free frozen yogurt all at a moment's notice. These aspects of my life, along with my family, friends and education, are all beyond the realm of the people around me. They did not experience them with me and therefore I must begin the re-telling. The differences this time? The re-telling is done in another language, an automatic point deduction from the categories of clarity and accuracy. Secondly, the re-telling is done in the setting of a different culture; there go points from realism and relatedness. Finally, many of the pictures I'm trying to paint with my Guarani and Spanish words are non-exist in this place (e.g. la-z boys, bunk beds, maple trees, smores, Ghostbusters, sledding) and so the re-telling of my life becomes a fanciful story of made-up objects and mutant plants, not unlike a Dr. Seuss book.
Por eso (for this), I often feel as though my strings have been cut and I might easily float off into the void where no one knows who I really am or what I come from. I'm ungrounded. In this first real opportunity for me to completely re-invent myself and plant my strings again, attaching them to whichever foundation I see fit, I find myself desperately trying to pinpoint the exact locations from which my strings were cut upon disembarking the plane in Asuncion: In Hudson, Michigan; in sipping hot chocolate after rolling around in the snow; in my grandparent's lake house; in learning to drive with my Dad on back roads. I tell anyone who will listen in any language available to me every scrap of past I can remember. I babble on to strangers on the street about, Oh Che Dios! My Mom does the same thing! I joyfully recount my life in a series of mythical Dr. Seuss-like journeys around places that surely don't exist in the real world (do they?): Mackinaw, Philadelphia, Tampa Bay, Sleeping Bear Dunes (yes, she's talking about a Dr. Seuss story, for sure). Because I suddenly realize, staring into a blank future and a present that- I'm serious now- is a Dr. Seuss hybrid with an episode of the Twilight Zone, that all I really want are the simple things that I so despised before. I'll save the world for now but after that I want what's simple. I want a rocking chair, a faithful dog, Sunday dinners and yes, I want to live in a country song. So what? If I chose to take extravagant vacations twice a year to satisfy the burning itch that is the travel bug (is that what that is? I was looking at pamphlets...) you don't get to judge me. Because I know what I want- and that took long enough.
To sign off, a quote from the One-and-Only, the most appropriate inspiration in my present life (not my past): Dr. Seuss (only minimally related to the topic above).
"You have brains in your head. You have shoes on your feet. You can steer yourself in any direction you choose. You're on your own. And you know what you know. And YOU are the one who'll decide where to go."
-Dr. Seuss, Oh, The Places You'll Go!
08 August 2011
Love all around
It's a small world.
I never fully appreciated that statement until I came here and started finding third and fourth degree connections back in the states. Then yesterday I played the One Degree of Carly Waterstraut game with a Returned Peace Corps Volunteer (RPCV) from 1988 who happened to be walking past my house...
Picture it:
After church on Sunday morning. The town is fully awake by 9:30am and people are walking in and out to the pueblo to recharge for the week: Their saldo, food supplies, visits to the family, gas for the stoves and the rare purchaser of dog food. My host family's house sits right on the edge of town and anyone coming or leaving has to pass in front of it. We are the gatekeepers.
I had resigned myself to drinking terere for the morning and generally just being really tranquila- something I'm getting better and better at every day- when it happened. I was siting in the shade of a mango tree when a woman walked by with a strangely stylish teenage girl in tow. She asked if I was a Peace Corps volunteer. I replied in an off-hand manner, weary of those prowling Paraguayans who seek to exploit our facetiously-reported monetary supply. She introduced herself and her daughter (who, in typical teenage fashion, glared at her pink Converse ((too clean)) sneakers in lieu of initiating verbal contact) and told me her husband was a Peace Corps volunteer in Paraguari 22 years ago and they have since been living in the United States.
My brethen! She commenced to speaking in perfect English, dotting our conversation with endearingly American terms such as 'freaking out' and 'whatever that thing is'. My heart was flying.
Her husband soon caught up to us, my host mom came out of the house, and in some strange act of serendipity, everyone reunited as though the meeting had been planned 22 years earlier when this guy left post-service. It turns out this RPCV's wife lived next door to my host mom as a child. Accordingly, I was invited to lunch/social hour at these people's family's house in the next town. Of course I accepted, grabbing my..... nope, didn't take anything.... and headed into the unknown. Me, one RPCV, one would-be-Paraguayan-turned-U.S.-citizen and one mysteriously sullen 14-year-old who somehow complained about the heat while in the midst of one of nature's most impressively temperate days.
I spent 7 hours at the woman's family's home who naturally welcomed this white stranger with open arms and even included me in the family photos. Ah, Paraguay! How do I love thee? Let me count the ways: Fruit, insta-family, spontaneity, Guarani grunts.... The list goes on and on!
After a walk home in the twilit tranquility that only the campo can provide, my host family greeted me as though I'd been gone a year, saying things like, "We thought you forgot about us!" and "You just left us here!!" I was kind of irritated at the time but writing it down I realize how awesome it is be welcomed into a new family one hour and the next to be lamented by the one you've just left, if only for a few hours.
Feel the love, anybody?
pueblo- the town; the city; an area bigger than the one you're currently in.
saldo- credit for internet and cell phones
terere- the national cold tea... drink... thing; cold water mixed with medicinal herbs is poured from a thermos, or termo, into a smaller cup, or guampa, which is packed with tea leaves (sort of?), and drank through a metal straw, or guampa.
tranquila- tranquil; relaxed; Paraguayan.
campo- countryside.
03 August 2011
Excerpt on Guarani
This is an excerpt from a volunteer who served in Paraguay during the Bush era, Megan Wood. She's currently living in Belize as a free-lance travel writer. Check out the whole story here: Megan Wood's Story
" “And how is your Guaranà coming along?” she [Juanita] began our monthly meeting.
I sidestepped her inquiry by replying in GuaranÃ, “Little.” This joke went over well in Paraguay, and I used it to hide the fact that I zoned out anytime Guaranà was being spoken.
She smiled patiently, “And what about the vulgarities of the language? Some volunteers can find it off-putting.”
Off-putting? Vulgarities? What was I missing out on?
“We Paraguayans are mostly bilingual and sometimes I think we switch personalities when we change languages. Spanish is the language of business and work. Guaranà is the language of the home and family. In Spanish, we speak like poets with sweeping adjectives and rich descriptions. When we switch over to GuaranÃ, it can be a bit crude,” Juanita explained.
Was she trying to tempt me into learning dirty words? ....
I phoned one of those self-righteous, Guaranà speaking volunteers for verification. “Do you know how to swear in GuaranÃ?” I asked her, getting right down to it.
“Obviously,” she replied, “my host mother calls me a slut almost daily. Lovingly of course.”
“I need you to teach me everything you know,” I demanded. She rattled off a list, and I was in awe, fully inspired to start zoning in whenever I heard GuaranÃ.
Over the next few days, this is what I learned: “Go jerk off on a cactus” is used freely between siblings. “Devil’s crotch!” is the “Shoot!” of Paraguay.
In America we say, “I don’t believe it.” In Paraguay they say, “About your vagina.” Teachers affectionately call their pupils “devil’s children,” and a mother reprimanding her child sounds like a scene from The Exorcist.
Nde rasóre! Devil’s crotch! Shoot! I had been missing out because of my own stubbornness. As soon as I began dropping Guaranà into conversation, I saw a whole new side of my host family and Paraguay. "
02 August 2011
Ciao, Julio
July is gone, gone, gone and that's probably a good thing because it was weird, weird, weird. I lived in five different places during the month of July, not including a hostel/hotel in Asuncion, and I was feeling pretty disoriented- geographically, emotionally, ecumenically... You know what July: The only good thing you gave me besides an intimate relationship with Anna Sanger was HARRY POTTER. Yes, I got to complete the journey in 3-D with Spanish subtitles and I cried the whole time.
Now, on to August. What shall we do?
This month, I start teaching! My friend Anna and I "successfully" completed a winter break camp in July, so I now have some experience teaching in another language. Of course, the classes at our camp only had between 3 (rough day) and 15 kids in them and the classes at my school have more like... 15-20, depending on the weather. It turns out rain or temperatures below 60F just aren't conducive to teaching. Ridiculous, right? Makes you want to spout some of that oh-so-classic "I-walked-to-school-in-3-feet-of-snow-uphill-both-ways-with-holes-in-my-boots-and-a-baby-on-my-back" nonsense that grandma gave us, right? Well hold on because in reality I wouldn't go to school either. The classrooms are uninsulated, some have windows (swinging wooden doors) that don't close and the profesoras will be feeling equally as kaigue as the kids which translates to painting their nails, drinking mate dulce and cooking mbeju. Considering those factors- seriously, inclement weather just doesn't allow for productive classes.
So I will do my best and hope this overcast, gray, soulless weather clears up before next week so I can start teaching nutrition. I will teach every Wednesday, 15-20 minute sessions with each class in the morning group, afternoon group and the high school group at night. Entonces, Wednesday's will be busy but guapa points should be quickly piling up.
My puesto de salud is just rocking their socks off! The walls are stretching to hold the number of patients everyday and my doctor and I have organized two support groups: One for pregnant women and new mothers and a second for people with metabolic syndrome (obese, diabetic and hypertensive). Once every two weeks these groups meet and the doctor runs a short meeting, covering a different aspect of health: Cooking healthy meals, exercising, correct breastfeeding tactics, etc. Additionally, the doctor has taken it upon herself to conduct a study of all the people in our town with metabolic syndrome (about 20% of the adult population at the first count) and is utilizing a snazzy new computer program she conseguir-ed to enter and track data such as HDL/LDL levels, waistline measurement, weight and blood pressure over time. She wants to publish the study afterward and, hey, if I could get published internationally I wouldn't really mind it.
Hello, med school? I'm knocking. Actually, I have battering ram with a team of Paraguayans behind it. Can I come in?
Hey, by the way, who's a single, independent duena-negotiating firecracker? It's me! And after six months of sharing homes with incredibly accommodating locals, I have my own house! I moved in two days ago and am currently feeling the ulcer-inducing stress of negotiating with my landlady, Mercedes, in another language. It turns out my refrigerator is actually a freezer (rock-hard carrots, anyone?), my stove is out of gas and only the stovetop functions, not the oven, and I do not have hot water. I'm going to work on either conseguir-ing those things or getting the rent lowered in lieu of them. Another problem... or maybe it's more like a prize in the bottom of a Cracker Jack box, not a problem... my duena is planning on staying with me once a month or so and she's going to bring her quickly disintegrating mother. Should I take this as an interesting opportunity to cuddle up with a stranger in bed and share my food/utilities/patience/space or should I demand that I have my own space? I'm not really sure. Ideas?
In response to a few demands from family and friends, I have left out all SAT-size words from this blog and have instead replaced them with Spanish and Guarani words. See below for the magic decoder list.
Until next time- thank you all for your love and support without which I would surely be in a boneless, undignified puddle on my dirt floor.
kaigue (Guarani)- lazy; can be used as a chronic or acute term
mate dulce- a milk tea drink that is drank with a straw (bombilla) and poured into a small cup (guampa) which is filled with shredded coco.
mbeju (Guarani)- a traditional Paraguayan food made from corn meal, cheese and animal fat.
entonces- so, well, then, therefore, etc...
guapa- super hard-working; the best compliment you can receive. In other Spanish-speaking countries, these term generally means good-looking.
puesto de salud- health post
conseguir- to acquire; to get; to materialize magically from thin air
duena- land-lady
Now, on to August. What shall we do?
This month, I start teaching! My friend Anna and I "successfully" completed a winter break camp in July, so I now have some experience teaching in another language. Of course, the classes at our camp only had between 3 (rough day) and 15 kids in them and the classes at my school have more like... 15-20, depending on the weather. It turns out rain or temperatures below 60F just aren't conducive to teaching. Ridiculous, right? Makes you want to spout some of that oh-so-classic "I-walked-to-school-in-3-feet-of-snow-uphill-both-ways-with-holes-in-my-boots-and-a-baby-on-my-back" nonsense that grandma gave us, right? Well hold on because in reality I wouldn't go to school either. The classrooms are uninsulated, some have windows (swinging wooden doors) that don't close and the profesoras will be feeling equally as kaigue as the kids which translates to painting their nails, drinking mate dulce and cooking mbeju. Considering those factors- seriously, inclement weather just doesn't allow for productive classes.
So I will do my best and hope this overcast, gray, soulless weather clears up before next week so I can start teaching nutrition. I will teach every Wednesday, 15-20 minute sessions with each class in the morning group, afternoon group and the high school group at night. Entonces, Wednesday's will be busy but guapa points should be quickly piling up.
My puesto de salud is just rocking their socks off! The walls are stretching to hold the number of patients everyday and my doctor and I have organized two support groups: One for pregnant women and new mothers and a second for people with metabolic syndrome (obese, diabetic and hypertensive). Once every two weeks these groups meet and the doctor runs a short meeting, covering a different aspect of health: Cooking healthy meals, exercising, correct breastfeeding tactics, etc. Additionally, the doctor has taken it upon herself to conduct a study of all the people in our town with metabolic syndrome (about 20% of the adult population at the first count) and is utilizing a snazzy new computer program she conseguir-ed to enter and track data such as HDL/LDL levels, waistline measurement, weight and blood pressure over time. She wants to publish the study afterward and, hey, if I could get published internationally I wouldn't really mind it.
Hello, med school? I'm knocking. Actually, I have battering ram with a team of Paraguayans behind it. Can I come in?
Hey, by the way, who's a single, independent duena-negotiating firecracker? It's me! And after six months of sharing homes with incredibly accommodating locals, I have my own house! I moved in two days ago and am currently feeling the ulcer-inducing stress of negotiating with my landlady, Mercedes, in another language. It turns out my refrigerator is actually a freezer (rock-hard carrots, anyone?), my stove is out of gas and only the stovetop functions, not the oven, and I do not have hot water. I'm going to work on either conseguir-ing those things or getting the rent lowered in lieu of them. Another problem... or maybe it's more like a prize in the bottom of a Cracker Jack box, not a problem... my duena is planning on staying with me once a month or so and she's going to bring her quickly disintegrating mother. Should I take this as an interesting opportunity to cuddle up with a stranger in bed and share my food/utilities/patience/space or should I demand that I have my own space? I'm not really sure. Ideas?
In response to a few demands from family and friends, I have left out all SAT-size words from this blog and have instead replaced them with Spanish and Guarani words. See below for the magic decoder list.
Until next time- thank you all for your love and support without which I would surely be in a boneless, undignified puddle on my dirt floor.
kaigue (Guarani)- lazy; can be used as a chronic or acute term
mate dulce- a milk tea drink that is drank with a straw (bombilla) and poured into a small cup (guampa) which is filled with shredded coco.
mbeju (Guarani)- a traditional Paraguayan food made from corn meal, cheese and animal fat.
entonces- so, well, then, therefore, etc...
guapa- super hard-working; the best compliment you can receive. In other Spanish-speaking countries, these term generally means good-looking.
puesto de salud- health post
conseguir- to acquire; to get; to materialize magically from thin air
duena- land-lady
14 July 2011
Si Dios Quiere
Thanks to a few too many years of dictatorship in the 20th century, the Paraguayan culture is steeped in apathy, indecision and acquiescence like a vanilla hazelnut tea bag that went from bitter to sweet after you forgot to take it out of the cup. On the brightside, that also means the people are incredibly accommodating and really... down for whatever. Nobody seems to mind if a vegetarian, white girl moves into their house for a month and requires a daily menu change because she doesn't like eating meat or fried food. No problem- they'll just eat stuff they don't like for a month. "Ndai pori problema." --There is no problem.-- Or is there a problem? Because I can't seem to make any concrete plans for the future that don't depend on the ever-changing, enigmatic will of The Almighty.
When planning on seeing people later, you better plan on not seeing them too. It just depends on what God wants. Si Dios quiere, literally translates to, "If Gods wants it," and it's one of the most frequently used terms in the culture in addition to "Ndai pori problema," and "Igual, no mas," --It's just the same, or, It doesn't matter. Each time a conversation dwindles down to, "Well, see you tomorrow," or, "Okay, we'll meet Wednesday, then...?", the inevitable response comes that, while you may be set on your future appointment, it just won't happen if God doesn't want it to. Sometimes, bafflingly, conversations go something like this:
"So you're going to fix the well next week? Is it broken?"
"Yes, it's infested. We don't have any water."
"Who is going to fix it?"
"My brother, if God wants it."
And the running aside in my head which is both exhausting and keeps me sane in the most Paraguayan of situations, goes something like this:
"If you want the goddamn water, make your brother fix the well!!"
But in reality, we really can't control any of the billion factors outside of our own personal, nearly non-existent realms of ascendancy and this is a fact that the American culture tries fervently to deny. You can accomplish anything if you just try hard enough. Well, I kind of believe that when in any of the 48 contiguous United States (Hawaii and Alaska are questionable), but here, in this third-world sub-tropical semi-paradise the idea that just trying harder will give you a better result comes across as a Polly Anna solution for a complicated culturally-ingrained roadblock. Sure, I want to fix my well so my kids can drink water again and I can wash the red dirt off their little Paraguayan faces, but what if that dude who's supposed to do it never shows up? I don't know how to fix wells. I might have learned to do it in school if I had finished school but I seem to remember my Dad loosing his arm and my Mom having 12 kids due to a lack of contraception and women's empowerment so I had to quit school when I was 11 to start working in the fields and bring my family more money. How am I? I'm so good!! No problems!! There are no problems here and life is good!!
Yet, in spite of the inability to commit due to constantly unreliable circumstances, the morale in this country is high. People are aware that their culture is abajo, or low, but they have food in their stomachs and their family is healthy. Or if their family isn't healthy, that's the way it is so why complain? Life is life. Maybe it's a mindset caused by Stroessner and his oppressive 35-year rein as a corrupt dictator, imparting poverty and ignorance on a population full of possibility and potential, but it's a mindset that will not change any time soon. And so instead of raging against the helplessness of, "Si Dios quiere," tal vez it's better to admit, at least a wee little bit, that we really do only have partial control of our own futures; we are only partially in charge of our own fates. Thinking that, I leave you with the juxtaposition of two very wise, very influential poems. Paraguayans are only familiar with one: Guess which.
Invictus, by William Ernst Henley
The Serenity Prayer, Reinhold Neibuhr
When planning on seeing people later, you better plan on not seeing them too. It just depends on what God wants. Si Dios quiere, literally translates to, "If Gods wants it," and it's one of the most frequently used terms in the culture in addition to "Ndai pori problema," and "Igual, no mas," --It's just the same, or, It doesn't matter. Each time a conversation dwindles down to, "Well, see you tomorrow," or, "Okay, we'll meet Wednesday, then...?", the inevitable response comes that, while you may be set on your future appointment, it just won't happen if God doesn't want it to. Sometimes, bafflingly, conversations go something like this:
"So you're going to fix the well next week? Is it broken?"
"Yes, it's infested. We don't have any water."
"Who is going to fix it?"
"My brother, if God wants it."
And the running aside in my head which is both exhausting and keeps me sane in the most Paraguayan of situations, goes something like this:
"If you want the goddamn water, make your brother fix the well!!"
But in reality, we really can't control any of the billion factors outside of our own personal, nearly non-existent realms of ascendancy and this is a fact that the American culture tries fervently to deny. You can accomplish anything if you just try hard enough. Well, I kind of believe that when in any of the 48 contiguous United States (Hawaii and Alaska are questionable), but here, in this third-world sub-tropical semi-paradise the idea that just trying harder will give you a better result comes across as a Polly Anna solution for a complicated culturally-ingrained roadblock. Sure, I want to fix my well so my kids can drink water again and I can wash the red dirt off their little Paraguayan faces, but what if that dude who's supposed to do it never shows up? I don't know how to fix wells. I might have learned to do it in school if I had finished school but I seem to remember my Dad loosing his arm and my Mom having 12 kids due to a lack of contraception and women's empowerment so I had to quit school when I was 11 to start working in the fields and bring my family more money. How am I? I'm so good!! No problems!! There are no problems here and life is good!!
Yet, in spite of the inability to commit due to constantly unreliable circumstances, the morale in this country is high. People are aware that their culture is abajo, or low, but they have food in their stomachs and their family is healthy. Or if their family isn't healthy, that's the way it is so why complain? Life is life. Maybe it's a mindset caused by Stroessner and his oppressive 35-year rein as a corrupt dictator, imparting poverty and ignorance on a population full of possibility and potential, but it's a mindset that will not change any time soon. And so instead of raging against the helplessness of, "Si Dios quiere," tal vez it's better to admit, at least a wee little bit, that we really do only have partial control of our own futures; we are only partially in charge of our own fates. Thinking that, I leave you with the juxtaposition of two very wise, very influential poems. Paraguayans are only familiar with one: Guess which.
Invictus, by William Ernst Henley
| OUT of the night that covers me, | |
| Black as the Pit from pole to pole, | |
| I thank whatever gods may be | |
| For my unconquerable soul. | |
| In the fell clutch of circumstance | 5 |
| I have not winced nor cried aloud. | |
| Under the bludgeonings of chance | |
| My head is bloody, but unbowed. | |
| Beyond this place of wrath and tears | |
| Looms but the Horror of the shade, | 10 |
| And yet the menace of the years | |
| Finds, and shall find, me unafraid. | |
| It matters not how strait the gate, | |
| How charged with punishments the scroll, | |
| I am the master of my fate: | 15 |
| I am the captain of my soul. |
The Serenity Prayer, Reinhold Neibuhr
God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change,
Courage to change the things I can,
And the wisdom to know the difference.
29 June 2011
Chasing the Doctorita
Every Monday and Wednesday I walk down to the puesto de salud- the health post. The puesto is a reverted two-bedroom house that provides free medical care to about 2,500 people. Staffed by one doctor (two days a week), three nurses (five days a week) and a tecnico (kind of like a nurse's assistant in the US), the puesto handles everything from prenatal check-ups to, "Oops, looks like I shot myself." My town is lucky enough to have the regional hospital less than 4k away but the wait is long, up to 7 or 8 hours, and the care is impersonal and hurried. Thus, gunshots, bunyons, preggos and all report to the puesto.
The doctor that works at our puesto is the only one in the area and ultimately provides basic care to somewhere between 2,500 - 7,000 people from Monday - Thursday. She is 26, tiny and kind of moves around like a cyclone, asking the patients their names 5 times in a 10 minute visit. She studied in Cuba and speaks some basic English and is known to the people around here as the 'doctorita' - The Little Doctor. And me? I now go by, la doctorita's ayundantita- the little doctor's littler helper.
While I'm still trying to focus on helping the community, well, uh... I can't deny that I'm sucking up these one-on-one medical classes conducted in Spanish- sucking them dry. I didn't think I would be doing much job shadowing in the Peace Corps but if it lands in my lap with a resounding, HOLA!, what am I supposed to do?
And so, my recent activities include getting to know my community (still), planning classes with the professors and directors, working with the youth group to do STI-awareness activities and hanging out with my doctorita on Mondays and Wednesdays. Soon we'll start planning town meetings for specific subjects like : Tips for New Mothers, Managing your High Blood Pressure/Diabetes and Healthier Cooking Techniques. Though unfortunately, we won't be doing any of that until it stops being so cold outside. It turns out people stop leaving their houses/going to school when the cold sets in. And it has set in!
Two nights ago the temperature got down to 0 C and we had a frost in the morning. This might be a refreshing change from the sweltering heat if it weren't for the lack of insulation, HVAC systems, windows, doors, etc. Generally, the temperature is lower inside the houses than it is outside, especially if the sun is out, leaving you to see your breath while you take a shower and relieving that wearisome sensory burden of feeling your toes and fingers. Personally, this inescapable cold has given me the gift of bronchitis. As a rebuttal to the antibiotic I'm on, my body has, in return, given me the gift of vomiting. Some people are just too generous.
In short, I will never again complain about the heat in Paraguay or the healthcare system in the US of A. Wish me luck not catching my synthetic polyester blanket on fire while huddling next to the burning charcoal pit!
The doctor that works at our puesto is the only one in the area and ultimately provides basic care to somewhere between 2,500 - 7,000 people from Monday - Thursday. She is 26, tiny and kind of moves around like a cyclone, asking the patients their names 5 times in a 10 minute visit. She studied in Cuba and speaks some basic English and is known to the people around here as the 'doctorita' - The Little Doctor. And me? I now go by, la doctorita's ayundantita- the little doctor's littler helper.
While I'm still trying to focus on helping the community, well, uh... I can't deny that I'm sucking up these one-on-one medical classes conducted in Spanish- sucking them dry. I didn't think I would be doing much job shadowing in the Peace Corps but if it lands in my lap with a resounding, HOLA!, what am I supposed to do?
And so, my recent activities include getting to know my community (still), planning classes with the professors and directors, working with the youth group to do STI-awareness activities and hanging out with my doctorita on Mondays and Wednesdays. Soon we'll start planning town meetings for specific subjects like : Tips for New Mothers, Managing your High Blood Pressure/Diabetes and Healthier Cooking Techniques. Though unfortunately, we won't be doing any of that until it stops being so cold outside. It turns out people stop leaving their houses/going to school when the cold sets in. And it has set in!
Two nights ago the temperature got down to 0 C and we had a frost in the morning. This might be a refreshing change from the sweltering heat if it weren't for the lack of insulation, HVAC systems, windows, doors, etc. Generally, the temperature is lower inside the houses than it is outside, especially if the sun is out, leaving you to see your breath while you take a shower and relieving that wearisome sensory burden of feeling your toes and fingers. Personally, this inescapable cold has given me the gift of bronchitis. As a rebuttal to the antibiotic I'm on, my body has, in return, given me the gift of vomiting. Some people are just too generous.
In short, I will never again complain about the heat in Paraguay or the healthcare system in the US of A. Wish me luck not catching my synthetic polyester blanket on fire while huddling next to the burning charcoal pit!
15 June 2011
Culture Clash
What do you see when you picture Paraguay?
Millions of people here are still without running water and use latrines or simply squat behind a 'curtain' that blows in the wind and you're lucky if there is toilet paper even in the public restrooms in schools, hospitals and restaurants. Yet, my neighbor has wi-fi and a pair of Converse All-Stars. That's Paraguay.
How did it happen?
25 years ago, the average citizen in PY was still without electricity, running water and shoes: In 1986. The infiltration of the developed world happened quickly and within a few years most of the population had lights, televisions, and landline phones but the technology- and fashion-forward cultures of the US and Europe bombarded Paraguay too quickly to provide supplemental education. This is common in third-world countries: We bring the goods but not the knowledge. As a result, the latest generation in Paraguay wants everything the US has because they've seen in in movies. They know exactly what they want: Gucci handbags, Bluetooth cell phones, bottle-blond hair. However, most of them do not know where the US is on a map, let alone that New York City has a greater population than their entire country (a lot Paraguayns think this is total bullshit, by the way: Norte liars!). They have MP3 players but do not know how to work their computers to download the music. Why? Their computer programs are all in English, including the instructions.
My host Mom has a washing machine and a Dell but had no idea that sugar caused her son's cavities.
So, here I am preaching dental health and nutrition to a generation of people who consider themselves well-educated and not in need of assistance. Their parents before them would have (and probably did in 1975) happily admit that they were falling behind globally and needed a lot of help. However, I run into people here that don't believe there is anything wrong with their health or education systems and are resistant to foreign aid, Peace Corps included. This comes in part from being located in a semi-affluent area by local standards. I was told a week or so ago that I couldn't change anything here because I didn't have any more knowledge than the people I was working with. Just to clarify, here's what I'm working with.
The team at my health post doesn't put any stock in the 'Germ Theory.'
95% of the country has multiple cavities........ 95.
Commonly-held beliefs of.... pretty much everyone:
-Taking a shower after you've worked out will make you sick.
-Wearing a wet shirt will give you a stomach ache.
-Eating citrus then milk will kill you.
-Leaving your upper chest uncovered will give you a headache.
-Men can do whatever they want.
-If God doesn't want it, it won't happen.
It's rough trying to be a health-worker in a country full of people who don't believe in your witch-doctor science theories, like coughing on people spreads bacteria and sneezing into your hand is generally a bad idea. I wanted to tell that nice man who told me I didn't have any more knowledge than him that I in fact had a BS and a Master's but I didn't. Instead I just kept saying, Jahechata. We'll see. And when he asked me what was so bad about Paraguayan I spit some statistics at him about diabetes, obesity and giardia.
Well, I'll do what I can and leave the rest to TV.
Speaking of TV- Paraguayans love the Simpsons!
At least I can feel useful when, while watching Los Simpsons, random English words pop across the screen and everyone screams, "What is that?!" "And that?!" "That?!" Who's smart now? I speak English, suckers!
Millions of people here are still without running water and use latrines or simply squat behind a 'curtain' that blows in the wind and you're lucky if there is toilet paper even in the public restrooms in schools, hospitals and restaurants. Yet, my neighbor has wi-fi and a pair of Converse All-Stars. That's Paraguay.
How did it happen?
25 years ago, the average citizen in PY was still without electricity, running water and shoes: In 1986. The infiltration of the developed world happened quickly and within a few years most of the population had lights, televisions, and landline phones but the technology- and fashion-forward cultures of the US and Europe bombarded Paraguay too quickly to provide supplemental education. This is common in third-world countries: We bring the goods but not the knowledge. As a result, the latest generation in Paraguay wants everything the US has because they've seen in in movies. They know exactly what they want: Gucci handbags, Bluetooth cell phones, bottle-blond hair. However, most of them do not know where the US is on a map, let alone that New York City has a greater population than their entire country (a lot Paraguayns think this is total bullshit, by the way: Norte liars!). They have MP3 players but do not know how to work their computers to download the music. Why? Their computer programs are all in English, including the instructions.
My host Mom has a washing machine and a Dell but had no idea that sugar caused her son's cavities.
So, here I am preaching dental health and nutrition to a generation of people who consider themselves well-educated and not in need of assistance. Their parents before them would have (and probably did in 1975) happily admit that they were falling behind globally and needed a lot of help. However, I run into people here that don't believe there is anything wrong with their health or education systems and are resistant to foreign aid, Peace Corps included. This comes in part from being located in a semi-affluent area by local standards. I was told a week or so ago that I couldn't change anything here because I didn't have any more knowledge than the people I was working with. Just to clarify, here's what I'm working with.
The team at my health post doesn't put any stock in the 'Germ Theory.'
95% of the country has multiple cavities........ 95.
Commonly-held beliefs of.... pretty much everyone:
-Taking a shower after you've worked out will make you sick.
-Wearing a wet shirt will give you a stomach ache.
-Eating citrus then milk will kill you.
-Leaving your upper chest uncovered will give you a headache.
-Men can do whatever they want.
-If God doesn't want it, it won't happen.
It's rough trying to be a health-worker in a country full of people who don't believe in your witch-doctor science theories, like coughing on people spreads bacteria and sneezing into your hand is generally a bad idea. I wanted to tell that nice man who told me I didn't have any more knowledge than him that I in fact had a BS and a Master's but I didn't. Instead I just kept saying, Jahechata. We'll see. And when he asked me what was so bad about Paraguayan I spit some statistics at him about diabetes, obesity and giardia.
Well, I'll do what I can and leave the rest to TV.
Speaking of TV- Paraguayans love the Simpsons!
At least I can feel useful when, while watching Los Simpsons, random English words pop across the screen and everyone screams, "What is that?!" "And that?!" "That?!" Who's smart now? I speak English, suckers!
03 June 2011
Why Am I Here?
It's a question I can answer for myself with a great deal of assuredness but convincing Paraguayans of the answer is a different matter. From the perspective of someone who lives in a brick/mud house that at times has running water and electricity and is under the authority of a corrupt and stunted government, volunteers seem like crazy people.
What Paraguayans have trouble understanding is why I would leave the US of A, allegedly the birthplace of freedom and the gateway to a better life, to spend two years living in comparative squalor with no benefit to myself. Unless, of course, I was a spy trying to conseguir the Guarani aquifer, one of the world's largest groundwater resevoirs. This they can imagine.
Guarani Aquifer
For me, the answer is the experience in itself. The relationships. And, oh yeah, helping the people.
Last night, I had the most intense conversation with a Paraguayan thus far in my life. This guy wanted to do know what I was doing here so I lovingly gave him the Peace Corps schpiel: I'm here to provide technical support and participate in a cultural exchange. He called my BS. Then he wanted to know why I didn't like America. Because if I've left my native country there's obviously something wrong with it. I explained to dude- very forceful and direct for a Paraguayan- that I love the US but I have a desire to help people in less fortunate situations than we've got going on with Uncle Sam. My Spanish was maybe not so eloquent, but you get the idea. Oh, and they know who Tio Sam is down here. Then he says to me, I would never go to Bolivia because they are poor and I don't want to live with poor people who have worse lives than I do. So why are you here?
Why am I here?
He said, You can't change our behaviors in two years, it's impossible. The things that hold this culture from advancing to the level of a developed country are based in deeply-rooted cultural norms that hang inevitably over every house like the thick cloud of trash-burning smoke that sits there as well. Impossible to avoid, almost impossible to change.
It's true. I can't change the thinking of all 2.000 people in this town in the next two years. I can't turn the culture around overnight and convince the people to partake in the behaviors they already know can improve their lives but choose not to execute.
But if I change the mentality of one child? Of ten, or twenty children? The sustainability of the Peace Corps isn't just in the concept of teaching people to help themselves. It's also in the idea that altering one person's mindset can result in a lifetime of small, seemingly inconsequential changes that, over time and with enough people, can result in the alteration and betterment of a society.
So- one person at a time.
What Paraguayans have trouble understanding is why I would leave the US of A, allegedly the birthplace of freedom and the gateway to a better life, to spend two years living in comparative squalor with no benefit to myself. Unless, of course, I was a spy trying to conseguir the Guarani aquifer, one of the world's largest groundwater resevoirs. This they can imagine.
For me, the answer is the experience in itself. The relationships. And, oh yeah, helping the people.
Last night, I had the most intense conversation with a Paraguayan thus far in my life. This guy wanted to do know what I was doing here so I lovingly gave him the Peace Corps schpiel: I'm here to provide technical support and participate in a cultural exchange. He called my BS. Then he wanted to know why I didn't like America. Because if I've left my native country there's obviously something wrong with it. I explained to dude- very forceful and direct for a Paraguayan- that I love the US but I have a desire to help people in less fortunate situations than we've got going on with Uncle Sam. My Spanish was maybe not so eloquent, but you get the idea. Oh, and they know who Tio Sam is down here. Then he says to me, I would never go to Bolivia because they are poor and I don't want to live with poor people who have worse lives than I do. So why are you here?
Why am I here?
He said, You can't change our behaviors in two years, it's impossible. The things that hold this culture from advancing to the level of a developed country are based in deeply-rooted cultural norms that hang inevitably over every house like the thick cloud of trash-burning smoke that sits there as well. Impossible to avoid, almost impossible to change.
It's true. I can't change the thinking of all 2.000 people in this town in the next two years. I can't turn the culture around overnight and convince the people to partake in the behaviors they already know can improve their lives but choose not to execute.
But if I change the mentality of one child? Of ten, or twenty children? The sustainability of the Peace Corps isn't just in the concept of teaching people to help themselves. It's also in the idea that altering one person's mindset can result in a lifetime of small, seemingly inconsequential changes that, over time and with enough people, can result in the alteration and betterment of a society.
So- one person at a time.
25 May 2011
El Temido Calefon
This blog is dedicated to my shower experiences, those that I've had indoors. I'm not ready to talk about the other ones. I'm borrowing this post from a fellow volunteer's blog. The original can be found at the address below the article.
"Most Paraguayan bathrooms (those that have running water) have electrical showerheads called a “calefón.” Cold water passing through the showerhead is heated by an electrical element. Once the water is past the heating element and through the showerhead it disperses into the small droplets that make up your nice, warm shower. The temperature is regulated by the water flow – more water flow descreases the temperature of your shower and vice-versa. You can only make your shower so hot, though. Once the water flow diminishes too much the calefón will automatically turn off, at which point the bathroom lights may get brighter. Increasing the flow will turn it back on. To cut power off completely look for the switch (many times it is a black and red flip-switch) in or directly outside the bathroom. Most calefóns have winter and summer settings with varying degrees of water- heating capabilities.
From the point of view of certain foreigners a contraption that involves water and electricity and a naked user is alarming. This is especially so because the electrical wiring is clearly visible in most calefón installations. Many times the wires are barely insulated with electrical tape. It is worth noting calefons are nicknamed “widow-makers” in English. Calefóns are in widespread use throughout Latin America. They are cheaper than regular water heaters (“termotanques” in Spanish), simpler to install and use less electricity because they do not have to keep water hot all day long. As a foreigner you will quickly (hopefully) learn the calefón tricks locals learn from an early age. If you touch the water just under the showerhead, before it has dispersed enough, electricity will travel through you to the floor. It is not a pleasant experience. It is best to avoid reaching above your head and, if you´re tall, engage in extra careful hair-washing. Also avoid fiddling with the showerhead settings while showering unless you are certain the calefón has been switched off. Despite the fear-factor calefons do have one main benefit: you can take as long a shower as you´d like without fear of running out of hot water (as long as your electricity doesn´t go out)."
Retrieved from http://discoveringparaguay.com/home/the-dreaded-calefon-el-temido-calefon/
"Most Paraguayan bathrooms (those that have running water) have electrical showerheads called a “calefón.” Cold water passing through the showerhead is heated by an electrical element. Once the water is past the heating element and through the showerhead it disperses into the small droplets that make up your nice, warm shower. The temperature is regulated by the water flow – more water flow descreases the temperature of your shower and vice-versa. You can only make your shower so hot, though. Once the water flow diminishes too much the calefón will automatically turn off, at which point the bathroom lights may get brighter. Increasing the flow will turn it back on. To cut power off completely look for the switch (many times it is a black and red flip-switch) in or directly outside the bathroom. Most calefóns have winter and summer settings with varying degrees of water- heating capabilities.
From the point of view of certain foreigners a contraption that involves water and electricity and a naked user is alarming. This is especially so because the electrical wiring is clearly visible in most calefón installations. Many times the wires are barely insulated with electrical tape. It is worth noting calefons are nicknamed “widow-makers” in English. Calefóns are in widespread use throughout Latin America. They are cheaper than regular water heaters (“termotanques” in Spanish), simpler to install and use less electricity because they do not have to keep water hot all day long. As a foreigner you will quickly (hopefully) learn the calefón tricks locals learn from an early age. If you touch the water just under the showerhead, before it has dispersed enough, electricity will travel through you to the floor. It is not a pleasant experience. It is best to avoid reaching above your head and, if you´re tall, engage in extra careful hair-washing. Also avoid fiddling with the showerhead settings while showering unless you are certain the calefón has been switched off. Despite the fear-factor calefons do have one main benefit: you can take as long a shower as you´d like without fear of running out of hot water (as long as your electricity doesn´t go out)."
Retrieved from http://discoveringparaguay.com/home/the-dreaded-calefon-el-temido-calefon/
Fighting off the sub-tropical diseases
There are surprises around every corner and one of them happens to be dengue-ridden mosquitoes. Another happens to be giardia. And yet another happens to be the drunk neighbor who has forgotten where he lives again and would like to swap opinions on his mother's cooking - in Guarani.
You don't know what dengue and giardia are? Here, look them up:
GIARDIA
DENGUE FEVER
I find that if I let my guard down for just a moment ('my guard' includes peering behind bushes, liberally applying bug spray to my bed sheets and shouting about the deliciousness of all food, at all times), something sneaks up to bite me in the ass. Literally. Living in a foreign country (yep, still feels foreign) means being on your toes at all times or else finding yourself in curious situations that you're way unprepared for. Can I relax in my own home? Not entirely. It's not my home. I'm just squatting here, sharing a bedroom with a 40 year-old woman and an 8 year-old boy and sharing my bed with mosquitoes, fruit flies and bed bugs.
* I don't know why the fruit flies hang out in the bedroom.
In addition, my family watches every move I make like I'm a newly discovered species of human who needs to be carefully monitored, observed and heavily criticized. If I shower less than 2 times a day, it becomes necessary to discuss and laugh uproariously about it with the extended family; if I eat bread for breakfast instead of fatty, creamy cow's milk, I'm put on suicide watch (any girl not eating her fill is obviously depressed); and if I stare too long at a passing man, my compatibility with this man is thoroughly discussed over the phone with at least two other members of the family. It's good have second and third opinions before we decide the wedding colors.
However, the good thing about this constant state of either surprise or preparation for surprise is that my reflexive instincts are becoming finely honed. I've noticed an improvement in my reaction time when grandma says, "You don't like my food?". I can verbally dip and dodge until suddenly the tables are turned and she's practically drowning in guilt for even asking the question. I can skirt around the controversially honest answers to inquiries on religion, salary or U.S. government intent in the war in Iraq (what is that, again?) until the bombillas around me are hanging drolly from mouths plunged in astonishment. As a Peace Corps volunteer, it's necessary to do what other people might call, 'lie'. These half-truths keep us alive and out of the spotlight when it comes to politically- or religiously-charged issues. The rest of the time, the spotlight is all ours.
Physically, these surprises come in the forms of living and inanimate objects at all times of the day and night. Most recently, I've been struck by an interesting set of symptoms that indicate I may be suffering from anxiety or a fatal sub-tropical bacterial infection. Or it might just be something I ate. Endemically speaking, bed bugs are a lovely addition to my life. Or should they really be a concern? Are most people necessarily 'concerned' about the people (or creatures) they share a bed with every night? Their snuggle partners? Their love bugs? No- but I am. Each morning I wake up to an array of new spots and fissures in my skin that indicate an impending life-long dependency on Mederma®. If I was a stronger person, I might greet these new markers of my resiliency with pride but as it were, I take a peek in the 8 x 12 inch mirror in the bathroom and try not to have a panic attack so early in the day, realizing I have little to no control over my body. Of course to have a looksy in the bathroom mirror, I have to fight off a horde of hungry mosquitoes that rise like the second coming of the Messiah from the watery grave of the bathroom floor when I turn on the light. Dengue cloud.
Some of you may be thinking.... God she sounds miserable. Defeated. Depressed. But rest assured, I am none of those things. I've only [further] developed a sense of black humor to prevent myself from sinking into feelings of home-sickness or defeatism.
The challenging part about this first initial piece of service is that we are all struggling through the challenges of living abroad in a third world country and have yet to see many of the rewards. At times, it becomes difficult to remember why we are. The rewards, both for ourselves and for those around us, become a distant point on the horizon, barely visible and seeming to sink slowly backward with each step forward. But with our logical, well-evolved brains (yes, we have those! I swear!), we can remember that thousands of people have come before us and done just what we're doing now and not only survived but flourished.
You don't know what dengue and giardia are? Here, look them up:
GIARDIA
DENGUE FEVER
I find that if I let my guard down for just a moment ('my guard' includes peering behind bushes, liberally applying bug spray to my bed sheets and shouting about the deliciousness of all food, at all times), something sneaks up to bite me in the ass. Literally. Living in a foreign country (yep, still feels foreign) means being on your toes at all times or else finding yourself in curious situations that you're way unprepared for. Can I relax in my own home? Not entirely. It's not my home. I'm just squatting here, sharing a bedroom with a 40 year-old woman and an 8 year-old boy and sharing my bed with mosquitoes, fruit flies and bed bugs.
* I don't know why the fruit flies hang out in the bedroom.
In addition, my family watches every move I make like I'm a newly discovered species of human who needs to be carefully monitored, observed and heavily criticized. If I shower less than 2 times a day, it becomes necessary to discuss and laugh uproariously about it with the extended family; if I eat bread for breakfast instead of fatty, creamy cow's milk, I'm put on suicide watch (any girl not eating her fill is obviously depressed); and if I stare too long at a passing man, my compatibility with this man is thoroughly discussed over the phone with at least two other members of the family. It's good have second and third opinions before we decide the wedding colors.
However, the good thing about this constant state of either surprise or preparation for surprise is that my reflexive instincts are becoming finely honed. I've noticed an improvement in my reaction time when grandma says, "You don't like my food?". I can verbally dip and dodge until suddenly the tables are turned and she's practically drowning in guilt for even asking the question. I can skirt around the controversially honest answers to inquiries on religion, salary or U.S. government intent in the war in Iraq (what is that, again?) until the bombillas around me are hanging drolly from mouths plunged in astonishment. As a Peace Corps volunteer, it's necessary to do what other people might call, 'lie'. These half-truths keep us alive and out of the spotlight when it comes to politically- or religiously-charged issues. The rest of the time, the spotlight is all ours.
Physically, these surprises come in the forms of living and inanimate objects at all times of the day and night. Most recently, I've been struck by an interesting set of symptoms that indicate I may be suffering from anxiety or a fatal sub-tropical bacterial infection. Or it might just be something I ate. Endemically speaking, bed bugs are a lovely addition to my life. Or should they really be a concern? Are most people necessarily 'concerned' about the people (or creatures) they share a bed with every night? Their snuggle partners? Their love bugs? No- but I am. Each morning I wake up to an array of new spots and fissures in my skin that indicate an impending life-long dependency on Mederma®. If I was a stronger person, I might greet these new markers of my resiliency with pride but as it were, I take a peek in the 8 x 12 inch mirror in the bathroom and try not to have a panic attack so early in the day, realizing I have little to no control over my body. Of course to have a looksy in the bathroom mirror, I have to fight off a horde of hungry mosquitoes that rise like the second coming of the Messiah from the watery grave of the bathroom floor when I turn on the light. Dengue cloud.
Some of you may be thinking.... God she sounds miserable. Defeated. Depressed. But rest assured, I am none of those things. I've only [further] developed a sense of black humor to prevent myself from sinking into feelings of home-sickness or defeatism.
The challenging part about this first initial piece of service is that we are all struggling through the challenges of living abroad in a third world country and have yet to see many of the rewards. At times, it becomes difficult to remember why we are. The rewards, both for ourselves and for those around us, become a distant point on the horizon, barely visible and seeming to sink slowly backward with each step forward. But with our logical, well-evolved brains (yes, we have those! I swear!), we can remember that thousands of people have come before us and done just what we're doing now and not only survived but flourished.
13 May 2011
A day in the life
Since I'm feeling productive today, I'm going to outline my activities so yall can all get a taste of what my day-to-day looks like.
5:30 - my little brother starts screaming in the next room, claiming to be stuck inside of his mosquito net and really has to pee. Not stuck. Not actually possible.
6 - my Mom cranks up the radio, TV and the blender.
*sidenote: doors do not exist between the three rooms of the house
6:30 - I stop pretending to be asleep and get up, eat and get dressed
7:30 - I leave for the health post
9:00 - We make a house call to the next community. For the next two hours, I watch incredible feats of modern medicine take place, including the following:
-- Peeing laying down, sans bed pan or catheter;
-- A saline drip hanging (with the rope from a cow's leash) from a thatch roof; and
-- An RX script written on a chunk of paper found blowing around on the ground outside. Don't worry- she put the stamp on it: It's officla.
11:30 - Return to the puesto (health post) to review the community's censuses and develop a plan to work with the doctor and nurses to teach sex ed in the schools (what what!)
12:30 - Eat lunch. Almuerzo consists of boiled potatoes, tomatoes, green peppers and onions and bread.
1:00 - Internet time
2:00 - Private English class with two young boys
* now I'm writing in the future
3:30 - Walk to the city to buy groceries (about 4 miles round trip)
5:30 - Visit Grandma's house where, surely, I will be fed something fatty and delicious
7:00 - Drink milk for dinner
7:30 - Visit the school to watch a class
9:00 - Bid my family goodnight while I go to speak on English on my cellular phone
That's a pretty normal day for me!! Throughout the day, plans might change dramatically when someone realizes there is a very important event that I must go to. Paraguayans don't really talk about the future much, so even though you might have specifically asked your neighbor if anything was going on tomorrow night and they said no, when tomorrow night actually rolls around they may realize at that moment that a huge ceremony is under way- and it's in your honor. They've been preparing food for three days. You better go.
Somehow, I think all of these things are funny. Frustrating in the moment but when I swap stories with my other volunteer friends at the end of the day, all I can do is laugh.
If you want to get a better feel for the problems I run into on a daily basis, please follow the twitter account: paraguayproblems My friend Taylor posts things that we text to her throughout the day. It's worth signing up for a twitter account.
5:30 - my little brother starts screaming in the next room, claiming to be stuck inside of his mosquito net and really has to pee. Not stuck. Not actually possible.
6 - my Mom cranks up the radio, TV and the blender.
*sidenote: doors do not exist between the three rooms of the house
6:30 - I stop pretending to be asleep and get up, eat and get dressed
7:30 - I leave for the health post
9:00 - We make a house call to the next community. For the next two hours, I watch incredible feats of modern medicine take place, including the following:
-- Peeing laying down, sans bed pan or catheter;
-- A saline drip hanging (with the rope from a cow's leash) from a thatch roof; and
-- An RX script written on a chunk of paper found blowing around on the ground outside. Don't worry- she put the stamp on it: It's officla.
11:30 - Return to the puesto (health post) to review the community's censuses and develop a plan to work with the doctor and nurses to teach sex ed in the schools (what what!)
12:30 - Eat lunch. Almuerzo consists of boiled potatoes, tomatoes, green peppers and onions and bread.
1:00 - Internet time
2:00 - Private English class with two young boys
* now I'm writing in the future
3:30 - Walk to the city to buy groceries (about 4 miles round trip)
5:30 - Visit Grandma's house where, surely, I will be fed something fatty and delicious
7:00 - Drink milk for dinner
7:30 - Visit the school to watch a class
9:00 - Bid my family goodnight while I go to speak on English on my cellular phone
That's a pretty normal day for me!! Throughout the day, plans might change dramatically when someone realizes there is a very important event that I must go to. Paraguayans don't really talk about the future much, so even though you might have specifically asked your neighbor if anything was going on tomorrow night and they said no, when tomorrow night actually rolls around they may realize at that moment that a huge ceremony is under way- and it's in your honor. They've been preparing food for three days. You better go.
Somehow, I think all of these things are funny. Frustrating in the moment but when I swap stories with my other volunteer friends at the end of the day, all I can do is laugh.
If you want to get a better feel for the problems I run into on a daily basis, please follow the twitter account: paraguayproblems My friend Taylor posts things that we text to her throughout the day. It's worth signing up for a twitter account.
Learning street slang in Guarani... and other things.
For ten weeks during training, I had 3-4 hours of language class a day, five days a week. It was intense. I learned more in ten weeks than I imagined possible and our local language professors were even considerate enough to tell us the proper version and the actual version- I am well, thank you as opposed to, Good, you? However, there were also an unthinkable number of instances where the answer to a question was, It depends- Es depende. God how it depends!!!
Conversations with our training staff went something like this for 10 weeks:
"Will I have cell service?"
-It depends.
"Will I have a bathroom?"
-It depends.
"Is it safe for me to live alone? To run outside? To drink the water? To date a local? To give out my phone number? To talk on the phone in English in a public place? To drink alcohol? To wear shorts? To wear blue? To wear red? To wear gold jewelry? To use this word?"
-It depends.
And now that I am in site, independent of trainers holding my hand, friends scratching my back and language professors telling me the difference between the vulgar version and the proper version of the word, all of those wishy-washy aspects of my life are being cleared up- quickly
How do I know when I've made a social snafu? A Paraguayan says to me, Around here, we........ (fill in the social norm that I was previously unaware of). They are a very indirect people and therefore it's possible to ask them what is going on- they will just say, I don't know. Instead, you have to wait and see what goes on. Waiting, waiting, waiting, waiting....
The latest cultural challenge: Learning the slang version of this language, Guarani. All of the helpful phrases we learned during training, all in "formal" Guarani, are barely comprehensible to these people who have been speaking it since they were in the womb and informalizing since the same second. Now, at first, this really irritated me and I kept saying to myself, That's not the right way to ask what someone is doing!!
That question in particular - what are you doing? - was my first slang accomplishment. For once, I heard the words for what they meant, not for how they should be pronounced and I answered reflexively instead of stewing over it first.
Formal Guarani for "what are you doing?":
Mbae'pa rejapohina
Slang/actual Guarani for "what are you doing?":
Mba'ejapo
But I can't complain too much because when it comes to abusing a language, American-English speakers are about as bad as it gets. We go from,
What are you doing?
, to
Whatcha doin?
It's inevitable that every language becomes shortened, abbreviated and the significance of words change over the course of time but when it's come to abuse, American-English speakers are Mike Turner on a bad day. We are negligent of the rules and thoroughly beaten our mother tongue to a bloody mess. And thus I thank my great-great grandmother Herrietta for coming to US from Germany in 1865 so that I learned English as my first language because I sure as hell wouldn't have the perseverance to learn it as a second.
03 May 2011
Don't quote me on this
A few quotable moments from my loquacious friends, Paraguayan and North American. Some quotes have been translated, from Guarani and/or Spanish, to the best of my ability. And, if you see yourself quoted here and I never asked for your permission, please don't call your lawyer because I'm positive I didn't actually ask or warn any of you. So thank you for your anonymous participation.
"That guy would be really hot if he had teeth."
"May I hold the baby?"
-"Oh... but he's not wearing socks."
"Mmm, it smells like Paraguay. Like sweaty fruit or fruity sweat; I'm not sure which one."
"Despite 10 weeks of technical training, the most important thing I have received to received is a cell phone with solitaire."
"Porque?"
-Porcause, I want to.
Exploring meal times in Paraguay
The digression of a healthy meal:
"Can I make lunch today?"
-Yes, what are you going to make?
"Pasta and vegetable sauce."
-Hmmm, and tortillas (a fried food)?
"Umm... sure."
-Tortillas and sauce?
"And pasta?"
-Hmm, just tortillas and sopa (fried food).
"Bueno."
A debate with a child over vegetables
"Are you going to eat the vegetables, too?"
-I don't want the vegetables.
"Eat the vegetables. They're healthy."
-I don't want this food.
"What do you want?"
-I just want a battery for my little car.
The discussion of my birthday meal
"What do you want to eat for your birthday party?"
-Pizza and salad!
"Hmmmm. Salad."
-Is that okay? Is it normal to eat salad at night?
"She wants to know if it's normal to eat salad at night. Yes, yes it's normal. It's all good."
-Okay, so salad and pizza.
"And empanadas. And sopa (a fried food)."
-Okay, so salad, pizza, empanadas and sopa.
"Yes, empanadas and sopa, then."
"That guy would be really hot if he had teeth."
"May I hold the baby?"
-"Oh... but he's not wearing socks."
"Mmm, it smells like Paraguay. Like sweaty fruit or fruity sweat; I'm not sure which one."
"Despite 10 weeks of technical training, the most important thing I have received to received is a cell phone with solitaire."
"Porque?"
-Porcause, I want to.
"I love my material things!"
-"Yeah, you love them now because you're still in American mode. It will probably take several months for you to be completely converted to the third world lifestyle. By the time you get back here you'll be whistling a different tune. Then I will buy you a pair of knee high grey suede boots form JCrew and you'll faint and be re-converted to consumerism."
Exploring meal times in Paraguay
The digression of a healthy meal:
"Can I make lunch today?"
-Yes, what are you going to make?
"Pasta and vegetable sauce."
-Hmmm, and tortillas (a fried food)?
"Umm... sure."
-Tortillas and sauce?
"And pasta?"
-Hmm, just tortillas and sopa (fried food).
"Bueno."
A debate with a child over vegetables
"Are you going to eat the vegetables, too?"
-I don't want the vegetables.
"Eat the vegetables. They're healthy."
-I don't want this food.
"What do you want?"
-I just want a battery for my little car.
The discussion of my birthday meal
"What do you want to eat for your birthday party?"
-Pizza and salad!
"Hmmmm. Salad."
-Is that okay? Is it normal to eat salad at night?
"She wants to know if it's normal to eat salad at night. Yes, yes it's normal. It's all good."
-Okay, so salad and pizza.
"And empanadas. And sopa (a fried food)."
-Okay, so salad, pizza, empanadas and sopa.
"Yes, empanadas and sopa, then."
A few observations...
I just want to list a few things I've observed the past two weeks. These are things that occur and I think to myself, "Wow, no one thinks this is weird but me." These are the times I most miss America.
Observe:
A 2 year-old cutting the grass with a machete.
My 8 year-old brother with a can of pesticide in one hand a box of Paraguayan-style frosted flakes in the other. He's spraying the yard while snacking.
There are always ants in the sugar.
There is always a skin on the milk.
There are always chickens in the yard even though we don't actually have any chickens.
The cake here is soggy. I'm still trying to figure that one out.
Dogs and cows are very combative.
Observe:
A 2 year-old cutting the grass with a machete.
My 8 year-old brother with a can of pesticide in one hand a box of Paraguayan-style frosted flakes in the other. He's spraying the yard while snacking.
There are always ants in the sugar.
There is always a skin on the milk.
There are always chickens in the yard even though we don't actually have any chickens.
The cake here is soggy. I'm still trying to figure that one out.
Dogs and cows are very combative.
26 April 2011
Privacy.... wait, what is that?
Oh, the Paraguayan life.
I'm living in site now and things are entirely different from training. I'm the only North American in my town, the only English-speaker, the only person who mourns the absence of my washer and dryer and surely the only person who wonders what Jon Stewart is doing right now. As a foreigner and a first time volunteer, I'm under intense scrutiny all the time, particularly during meal time. People comment on how I hold my fork, where I place and how I use my napkin, how much salt and sugar I put on my food and how I never seem to eat enough food, even that one time I ate until I vomited. Seriously. To eat a lot is to be hard-working. That's why, now, I never eat when I'm hungry or alone. I just wait until it's time to visit someone's house and when they inevitably offer me food I can actually say yes and eat it ravenously, which is not only a compliment to the chef but makes me appear very diligent.
I'm currently sharing a house with a mother and her 8 year-old son and will stay here for the first few weeks of service, after which I'll move in with another family. The idea is to bounce around to different houses in the community in order to get a feel for the people, the process of life and make some new friends. I share a bedroom with the mother and the boy has his own room. However, the boy prefers to sleep with his mom and since discipline is non-existent in comparison to my old childhood, the son gets his way. So I share a bedroom with two people. There is one other room in the house which serves as a catch-all piensa: Kitchen, dining room, living room, laundry room and den. Therefore, I. Am. Never. Alone. I sleep with other people, I eat with other people, I relax with other people- I even pee in very close proximity to other people but the shower experience is all mine. Sometimes, I consider walking into the woods and just walking until I can't see anyone anymore because I'm so sick of my eyes constantly landing on Paraguayans. I love the Paraguayans- they're generous, comical people and they're willingly sharing their lives and their love with me. So, rock on Paraguayans. But hey- a girl needs her time alone.
More to come. Peace to the world.
I'm living in site now and things are entirely different from training. I'm the only North American in my town, the only English-speaker, the only person who mourns the absence of my washer and dryer and surely the only person who wonders what Jon Stewart is doing right now. As a foreigner and a first time volunteer, I'm under intense scrutiny all the time, particularly during meal time. People comment on how I hold my fork, where I place and how I use my napkin, how much salt and sugar I put on my food and how I never seem to eat enough food, even that one time I ate until I vomited. Seriously. To eat a lot is to be hard-working. That's why, now, I never eat when I'm hungry or alone. I just wait until it's time to visit someone's house and when they inevitably offer me food I can actually say yes and eat it ravenously, which is not only a compliment to the chef but makes me appear very diligent.
I'm currently sharing a house with a mother and her 8 year-old son and will stay here for the first few weeks of service, after which I'll move in with another family. The idea is to bounce around to different houses in the community in order to get a feel for the people, the process of life and make some new friends. I share a bedroom with the mother and the boy has his own room. However, the boy prefers to sleep with his mom and since discipline is non-existent in comparison to my old childhood, the son gets his way. So I share a bedroom with two people. There is one other room in the house which serves as a catch-all piensa: Kitchen, dining room, living room, laundry room and den. Therefore, I. Am. Never. Alone. I sleep with other people, I eat with other people, I relax with other people- I even pee in very close proximity to other people but the shower experience is all mine. Sometimes, I consider walking into the woods and just walking until I can't see anyone anymore because I'm so sick of my eyes constantly landing on Paraguayans. I love the Paraguayans- they're generous, comical people and they're willingly sharing their lives and their love with me. So, rock on Paraguayans. But hey- a girl needs her time alone.
More to come. Peace to the world.
11 April 2011
My Family Loves Me
THANK YOU FOR THE LETTERS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!11
And by family, I mean family and friends because I have received crazy amounts of mail since I got here from both - Becca, Shara, I love you desperately. I cannot explain how much better my days gets when I see a fat stack of letters sitting in my box. Ah!
Keep them coming and I promise to blog more. Only one more week and, believe it or not, I will have real internet access. LOVE YOU ALL!!!
And by family, I mean family and friends because I have received crazy amounts of mail since I got here from both - Becca, Shara, I love you desperately. I cannot explain how much better my days gets when I see a fat stack of letters sitting in my box. Ah!
Keep them coming and I promise to blog more. Only one more week and, believe it or not, I will have real internet access. LOVE YOU ALL!!!
07 April 2011
Ciao, Training!
Well, one more week of training and then they boot me out into the real world. The real world, by the way, is pathetically close to a major city and the people there are generally educated and healthy. I'm spoiled.
Now that I have my site assignment and have visited my future site, things became much more concrete- I will no longer be plagued by the ambiguity of "It depends," as an answer to every question. My site has requested that focus on the problem of teen pregnancy specifically as well as working with adolescents in the school regarding things like dental health, hygiene and sex education. I'll also be working with pregnant women and special needs medical groups including diabetes, hypertension and terminal illness. I couldn't be happier with my site assignment and I am pumped to get back there OFFICIALLY next week. Two years.... here we go!
Now that I have a decent grip on the Paraguayan culture I thought I'd share some insights. I'm not an expert yet but I think I have enough experience with culture shock at this point that I can safely determine a few things. The following are randomly arranged strange Paraguayan.... things.
-Churizo-flavored cheese puffs
-Excessive polyester/cotton blends
-To be considered hard-working, just eat a lot
-Babies drink coke here. Straight from their baby bottle.
-Birthday parties are held for people who are no longer alive. This means that almost every day of the year is a party for someone... a birthday party for a living person, a birthday party for a dead person, a deathday party for a dead person....
-To be thin is to be unhappy.
Now that I have my site assignment and have visited my future site, things became much more concrete- I will no longer be plagued by the ambiguity of "It depends," as an answer to every question. My site has requested that focus on the problem of teen pregnancy specifically as well as working with adolescents in the school regarding things like dental health, hygiene and sex education. I'll also be working with pregnant women and special needs medical groups including diabetes, hypertension and terminal illness. I couldn't be happier with my site assignment and I am pumped to get back there OFFICIALLY next week. Two years.... here we go!
Now that I have a decent grip on the Paraguayan culture I thought I'd share some insights. I'm not an expert yet but I think I have enough experience with culture shock at this point that I can safely determine a few things. The following are randomly arranged strange Paraguayan.... things.
-Churizo-flavored cheese puffs
-Excessive polyester/cotton blends
-To be considered hard-working, just eat a lot
-Babies drink coke here. Straight from their baby bottle.
-Birthday parties are held for people who are no longer alive. This means that almost every day of the year is a party for someone... a birthday party for a living person, a birthday party for a dead person, a deathday party for a dead person....
-To be thin is to be unhappy.
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