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.