Thanksgiving 2008

Dia de los Difuntos (Muertos)

November 2, 2008

Development

''If you have come to help me, you are wasting your time. But if you have come because your liberation is bound up with mine, then let us work together.''

-Aboriginal Activist Group, Queensland, 1970's

Technically, Peace Corps is a development organization. In reality it is much more (and much less) than a traditional development organization, but nonetheless, the work can be classified under the surprisingly broad term ‘development.’

I’ve been doing a lot of reading and thinking about what exactly development is and what it should be and it has been somewhat depressing. Mostly I come across methods of development that I think are terrible. I have yet to come across a development theory or practice that I am 100% comfortable with. More and more it seems to me that development is not something that can be done from the outside (rich countries helping poor countries), but rather something that needs to be homegrown. But the idea of not doing anything is also uncomfortable to me.

The first problem I have with development is the word itself. To me, it implies a sense of superiority. The development organization from the rich country is going to develop the backward ways of the poor. We are developed and we know what that means and we are going to show you (or make you) like us. It is worrisome that a word so widely used is so rarely defined. MORE ON THIS…NOT YET CONVINCING

It seems to me that development is too often something that is done to or for a community rather than something that is done by or with the community itself. A perfect example of this happened in my community yesterday.

WorldVision is a global development organization that works a lot in my municipality. I admittedly don’t know much about their funding or their goals or mission, but in my community they work mostly on projects with youth and with small-scale farmers.

So yesterday I was playing dominos with a couple of my neighbors when a guy from my community came by to tell me that there were a bunch of Koreans at Chepe Malo’s house. Foreigners (and Koreans at that) are a very rare thing for a small Salvadoran community, so like my neighbors, I had to go check it out. Turns out, a group of young-adult Koreans were bringing my community silos to store grain. Apparently the silos had to be painted to help prevent rust, and this is what was going on at Chepe Malo’s house.

So this is a good thing right? I’m not so sure. First off, there was absolutely no interaction between Koreans and Salvadorans. When I showed up, a few of the Koreans were interested in talking English with me, but I didn’t see any trying to converse with Salvos. How might a Salvadoran see this? I’m guessing they would see that people from rich, powerful countries really only care to interact with each other. I’m also guessing that this sounds absurd to some of you reading this, but I promise you, the inferiority complex here in El Salvador runs deeper than we can imagine. There was a language barrier for sure, but a smile or nod or any sort of non-verbal communication that expresses interest and friendship would have really went a long way. I saw none of that. There were about 10 silos, 2 of which were being painted by groups of 10 Koreans laughing and talking amongst themselves and 8 of which were being painted by Salvadorans working quietly. And not just quietly, but shyly—in their own community. Doesn’t seem right to me.

Another problem. The Koreans came with a police escort. There are 6 police officers in my entire municipality, I can count the number of times I have seen police in my community on one hand, and this group brought 2 officers for security. What sort of message does this send to a community that prides itself on being calm and safe? I had 3 people ask me why they had security with them. It’s a good question and I really had no answer.

Who were these Koreans? A Salvadoran representative from WorldVision told me that they were children of donors to WorldVision. So, in order to please the donors, WorldVision El Salvador has to escort donors’ children and show them all the people they are helping (developing? saving? converting?). Also, the silos. Where they really needed? They were and are appreciated, but I bet, if it were really researched within my community, people would have preferred the money to go to other projects. So then it seems to me, that in this example of development, more concern was placed on the ‘developers’ than the ‘developees.’ I think that his visit had the potential to do more harm than good. Maybe it did. And I’m not so sure this is an isolated incident in the world of development.

Also, this same day, I had a conversation with a Salvadoran who works for WorldVision. He asked me what sort of projects I’m doing in my community. I told him that I work in the school and that I helped start a bakery, and I mentioned a few other things. He immediately honed in on the bakery and asked me how many beneficiaries. This is very popular development jargon. Essentially, it is believed that the more beneficiaries, the better the project it. It is complete BS. If I buy a bag of Skittles and give one apiece to 50 people, I can claim that there were 50 beneficiaries. I can publish that result in a newsletter to donors. Donors can see that by only spending 1 dollar, I have helped 50 people. My organization must be well-run and deserves their donations.

The system is broken. I am nowhere close to a solution (nor are people a lot smarter than me). But it seems to me that the biggest problem is one of priorities. Development agencies aim to please their donors. I’m not saying that they don’t truly wish to help the poor, but their first concern is funding. I don’t know if agencies can be faulted for that. Without funding, they can’t exist. However, how can we expect… and I don’t know where to go from here—will probably just keep going in circles—but I’ve been meaning to put a blog post up for a while now and this is something I’ve been thinking about a lot lately. I’m planning on keeping a running dialogue (with myself or with my huge audience on the World Wide Web) on my thoughts about this topic. Cheers, and enjoy the pictures below. Actually, no pictures below...just realized I didn't put them on my

'No me llames frijolero' (Don't call me beaner)

An update of random events...

Zack has been here for 3 weeks now. It's been a great visit and my community has been verywelcoming. I'm amazed at how much the people in my community truly seem to enjoy receivingvisitors--not just to Las Trancas but to their homes, their church, their soccer games, their dinnertables, their hammocks, etc. Just this week Zack has taken naps on hammocks at two seperatehouses. Serendipitously enough, sleeping in another person's hammock is in the top three best compliments one can give a Salvadoran-- ranking right up there with finishing your lunch and asking for seconds.

One day last week we went with a neighbor of mine to plant beans (hence the title--also a pretty great song by the band Molotov) and 'bend' corn stalks. The bending corn has something to do with how the plant absorbs water, althoug I'm still a bit unclear as to why it's necessary..other than the fact that it requires the use of a machete. Bean planting was one of the hardest things I've ever done. Basically, you walk up and down the middles of rows of corn. Every foot or so you jab your machete into the ground, drop in 4 beans, and cover them up with dirt. Walking up and down bent over the whole time for just an hour left me with a terrible back ache for two days. I can't imagine what it must be like to work all day every day in that manner. It begins to make sense that one of the guys we worked with carried a bottle of 'guaro' (moonshine) in his sack of beans. Pain medicine.

Bending corn gave Zack a rash, or at least that's where he claims he got his rash. 'I got a rash, man'

The 15th is independence day in El Salvador. We went and took pictures of the parade. Hot, but nice. I'll post pictures soon.

That's about all to report here. Zack and I are off to Costa Rica tomorrow to see Eddie. Very much looking forward to the trip. Life is good.

Giving Zack a good cultural experience

My buddy Zack is here for a two week visit. He arrived to San Salvador from Santiago, Chile this past Thursday and we made it to my community Friday evening. Zack's Spanish is quite good and he's an experienced traveler so I wasn't too worried about him being a high-maintenence visitor, but I think the culture shock has been pretty significant. Having been here for over a year, I sometimes forget what a different reality I live here compared with my friends and family--even the ones who have or are currently living abroad.

Friday night when we arrived to my house, we dropped our bags off and went next door to visit my neighbors. Immediately the kids were holding Zack's hands and giving him hugs. The 5 year old girl sat down with her new set of paints to paint him a picture (what of, we still haven't figured out). Zack pointed out that the conversation--which for me felt like a pretty normal chat--referenced God every other sentence. From there we went to visit another family, more little kids, and a little fewer references to God.

Zack's real introduction into rural El Salvador was yesterday. We woke up and went to Catholic Mass. Though neither of us are Catholic, it's nice to be at the church where everyone is happy and singing and all dressed up. It's gives me a warm fuzzy feeling of community.

In the afternoon, Zack and I hopped onto the cattle truck loaded with men heading out to the soccer game. The game was held in a very rural community in the middle of huge fields of caña (sugar cane). I have always been warned that caña fields are dangerous, and I can now see why. To get to the game, we drove on a dirt road surronded on both sides by 10 feet tall caña plants. No houses, no police, and nowhere to go. If someone popped out to rob us (which happens and is the reason why the fields are dangerous) I'm not sure what we could have done.

Regardless, we made it to the field fine. This community might possibly be the poorest and most rural community I've seen so far in El Salvador, and the field reflected it. Sticks, tumbleweed, rocks, holes and dirt took the place of the grass that I knew in the states and am growing less and less accustomed to here in El Salvador. Still, all but two or three of the opposing teams players were shoeless.

Zack and I played in the second game and we made a pretty dynamic duo up top, at least for the first half. At the start of the second half I noticed that the people watching the game were all looking towards where the cattle truck. I couldn't see what they were looking at, but after a couple of minutes they called the game and we were told to grab our stuff and get on the truck. Apparently a couple of the guys we were with got drunk and started insulting some of the people they were drinking with. Those people then went back to their house to get their machetes and that's when we decided it was time to get out of there.

I've learned in situations like this that the best thing to do is read other people's faces; I know that if I see fear on other's faces then it's time for me to get nervous. Thankfully, no one was really too worried, so I wasn't either. Nonetheless, I've never had to end a soccer game early for fear of a fight with machetes.

The ride home is where Zack really got initiated into male Salvadoran culture. The two drunk guys responsable for our sudden departure, decided to start talking to Zack. Drunks are generally kept in check when they are harassing people, but these guys are giants and no one really dares to keep them in check. For the entirety of the 40 minute drive home these guys were telling Zack who in the truck was gay (which was just about everyone) who has a big penis (which were only the two of them) and that Zack should get drunk with them and find women to sleep with. Zack is probably the best sport out of anyone I know in situations like this. Still, I was exhausted just listening to them; I can't imagine having to try to respond to their ridiculousness.

Really though those guys are harmless, the machete incident was more bulla (noise) than action, and soccer was fun. It was a good day and a great introduction into rural El Salvador.

Quinceñera

I want to be a Latin girl about to turn 15. And really, I’m only half-kidding.

In many Latin American countries a girl’s 15 birthday (called her quinceñera) is a right of passage into womanhood. It’s a cultural and religious tradition often times celebrated more extravagantly than any other event in the girl’s life. This past Saturday one of the more active and well-known families in my community celebrated their twin daughters’ qinceñera. I’m pretty sure this will go down as the party of my two year service in the Peace Corps.

First, the preparations. Every Saturday for the past two months, the twins and their friends whom they had chosen to be part of the ‘court of honor’ have received dance lessons. When Nathalia was here visiting me she and I went to one of these lessons. I figured I could learn some basic dance steps. Oh no. These lessons aren’t to teach basic steps but rather to practice a choreographed, hour-long show that the twins and their 20 chosen friends would perform at the quinceñera. The choreographer was hired from the nearby pueblo and he was a sleazy twenty-something man who took himself a little too seriously and acted a little too cool.

About two weeks before the festivities, the twins walked around the entire community passing out invitations. The invitation was a very pretty two page announcement complete with a list of some 40 contributors, the 20 members of the ‘court of honor’, the 2 flower girls, the 2 girls in charge of passing out roses, the 2 girls in charge of confetti, and the two priests who oversaw the religious ceremony—yes, there were two priests. Thinking back, I might be the only person who was not mentioned on the invitation. Maybe my community integration isn’t as great as I had thought.

At 2:30 the Mass began. It was basically a normal mass with a little bit of an extra sermon on the importance of the quinceñera: that the girls were entering womanhood and must maintain their faith and support to the church, must make responsible and mature choices under God’s guidance, etc.

After mass the party was moved to the family’s house. Let me try to set the scene because that truly is the most amazing aspect of the whole party. Part of a field next to the house was cleared out months ago to make room for the party. Hundreds of plastic chairs and tables had been rented and decorated. A discomovil (mobile disco) had been contracted to provide music and entertainment. The discomovil consists two DJs in charge of music, a huge tent equipped with strobe lights, disco lights, speakers and a movie theatre sized screen and projector to show photos and movies. From the dance floor you felt that you were in a club except for the fact that the dance floor was dirt. The cake was three levels and had a fountain in the middle. The oldest guest at the party was a toothless 90 year old man who doesn’t talk much but laughs jovially at just about anything. The youngest guest was a 9 month old girl who is also toothless and also doesn’t talk much, but she doesn’t laugh jovially very often at all. I like the old man more.

I felt as though I were at a bar mitzvah or wedding in the states except for the fact that there were cornfields on two sides of the party a chicken coup on one side and an adobe house on the fourth side. On the other side of the adobe house you could hear cows mooing. Also, half the male guests had machetes attached to their belts. Yeah, I guess you don’t really see that at bar mitzvahs in the states.

At about 4, the twins made their grand entrance, accompanied by their brother who was visiting from the states, their court of honor, their flower girls, and of course the sleazy choreographer. The procession went immediately to the dance floor where they presented the first half of their choreographed dances. It was basically two dances, one done to Strauss’s Blue Danube Waltz and the other done to some Latin singer repeatedly crooning the word quinceñera in various pitches and volumes. The two dances and the presentation of presents (a ton of presents) took about an hour, and then food was served. All 300 or so guests received a plate of chicken, rice, salad, tortillas, and a soda that was prepared and served by the family and friends. Amazing really.

After dinner, the real party began. The male half of the court of honor had changed from their shirt and jackets into black t-shirts which could only mean one thing: it was time for ‘el mix’ (and yes, the second half of the choreographed dance really was called ‘el mix.’) ‘El mix’ was a exactly what its name advertises, a mix of salsa, ranchera, cumbia, hip-hop and traditional Salvadoran dances. It was amazing.

Once the dancing began, it took me only about 15 minutes before I was on the dance floor. After the last party (a wedding about 2 months ago) I had promised the sisters of a good friend of mine that I would dance with them at the next party. They didn’t forget and I couldn’t back down. We danced mainly in a big group for about an hour or so and I actually enjoyed myself (I know, I can’t believe it either.) Over the course of the night I danced with girls ranging in age from 8 to 50. It was ridiculous and great all at the same time.

At about 8pm it started to pour. At first everyone just crowded under the tent and onto the dance floor. After about 10 minutes of rain a small river or water and mud was running through the dance floor and only the hardcore dancers remained—I was not one of them. I went inside the house and hung out with the family and friends.

I finally left the part around 9:30 or so. I heard the music stop around 10:30. I heard the people drinking out in front of my house leave or pass out around 12. Good times.

Cow Skinning

I put up 3 post today, so scroll down to see them all. 2 post of pictures, one of words.

Rabbit Skinning and Eating

Immigration

The same guy I wrote about in my last post left this week for the states. He told very few people, and I had no idea my next door neighbor had left until a couple of friends of mine came by Saturday night and told me he left that morning.

I’m not sure of the exact numbers, but a very large percentage of Salvadorans have emigrated and continue to emigrate both legally and illegally to the U.S. and Canada. The sad truth is that there are very few jobs in El Salvador and most of them pay next to nothing (think $5-$6 a day for 10 hours of hard labor). For many Salvadorans, emigrating to ‘El Norte’ often seems like the only way to feed and care for families that consist often of 3 or more kids, a spouse, aging parents and grandparents, and sometimes the parents and grandparents of the spouse. Sadly, the trade-off is leaving kids/spouses/parents/grandparents/etc.

I always felt that I was aware of how difficult immigrant life is, but I don’t think I really had a clue before talking to people here who have lived in the states—even still, I’m not sure I can fully appreciate how hard it must be.

The first problem is getting there. Trying to go the legal route and acquiring a visa entails paying hundreds of dollars in processing fees, trips to the American consulate in San Salvador, etc. If you are lucky you get put on a waiting list that can take up to 10 years. If you are unlucky you are flat out denied and left to lament your wasted time and money.

The most nervous/uncomfortable I’ve been since arriving in country was when I was asked to translate a letter written in English regarding a visa application. I was at the school giving English classes when two women from my community came into the classroom, breathless, asking to speak with me. They told me they had been looking all over for me because they just received a letter from the American consulate and they wanted me to translate it for them. The letter turned out just to be a request for some missing information in the visa application, but seeing the frightening look of nervousness and excitement in their eyes makes me hope that I will never have to be the one to translate a letter of denial.

Because of the difficulty in obtaining a visa, the illegal route (por tierra, mojado, con coyote, ilegalmente, sin papeles, etc.) is much more common. My neighbor is currently traveling via the illegal route. He paid a coyote (someone who ferries immigrants across the border) $6,000 to reserve him a spot in a traveling group of about 10 people. Ask any Salvadoran and they could put you in contact with a coyote and quote you the price. It is common knowledge because it is a thought on everyone’s mind.

I can only imagine how difficult the trip is. Growing up in Arizona, every summer I would hear about immigrants found dead or near dead of heat stroke in the desert because the coyote deserted them or because they simply ran out of food and water. Salvadorans are well aware of the dangers. The trip takes about 15 days. Assuming everything goes smoothly, my neighbors have to wait 2 weeks to hear that their dad/husband has made it safe and sound.

Most of the Salvadorans who have been to the states love to talk to gringos about where they lived and what they saw. I always ask them if they liked it there. Answers vary—some loved everything about it, others missed their families, some complain that the food there is no good. But the one thing every Salvadoran who has lived in the states will agree on is that the work there is very good. So my next question is always where did you work? The most common answers are restaurants, construction, landscaping, farming, and as janitors in large office buildings.

It is humbling to hear people talk about how great the work is in the states when they are doing jobs that, to me, would be miserable. But the opportunity to make more in an hour in the states than they would make in a day in El Salvador makes work seem like a privilege rather than a job.

Cultural Sensitivity vs. Personal Convictions

I was ambivalent about posting this entry. I generally try to make sure my writing is clear and representative of my thoughts when posting on my blog. There seems to be something so final about posting an entry on my blog—like it is a fact or something that I have come to a definite conclusion about. What follows is very much a work in progress, so please read it as such.

This week I had a wonderful conversation with my friend/boss about the disconnect I’ve been feeling in trying to be cultural sensitive while at the same time stay true to my personal beliefs about right and wrong. My thoughts are still quite muddled, so please bear with me while I try to rehash our conversation and my internal dialogue.

The most telling example of where I feel this disconnect relates to a friend of mine in the community. He’s an intelligent, funny, hard-working and active member of the community. He’s a good father and a loving husband. Everyone from the drunken soccer fans to the old women at church enjoy talking with him and feel comfortable in his presence. Also, he cheats on his wife.

Infidelity in El Salvador is not abnormal by any means. It is amazing the number of men who have a wife and family as well as a mistress. Some even maintain a family with their mistress as well as their wife. Though these extra-marital affairs are not openly spoken about (at least not in the presence of women) they aren’t exactly well-kept secrets. It’s the elephant in the room in Salvadoran culture.

My friend’s infidelity presents me with my own internal conflicts. I see him being a good husband and wife, working hard, etc. and I can’t help but like him. But then every few weeks he’ll get drunk and joke with me about going to a brothel. It’s a joke only because he knows I won’t go with him; not because he doesn’t plan on going. And this isn’t a one time mistake that he later regrets—that I could forgive—but it’s a repeated behavior that he deems acceptable.

Intellectually, I can recognize that this is what he’s known all his life. I’m sure while he was growing up many of his male role-models did the same thing. It has been ingrained in Salvadoran culture that men are unfaithful. It has become culturally acceptable. I believe that in the nature vs. nurture argument, nurture holds more influence in determining who we become. In my mind I think that if I were brought up in the same circumstances and by the same people as my friend, I would not act any differently.

Emotionally, I absolutely hate what he’s doing. I know his wife and she’s an amazing person. I hate that he cheats, but I hate even more that he cheats on her. There will be times when I’m hanging out with him and his family, feeling good about life and enjoying his company, when out of nowhere my conscience will start reminding me of what he does when he’s drunk. Despite his good characteristics, it is almost impossible for me to overlook his infidelity.

My boss brought up the idea of universally human morals—morals that stretch across borders and cultures. We both expressed the hope that there are some things that are undoubtedly right or wrong. If this were the case, it would allow judgment without having to take culture into account. That is, one could not be pardoned because he/she did not know an action was wrong.

We both wanted to identify fidelity as one of those universal human morals. It seems that a cheating husband must know that his infidelity hurts his wife, whether it is culturally acceptable or not. But I sit here and I don’t know what to write next, because I’m not sure whether or not he knows his cheating is hurtful to his wife or if this is even something that is thought about. Culture is so influential in human development I wonder if something that to me seems so obviously wrong can be insignificant in the eyes of my Salvadoran friend. I wish it were something I could discuss comfortably with Salvadorans and expect truthful answers, but I’m not sure it is.

So this is where my internal conflict remains. I’m not sure I can accuse my friend of doing something he knows is wrong because I’m not sure he feels it’s wrong (or at least as wrong as I feel it is.) And even if he does know it’s wrong and hurtful but does it any way, where does that leave me? It leaves me conflicted I guess.

So where does cultural sensitivity fit in to all of this? It seems I should fight against things I believe to be unjust. I feel I should criticize my friend for betraying his wife and kids by getting drunk and going to a brothel. But cultural sensitivity and acceptance would dictate that I am a foreigner and it is not my place to change a culture that is not mine. Me imposing on others what I believe to be right and wrong feels a lot like missionaries going door to door trying to change people’s religious beliefs—something I am strongly against.

I give up on this blog post. As I wrote at the beginning, it’s an incomplete thought that I’m working through. I thought I’d put it up so someone smarter than I am could send me all the answers. I’m waiting…

Conflict

The rain has begun. The first day I was quite happy; by the 5^th straight rainy day I was cursing the same God I had been praying to for the rain to begin.

Like most weather, the rain is a blessing and a curse. It means cooler days, greener landscape, and the start of the planting season (very important in community that relies on agriculture for its well-being.) The rain also means laundry doesn’t dry and begins to smell musty, the dirt roads and pathways become mud pits and, most dangerously, the rain means flooding.

My house is located on the corner of the main road through my community (small dirt road), and a side road (smaller dirt road) to a group of houses down below. The natural run of the water is down the side road. At the end of last year’s rainy season, the people living down below built a cement ramp essentially blocking the water from running down the side road towards their houses. Not much was thought about the ramp until last week when it became apparent that without an exit for the water to run, a lake was forming on the main road. By the end of last week the lake covered the entire road for a stretch of 30 meters and a depth of 3 feet. The bus could no longer pass, horses and cows had to be coaxed/dragged through the water, and people were climbing through barbed wire fences to go through my yard and my neighbor’s yard in order to get to the other side. Obviously something had to be done.

On Friday, with the heaviest of the rains falling and the lake rising, a group of men gathered to help me and my neighbor build walls of mud to prevent the lake from overflowing into our yards. As we were standing around looking at our finished work, a woman passed by saying that if we weren’t man enough to break the cement ramp then she would do it herself. In the machismo culture of rural El Salvador, this was more than enough to get the wheels spinning. With much fanfare and lots of self-satisfied and manly grunting and back-slapping, it was decided that the cement ramp would come down at 8am the next morning.

I was very much in favor of draining the lake. Standing water brings mosquitoes and flies which bring Dengue Fever and Malaria. I was also in favor of banging sledgehammers and picks and shovels in a muddy, manly mess. My excitement for the next day came crashing down when a couple of the residents from down below came to my house to ask for help in preventing the destruction of the ramp. They told me they built the ramp to prevent the flooding of their houses. I told them we definitely have to figure out a solution, and that I would try to organize a meeting with the ADESCO (town council) before any action takes place. I ran around the rest of the evening talking to ADESCO members about planning a meeting. They all reassured me that it was all talk, and no one was going to destroy the ramp. They, of course were wrong.

The next morning at 8am sharp (the first time in my year in country that something has started on time) a group of 15 people showed up to bust up the ramp.

I watched (didn’t participate) as the ramp was busted, the lake was drained and people were happy. The people living down below didn’t show up, but everyone kept looking over their shoulders to see if they would arrive. Salvador is a violent country, and even though everyone knows and respects each other in my community, the possibility for violence can never be ignored.

I’m now in a position of trying to be the peacemaker. Both sides, as normal, are recruiting me to their side. There is no doubt that the ramp had to be busted, but I think something should be done in order to fix the side road so that it doesn’t flood. According to the ramp-busters, all that happens is the side road gets a bit muddy. According to the people living below, the water reaches waist level during the worst of the storms. Obviously, the truth lies somewhere in the middle. We shall see what happens.

More than anything, I was amazed at the lack of conflict resolution skills. Neither side directly contacted the other side to talk. The ramp-busters brought out as many people as possible to do a job that really only took 4 people. They encouraged everyone to at least move one shovel of dirt so no one could claim they had no part in it. The people down below are now saying that they are just going to rebuild the ramp. And the ADESCO, which I would expect to take charge of the situation, only claims that the people down below would refuse to show up to a meeting anyways, so why try.

I’m looking at this as a good opportunity. I’m certain we can figure out a cheap way to fix the side road and I’m hoping to get the ramp-breakers involved in helping the people below. I’m looking forward to easing some tension. “Just easing the tension baby, just easing the tension.”

**************************UPDATE********************************

I wrote this yesterday morning. This morning I woke up to see the people from below re-cementing the ramp. What will happen? We shall see.

Public Speaking

I hate public speaking. Hate it. I even hate speaking that is hardly public—like in front of a class of 15 classmates at a small, private liberal arts school—makes my knees shake. I consider myself a reasonable person and try to convince myself of the irrationality of my fear. I mean, I make an ass out of myself daily so what does it matter if I flub up a speech in front of a few people. I’ll forget about it 15 minutes after I finish. No big deal right? Well despite this very logical line of thinking, my knees still shake when my name I’m asked to talk in front of people. Very irrational, I know, but most fears are.

Last Thursday we held a community-wide meeting. Our town council is being sued over a piece of land that was bought 7 years ago to locate the pump that provides water to the community. The son of the owner of the land claims that the terms of the agreement were not met by the town council. As a result, he is suing for $20,000, a ridiculous amount to ask for the size of the land sold. Our council has documents proving that we met the terms of the agreement. It seems this person has no chance in court, but nonetheless he has caused an uproar. Running water is not a given in El Salvador, especially for communities as small and rural as mine. The water project is a sense of pride for the community, making this lawsuit a hot topic.

I sat in for the council’s planning of the general meeting. As the agenda was being set, one of the council members suggested that I be slated to say a few words. I explained that I know very little about the entire situation. It is true that the first Peace Corps volunteer in the community had a huge hand in the water project. “But,” I tried to explain, “I was still in high school at the time. I had no hand in the water project and know nothing about the original contract for the plot of land.” I convinced a few of the council members, but people still wanted me to speak. This is not abnormal as a Peace Corps volunteer. Political parties, churches, businesses, town councils, even feuding families try to align themselves with us. I always try to be as non-committal as possible—everything is nice…I like you but I like them also…can’t we all just get along?... etc. By the end of the council meeting I was under the impression that I would not be on the agenda.

Fast forward to last Thursday, the day of the meeting. I immediately check the agenda to see that I’m slated to give the closing remarks. It’s a good thing I still generally show up for things on time in a country where everything starts at least 45 minutes late because it meant I had time to think of what to say. Of course I wrote something down just to be ready for a potential freeze up on stage; something that’s not out of the ordinary for me.

The meeting went fine. About 100 community members showed up, a good turnout. The lawsuit was explained. A few members of the town council gave their commentary. The mic was opened up for questions and comments and everyone pledged their support to the town council. Then I was introduced to “offer my thoughts on the situation.”

I’m going to provide a basic transcript of what I said, but I must first offer a disclaimer. Public speaking here is always formal here. Even during the questions and comments section of a community meeting people still follow a set format. First you have to wish everyone a good morning/afternoon/evening. Then you have to thank the esteemed members of the government/policy/town council/school/business/etc. for showing up and offering their support. Next you have to compliment the organizers of the meeting/event for putting on such a beautiful meeting/event. Only then can you get to the point. 3 bonus points are given for each new way you can come up with to say what you just finished saying. 5 bonus points are given for every reference to God. Cheesiness is not a concept.

So what follows is a rough translation of what I said with some commentary in italics:

“I hope that everyone has a very good afternoon. First I want to thank the town council for including me on the agenda (actually, not really). I think it’s important for us to remember that the work they do is not for free. They don’t make any money (+3 repetition). They meet for the good of the entire community.
I also want to thank all of you for the support and friendship that you have shown me for the past 8 months. I feel so lucky to be in this beautiful community with such caring and f friendly neighbors. Every day I give thanks to God (+5 God reference) that I have found such a wonderful place to live and work.
I can’t speak too much about the subject at hand, because I was not here for the implementation of the water project. I can say that I know how hard everyone has worked on the water project and how important it is for the community. Water is life (remember, cheesiness is not a concept). Water gives life (+ 3) to everything: the trees, the animals, all of us. It is important that we keep working to ensure that there will always be water in our community. I hope we can find a solution to this problem that everyone can agree on, and if not, then a solution that is just.
Thank you for your attention and I’m going to sit down now because I hate speaking in front of large groups (polite laughter).”

After sitting down, one of the council members got on the microphone to say, “We know you weren’t here for the implementation of the water project. We put you on the agenda hoping you would say a little bit about the bakery project that you are working on.” He laughed, everyone laughed. Once again I made an ass out of myself. Oh well, just another day in the life.

Ch-Ch-Ch-Changes

Peace Corps is a life-changing experience. Or at least so I have been told from publications, recruiters, current volunteers, former volunteers, and even my friends and family at home. I have now been in the Peace Corps for over 10 months and I am still waiting (a little uneasily) to see how my life will be changed. Will I adopt the machismo culture and become a misogynist? Or will I abandon my reservedly agnostic beliefs in favor of Catholicism or Evangelism? Maybe I will take to spending my spare change on cheap moonshine and drink myself into a stupor every chance I get. Or I might fall in love with a woman and be engaged before the midpoint of my service.

Though I can’t predict the future, I think it’s a safe bet that my grand change (if I have one) will not be any of the previously mentioned. Yet, I have observed all four of these events (to varying degrees) in my fellow volunteers. Claiming these are changes is admittedly an assumption on my part as I did not know these people before their service. There is the possibility that for the 3 months of training, when I had regular contact with my fellow volunteers, they kept these behaviors on the backburner. This, however, seems unlikely.

I want to make clear that even though in this post I am and will be focusing on changes that I consider to be unhealthy, the overwhelming majority of personal development Peace Corps volunteers talk about and demonstrate is nothing but positive. And the examples I’ve given above are seen only through my eyes. Each situation could be defended or judged in a number of ways; I am simply offering my observations from my own limited perspective.

So why these negative changes? To borrow a line from Walter, John Goodman's character, in The Big Lebowski, “That’s just the stress talkin.’”* The Peace Corps experience, whether it be in a city in Eastern Europe or a backcountry African village, is physically, emotionally and psychologically stressful. Volunteers are alone. Even if they live with families and are warmly welcomed into their community, they have still left behind what they know and are comfortable with in the states. They are surrounded by a foreign language, a foreign culture, foreign foods, foreign diseases, and very little direction on what to do and how to do it. This is the nature of the volunteer experience, and being able to successfully overcome these stresses is part of what makes the Peace Corps experience so rewarding.

These stresses must be dealt with. Everyone knows recommended mechanisms for dealing with stress: exercise, talk to someone, yoga, etc. Nonetheless, everyone, at times, deals with stress badly. It is inevitable. Fortunately, stress is temporary, and hopefully the coping mechanisms used (if bad ones) are temporary as well. This is why it worries me to see my fellow volunteers making big changes in their lives in such a short amount of time. I think it must be recognized that we are living under sustained levels of stress, and for that reason, we must deeply examine changes in our behaviors, thoughts and beliefs. Looking at the examples I have provided, I wonder what will happen in each situation when the volunteer returns back to the U.S. Will the misogynist continue his ways causing a clash with a U.S. culture that is not nearly as accepting of demeaning attitudes towards women? Will the drinker continue to use alcohol as a coping mechanism, i.e., become an alcoholic? And will the religious convert and the fiancé retain such strong feelings when returning to the U.S.?

I hope I don’t sound as though I am resistant to change, because I am not. I don’t believe that any person or thing is perfect and could not benefit from positive change. I simply think that, especially given the volunteer’s stressful situation, we should be cautious when noticing ourselves changing—even erring on the side of conservatism.

In talking with others, my views have been met with the claim that my caution is preventing me from immersing myself into Salvadoran culture. To this I answer yes and no. There is no way of living where I live and not being immersed in Salvadoran culture (whatever culture really means anyways.) But, I think sometimes cultural immersion is confused with cultural adoption. I will not and can not completely adopt Salvadoran culture. Whether I want to or not, I will never be Salvadoran. This, I think, is important to remember. There are certain things Salvadoran that I wholeheartedly disagree with. I still, on an analytical level, try to understand these things, but that does not change my view of them. Likewise, there are things that I absolutely love and hope to adopt into my own life. This rejection of the bad and acceptance of the good, while always trying to understand why things are as they are, to me, should be the goal of cultural exchange. I don’t believe that, having grown up believing that misogyny and excessive drinking are bad things, one can take a two year hiatus from these beliefs under the guise of adopting the culture of one’s host country. (Insert quote by famous person about the need to stay true to oneself.)

As I’m lying here in my hammock thinking of all the possible grand changes that I might experience, I hope that my change will be more of an evolution. A stronger conviction in my previously held beliefs, a fortification of the good I have developed in the first 23 years of my life, and an adoption of all the good that I am experiencing here in El Salvador.

*The Big Lebowski reference seems completely unnecessary, except that it is always necessary to refer to The Big Lebowski.

Nathalia's Post

Last week I visited Mike at his site in Las Trancas, Usulutan. In one week I had great experiences which are going to be difficult for me to put into words, but I'll try.

I had a red eye flight so I arrived on Good Friday morning pretty bleary eyed but very excited. I hadn't traveled to a different country other than Canada in something like 6 years, and I was a bit nervous about just the process, but I made it.

After a very windy and loud (windows down, radio up high, driving between 60-70 mph) car ride by a very nice neighbor, I finally got to see Mike's house and the much revered hammock.

The house is small and about as rustic as I had thought, but nice. It's the dusty season outide and in the house too, and it was quite hot, about the 90s all day. I'll complain but I really do prefer the heat to the cold.

Anyway, to keep this from growing to extreme lengths, I'll give a few highlights:

-going to the church for a procession my first night there and being invited to go up to the altar to get a piece of scented cotton. I couldn't really say no but didn't want to go alone, so I made someone walk with me, much to his chagrin.

- going to Alegria, a small pueblo on a volcano. It was a bit cooler here and we ate at a restaurant with an amazing view but the best part was the zoo they had on site that had a parrot, a racoon, two foxes and some rabbits.

- I fell in love with one of the dogs that came to Mike's backdoor.

- learning how to make pupusas with Fatima who lives next door and is incredibly nice.

- the cheese pills; my mother asked me for cheese pills, after some jokes, we found them but had no idea how they work and my mother didn't explain well to me, so I asked the Fatima and she showed me how to make it, which was amazing. Although we thought we lost the pills on the bus and Fatima got us one, they showed up a few days after I left.

- the neighbor kids were hilarious and came over almost every day wanting to play Uno which Mike's mom had sent with me, a stroke of brilliance on her part because they couldn't get enough.

- making pizza with kids from the school which was chaotic and a great time. There were about 20 kids all under 12 and about 5 of the little girls were latched onto me somehow, but I was pretty interested in looking at the animals around the yard (pigs and cows and a cat, definite attractions for me) so they were all trooping around with me. It was a crazy afternoon but a lot of fun and I felt very popular with my fans.

We spent the last two days in a comfy hotel in the capital. On the last day there was a peace corps soccer game fundraiser about an hour out and Mike basically was the team, with one assist and one goal, so everyone was pretty stoked.

I had an absolutely amazing time and it is obvious to me that Mike's community is really appreciative of his presence and just plain old happy to have someone to chat with and get to know. I'm looking forward to my next visit, slated for July. I highly suggest making this trip if possible, it was great to put images and places and faces to things I had heard about and it was also just really great to see Mike.

Nathalia's Visit

I’m going to keep this post relatively short because Nathalia will be making her own post about her visit, and I also just posted a way too long post below.

As most of you know, Nathalia came out to visit me from the 21^st-29^th. It being holy week when she got here, I paid a guy in my community gas money to take me in his car to pick her up. On the way out there, I got to hear all about his courtship of his now wife, which was limited to 2 hours a week of supervised visits for the first few months. (Know that this is not normal. This man is a very religious Evangelical Christian. Very nice man, but also very, very religious.) I started getting very nervous about how to greet Nathalia. I decided on a firm handshake, but she blew it by hugging me and kissing me.

I’ll let her tell what we did during her visit. What she probably won’t say, due to modesty, is that my town absolutely loved her. Maybe more so than me. It was a blast having her here, and people are already asking me when she is coming back again, and why she doesn’t just move here. Yesterday, I had a lady in my community tell me she was upset with me because I didn’t introduce her to Nathalia. She then gave me a bag of mangos. I wonder what I would have gotten if I had introduced her.

Fiestas Patronales and Semana Santa

I recently learned that March, in my community, is the greatest month of the year. The main reason for this is we have our Fiestas Patronales in March. Every Catholic church in the country has a patron saint, and each patron saint has a time of the year in which they are celebrated. Our saint is San Jose, and our time of the year was from March 11^th-19^th. Most churches are located in pueblos, so Fiestas Patronales are generally big celebrations with tons of fireworks, dances in the evenings, contests, etc. Since our Fiestas were celebrated in our canton, things were on a much smaller scale, which to me, was a lot more fun.

Each day, from the 11^th-19^th, there were processions in the afternoons followed by mass. The processions start from a designated house, follow the main road through the canton, and end up at the church. At the front are four men carrying a statue on their shoulders as you would imagine an ancient Roman goddess to be carried. Behind them, everyone else follows, singing songs about Jesus and San Jose led by three women on a megaphone and a man accompanying them on the guitar. In the very back (where I usually hang out) are men with fireworks, shooting them off every 20 yards or so.

At mass, 75% of the people sit inside, and the remaining 25%, again mostly men and again including me, hang out outside, joking and talking about futbol and women. Throughout mass, fireworks are continually set off for emphasis during various parts of the sermon.

This is how things went the 11^th-18^th. The 19^th, being the last day, was different. The day’s events started with a procession at 4am (I did not attend) complete with singing and fireworks. Then, I assume everyone went back to bed until 2pm when the festivities at the church began again. The main attraction was the crowning of the reina (queen) of the Fiestas Patronales. The crowning of the reina is a common Salvadoran fundraiser where a number of candidates will sell votes (a quarter a piece), and the one who sells the most votes is queen. In all the crownings of reinas that I have seen, the candidates are young, attractive, single girls between 15 and 20 years old. For our Fiestas, the candidates were all women over 60. It was one of the neatest things I have seen since being here. They were all dressed up, people were cheering the hearts out for all of them, and there was nothing but smiles. The winner was hugged by everyone and received a scepter and a crown to wear while sitting up front in a seat of honor during mass.

After mass, was the final procession (this time at night) with a number of fireworks, and nearly the entire community walking. People kept talking about the torito (little bull) and asking me if I was going to manejar (drive) it. I wasn’t completely sure what they were asking me, but I assumed there was going to be some bull riding. I actually convinced myself that I’d give it a go, and was even kind of looking forward to it with some adrenaline pumping. When we arrived at the church, the announced it was time for the torito. Turns out, the torito is a bamboo structure that can be worn over someone’s head (think a Chinese dragon.) The torito is covered with sparklers, so when it is lit, sparks are shooting out all over. “That’s cool” I thought, “but I don’t see what all the fuss is about.” Ah, how naïve I was. As the sparklers burned down, they began to ignite fireworks that shot out in all directions from the torito. So, here you have someone running through a crowd of a couple hundred people (old women and young children included) with fireworks shooting off of it in all directions. It was nuts. I was crouched behind a wall laughing as the torito ran away from me, and praying as it was running towards me. 4 people were burned and it was not lamented or unexpected—just a risk of religion I guess.

Semana Santa, which starts the Monday before Easter and lasts for a week, was not nearly as exciting. Once the Fiestas ended, there were still daily masses, but not nearly as fun.

This month, I attended more Church than I have in years. And you know what, it was worth it. I’m willing to attend mass all year, crossing myself when I enter Church and the soccer field—basically, I’m willing to be Catholic—if it means I get to laugh at and hide from the torito again next year.

Panaderia

Over the last 4 weeks, about 10 women from my community have been going to the office of a local NGO to learn how to make bread. I went with them a couple of times, and it was a blast. They are very excited about making it. Even more than that, they were excited about how well it sold when they brought it back to the community. The most recent time, last Tuesday, we actually made a profit on what they made in their classes. Obviously you would expect this, but each previous time some of the batches didn't come out right so they couldn't be sold. Now that the classes are over, these women are going go to the NGO office every Tuesday to practice and bring back what they make to sell in the community.

Oh, and I had my doctor's appointment today; I have a brain and he says it's in working order.

My 4 Days in the Capital

Over the past few months I have been suffering from occasional dizzy spells, fainting on three of those occasions. The first time I fainted, I went into the capital for a consultation and blood work. Nothing was found, so we assumed I was probably just suffering from a virus or a bit of exhaustion. After fainting twice more, the Peace Corps Medical Office (PCMO) set up an appointment for me to see a neurologist. The neurologist recommended three tests, all of which I had done last Thursday.

The first test involved electrodes being hooked up on my chest and all over my head to monitor my brain function. I was told to lie down in a dimly lit room and close my eyes. After about 15 minutes, as I was falling asleep, a strobe light was turned on. I wonder if the technician, reading my brainwaves on the computer, could tell how much I wanted to take the strobe light and bash it against the wall.

The second test was a CAT scan. All that involved was me lying on a table that then moved so that my head was inside of the machine. 5 minutes into that, I was injected with something (I assume some sort of dye that shows up in the images) and 5 minutes later, I was done.

My third test was by far the weirdest. This time, I entered a room with two computers manned by a doctor and his assistant who had an inappropriately short skirt and equally inappropriately high heels. Still recovering from the dress code in this office, I was instructed to take off my shirt and shoes and lie down on the table. Again electrodes were connected to my head and chest. I was told to close my eyes, and the doctor began reading off numbers to his assistant. Then, with my eyes still closed, I was strapped into the table with two large velcro straps, one across my chest and the other across my legs. I'm definitely not a paranoid person, but I began to wonder why it was necessary to strap me in. Were they going to shock me so hard I would jump? Was I going to have a seizure? With my eyes still closed, I felt and heard the table begin to move, until it was perpendicular to the floor--eseentially standing me upright. More numbers being read, more data recorded, a few more tests, and I was done for the day. The doctor was out of the country, so I won't get the results until I meet with him sometime later this week.

Because I had a Peace Corps meeting Saturday, I stayed in the capital all day Friday. The capital is great for a day, but gets really boring really quickly. Don't get me wrong, I love having my Quizno's sub every chance I get (for lunch and dinner Thursday, and yes, the employees recognized I had come in twice that day), but San Salvador gets really old really quickly.

When there for medical or offical reasons, Peace Corps puts us up in one of two hotels. This means there are always other volunteers at these hotels. I have yet to meet a mean volunteer, but they definitely range from people I really enjoy hanging out with, to people who bore me a bit, to people who annoy the hell out of me. The fact that we have Peace Corps in common makes it difficult not to be social. So often, I am forced to have conversations with people I'm not very interested in for a lot longer than I would like.

My meeting Saturday went well, and my boss had us over for delicious lasagna, salad, and garlic bread Saturday night. 5 beers and I was done for the night. By Sunday morning I was exhausted and very happy to travel back to my site. Here I am, and life is good. Love to all.