'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…