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 Guaraní coming along?” she [Juanita] began our monthly meeting.
I sidestepped her inquiry by replying in Guaraní, “Little.” This joke went over well in Paraguay, and I used it to hide the fact that I zoned out anytime Guaraní 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. Guaraní 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 Guaraní, 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, Guaraní speaking volunteers for verification. “Do you know how to swear in Guaraní?” 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 Guaraní.
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 Guaraní into conversation, I saw a whole new side of my host family and Paraguay. "
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