La dueña del dueño

“Sabes qué...”
That means that she is going to take something else from the house.

Nearly 10 months ago, I moved into a beautiful, fully furnished home that needed a bit of love. It had potential but had clearly been in the hands of a Paraguayan male for the last six years. (No cruel stereotyping intended; women in my town make sure that their males never have to clean a thing.) I immediately got to work sweeping cobwebs from the ceilings and chairs, de-gunking the sinks, scrubbing the floors and so forth. Right when I got comfortable, the Mother of the owner decided she wanted to start visiting me. In doing so, she would critique my cleaning habits and carry things out of the house with her.
“There were two of those cloths, weren’t there? I’d like to take those with me.” She was taking the table cloth right off of the table. This is after deciding that she wanted a dresser, a coat rack, the electric oven and the wooden table it sat on, four chairs from the living room, four from the storage room, and three from the kitchen. I rented the house as fully furnished and she was beginning to un-furnish it.

Had the price of the house not been so amazing, I might have gotten angrier sooner. As inexpensive as it was, I didn’t mind her taking the dresser, electric oven, and four chairs from the storage room because I wasn’t using those, anyway; yet when it came to things that I was actually using I began to feel a bit touchy. She had me pour water out of jug so that she could take the jug with her!

I am an American. Not an Andrew Jackson-with-the-Cherokees American but a modern American: good price or not, an agreement is an agreement. When I made an agreement with her son to pay $200mil guarani for a fully furnished house that is exactly what I expected. If she would like to start un-furnishing the house, the price needs to decrease. It seems only fair, especially after I went out of my way (or out of my mind) and offered to pay the electricity bill, which her son had forgotten to charge me.

Anyhow, those are the sorts of cultural problems I run into here with a higher frequency than in the States. Agreements and contracts are like water here; they simple evaporate over time. Back home, broken contracts mean fees or lawsuits. I’ve only been out of the States ten months and my mindset hasn’t changed. I don’t like to change agreements without a fight, especially when I’m the one being placed at a disadvantage.

“Sabes qúe, weren’t there six chairs instead of five?”
There might have been six chairs six years ago. Who knows what your son did with the missing chair. “There were only five when I moved in,” I replied, the same smile plastered on my face that I’d been wearing since she arrived a half hour ago.

She left to pick some mandarins and my mind began to race. What is the nicest way to go about protecting my rights? I had to be nice but not a pushover. I had to be firm but not rude. When she returned, I was waiting with a notepad and pen. “I would like to make a list of the things that you’d like to take with you so that I don’t forget.” She rambled off the list, nearly a full page in my notepad. I continued, “If you would like to take these things, there is no problem. However, when I talked to your son we agreed on the price of the house furnished. I will have to talk to him again and change the price because now the terms have changed.”

She didn’t like this suggestion. We went back and revised the list, permitting me to keep the things that I used most. I understood her perspective: her mindless son rented out her house for a ridiculous price. She also needed to understand mine: I received a great deal on a house and now I am unwilling to change the terms.

We discussed it like grown women should. In the end, the price remains the same and I keep the items that I am using (she will borrow the chairs for 1 week in October for a church meeting and then return them). I felt much more at peace about the situation and, without my prompting, she said that she did, too. I walked away feeling like this lady was simply a businesswoman looking out for her own interest, yet not at the expense of my well being. I respect her.

This little lesson taught me two things:
1.) Never be afraid to stand up for myself in a way that is kind and dignified.
2.) Things don’t always turn out terribly.

I’ve gotten into the bad habit of imagining the worse case scenario for everything. I deceived myself into believing that I was only self-protecting and that if I imagine the worse then the reality won’t seem as bad. The truth, I was thinking in anti-faith, which is counterproductive.

UPDATE:
Well, what can I say? I got my hopes up that the woman wasn’t a complete nutcase and that we’d have a functional relationship. How unfortunate.

Today, her son arrived to remove a ceiling fan from one of the rooms. Last week, they arrived with a truck and removed the outdoor bathroom. They took everything but the concrete foundation, carrying away the toilet, the shower, the sink, the light fixtures, the wooden walls, maybe even the dead spider that rested in the corner because he wasn’t there last time I looked.

They’re great about keeping their promises regarding what they want to take out of the house but miserable about keeping their promises regarding home improvements, such as mending the leaking roof. There are rain showers in the living room and a small stream in the kitchen.
“We will find someone to fix the roof,” said her son. “My dad or some neighbors can do it,” he assured me when I moved in.
That was months ago.
“We cannot change the entire roof, but we can patch the leaking parts. That will cost less,” the dueña said comfortingly.
That was seven months ago.
One month ago I was told nothing could be done because everything costs too much. Today I was told the real reason was because it would look ugly to have one part of the roof covered with new tiles and one part of the roof covered with old tiles.
“But the water damages everything,” I explained. “If you don’t fix the roof now, later, you’d not only have to fix the tiles, but replace the wooded beams and the floor because the water is destroying them.” I pointed to examples.
The son, who was at the house with an uncle to remove a ceiling fan, observed and nodded. Then, when a spineless, apologetic smile and a childish tilt of his head, he explained, “I don’t have the money to do anything. And right now, we only have money to change the windows.”
Oh yeah, the windows!
So the windows themselves aren’t bad. They’ve got great wrought iron bars, and are quite large and picturesque. They want the change the shutters, which are admittedly rotten and fallen apart.
Priorities, people? Instead of saving the money from the shutters to add to the funds of fixing a leaking roof that is slowing eroding the rest of the house...you just want to fix the shutters, which help nothing, prevent nothing, and add little aesthetic value to the house. Really? And what am I paying rent for, exactly? Why not use the rent money to fix the roof?
Oh yeah, the church’s anniversary.
Apparently, every year, la dueña has family and friends from all over the continent (really?) come to Paraguay to celebrate the anniversary of the Pentecostal church. Every year, then, she repaints her house and spruces it up. I suppose she is using the rent money to pimp out her house for this year’s celebration. Spending over 1.5milion guaranies for a three day event and letting your investment, a home, fall apart. Hmmm...
Am I just being culturally insensitive or does none of this make sense? The money used to replace the custom-made wooden shudders could be used for the materials to patch the roof. We wouldn’t need to pay for labor because the dad or the neighbors can do it, remember?
I wanted to stop this “I’m just being culturally insensitive,” sensation and went to neighbors for help. If they thought things were just as unreasonable, then I’d certainly feel better that the dueña was the only certifiably insane person in the situation.
Ña Juana cracked a peanut and popped it in her mouth. She had listened carefully as I explained the situation, and now I awaited her response. “You are right. If they wait, they will have to fix the roof, and the floors, and the humidity will possible damage the walls so they will need to fix those, too. I don’t know much about costs,” she ate another peanut and played absent mindedly with the shell, “but I know they could’ve fixed the roof with your rent money by now.”
I asked if they knew anywhere else I could rent. I admitted that I didn’t want to deal with this family anymore.
“Talk with Blanca,” she suggested. “Her mother-in-law has a house free. It’s her daughter’s house but her daughter is working in Spain. Maybe you can move there.”
I talked to Blanca during the initial months of my home search. Why didn’t she mention the house, then? I know for certain that her sister had been in Spain long before I got to town. I also asked Blanca if the dueño was a good guy and she co-signed that he was.
Whatever. “I will talk to Blanca,” I sighed. Then I tried to smile and add more energy to my voice. Ña Juana had tried to help me as I asked, and I was thankful for her insight. She confirmed that I was not a crazy American. La dueña’s logic did not make sense, and I was not being treated fairly and I had every right to feel uncomfortable with the family.

My Girls

This week, I discovered the joys of having four daughters. Today, I realized why I never really wanted children.

When I first got to Mboi’y, I told myself that I would like to start a club for girls, a place where they could come together without their household cares and be girls: not surrogate mothers or house workers, not young women for the high school boys to use. Ideally, they would learn to think independently, responsibly, and creatively. We’d develop intellectually, socially, and spiritually—all without making a task of doing so. I wanted my home to be a refuge of sorts, not just for me but also for “my girls.”

This plan began to crumble almost immediately. Primarily, the most disadvantaged girls are the ones who cannot leave home as much, meaning that they can’t come on strolls around the neighborhood or bake cookies after school. They have mouths to help feed, clothes to wash, homes to maintain. The girls who did have this time available generally didn’t associate with the girls who didn’t, either because they didn’t have time to get to know them (the latter group is always working and rarely in school) or for prejudice based solely on appearances (“Why is she so dirty and awkward?”). Lastly, I am simply not accustomed to being a big sister, rarely a mentor, much less a mother. I am also unaccustomed to sharing my space.

Although the plan was crumbling I wanted to salvage what I could and give my girls club a try. After dance practice, I invited my younger girls over for mandarins and terere (like cold green tea, or drinking lawn clippings). The boys followed, annoying the hell out of us and trying to climb into the trees for mandarins. Aside from defending the trees (la dueña expressly said that she didn’t want boys breaking her branches) I also had to keep an eye on my computer which had become the impromptu radio. (Note: a mixed group of kids can never decide what they want to listen to.)

I relaxed a bit after the boys left. I let the girls entertain themselves. They did fine with the computer—other than greasy hand prints—and considered themselves helpful by cleaning and rearranging parts of my house; they swept, pulled a curtain out of a box and decided to use it as a tablecloth, washed dishes, and hung pictures that I had taken down on purpose. They meant well, and I smiled so much inwardly that I forgot how disturbed I was by children moving my belongings. I tried to relax and let them feel helpful, let them feel comfortable, but in the back of my mind I knew that I couldn’t let them think this was “their” house, only that they were welcomed in it.

After the next practice I was looking forward to their visit. They made it even better by bringing me gifts! I received fruit and two homemade cards, one with a full page picture. I instantly fell in love. I taped the pictures to my bedroom wall and grinned every time that I thought about them. They wrote such nice things in the cards. I was diggin’ my big sister-ness, although I was only being a big sister to rich girls who had time to play after school. I figured I could wiggle in some others soon enough when the regularly scheduled dance classes started.

I love each of them for different traits. J is the daughter of two very socially active parents. As such, she has developed a strong sense of opinion and independence. She is also my linguistic and cultural translator. Having grown up in Asuncion, her Spanish is very strong and she understands diversity a bit better than others. She is also worked with volunteers in the past, so she gets the bad Spanish thing. On the downside, she is a bit lazy and used to getting her way, though in her defense I have noticed her actively trying to explore the opinions of others.

JM is a pint sized punch of pretty, opinionated, and funny. She has a way of treating boys like they’re morons—and justly so—which really helps when I am trying to round up the dudes for fitness class. I hope to God she finds an amazing guy and doesn’t loose a single touch of her sparkle. Fun thought of the week: she knocked on my door, and when I asked who it was she responded in a man’s voice (though obviously from a 12 year old girl). I opened the door and there she crouched, trying her hardest to look mean, with a kitchen knife in her hand and her purse thrown over her shoulder. Love that memory. Anyhow, she is the only girl in the family and her family is recovering from the loss of her older brother. That instantly makes me want to jump into big sister mode with her. On the downside, I think she knows that she is pretty and she knows that she is richer than most of her peers so that plays into her personality. She never talks down to others, but she doesn’t go out of her way to uplift anyone either.

P is my spitfire protege. She dances beautifully, though with the errors expected of a girl that hasn’t worked with choreography before. She is just fine dancing to her own tune. She is also one of the most mature girls, a sixth grader who likely already knows what’s up with boys. She doesn’t care to bicker and seems to let things roll of her back easily (like running through the house, flying over the stairs leading to the outside and landing on her face; or burning a pot of oil, pouring the hot oil into a class cup which subsequently exploded; nearly dropping my kitchen table in the mud, etc.)Did I mention she has a great sense of humor? She isn’t condescending, seems to want to please, acts responsibly, and the list of “likes” continues. Downside is that her Guarani is much stronger than her Spanish and at times I think she avoids talking to me for that reason, though she always smiles at me and makes sure that she is getting my attention. Love her to bits! A tad worried that she is getting the attention of boys and not getting the attention of her parents, which is a disastrous combination.

Lastly is LP, who is only last because she is such a closed book. She is the tallest girl in her 5th grade class and wears the awkwardness accordingly. She rarely has an opinion about anything, and just giggles and wiggles when placed in the spotlight. She is, however, a good cook and responsible older sister. She has such a cute gait when she walks, and is stunningly beautiful in my opinion, though she likely seems plain to most people. She has a rich voice and seems thoughtful, though she doesn’t share what she is thinking. She is never mean to anyone and is likely to be the most receptive to everyone—and maybe unfortunately, everything. Not having an opinion can be a problem in the fifth grade. She is by all definitions a follower. If I accomplish anything with her I hope it is self confidence and a sense of direction.

Well, those are my girls!

So why do I not want children? Well, J's mother entrusted me with the care of J and P today while she went into Santani. The morning was fine, as was the early afternoon. When I thought they should be bored to tears, they didn’t even complain. Anyway, the “problem” (if I can even call it that) came after we split up. I decided not to go to the last day of the rezo (memorial service) and they decided to go, promising they’d be back after it was over. It was only two houses away so I didn’t see a problem. Well, they didn’t come back immediately and I began to worry. 45 minutes of them not returning had me putting on my raincoat, trudging outside and searching for them even though there was no chance of them being lost, and little change of them being kidnapped or otherwise harmed. After fretting for a good 20min I received a response from my text that they were with their mom at a friend’s house.

The 20 minutes of worrying was enough to convince me that I don’t need to be a babysitter or a mother just yet. There is so much responsibility when caring for kids, even reasonably responsible kids in a reasonably safe environment. I didn’t want this to be the one, exceptional day where they weren’t responsible or safe. I would rather not deal with any of that at all.

So what does that mean for my girls club? Do I want that responsibility? Can I be flexible enough to accept half-washed dishes and not knowing where my box of matches has been placed? Am I okay with girls taking too long in the bathroom and likely playing with my face cream? How can I draw the proper boundaries and still be fun to hang around?

Two days later, as I’m walking home from school, a woman stopped me in the street and began talking about her daughter. From the flow of the conversation I finally figured out who her daughter was (the woman kept using some nickname I hadn’t heard before). In the end, the woman said, “You know, she thinks you’re really great. She talks about you all the time, about your dancing, your stories, and the foods you make from all over the world. She thinks you can do everything!” At that moment, I wasn’t sure if I wanted to fly or bury myself in the ground. It was great to hear that her daughter thought so highly of me, but daunting to think that this girl thought the world of me. She thought I could do everything? What happens on the earth shattering day when she realizes that I’m only human?

The conversation revitalized my desire for the girls’ club. I needed all the girls to know that I’m human like they are, yet I’ve developed a certain group of skills based on hard work, creativity, and exposure to many good things in life. They can do the same...

You do actually work, right?

Most of my blog posts are about my emotions, people I interact with, and basically everything other than my work. So, what am I working on?

Truth be told, I’m not satisfied with where I am because of who I am. Peace Corps has taught me that I am much more introverted than I ever imagined, and I have to work hard to step outside of myself and make the necessary contacts to be successful. I hate networking. I feel like a lioness on the prowl, seeing whose life and resources can be beneficial for me. Can’t we be friends first? But networking is a part of getting your job done here, and the most successful volunteers are those that make connections and rub the right elbows.

Where I have made good connections, I am making process. I spend a lot of time with the teachers at my school. I’ve learned that the key to being comfortable and being effective is working one-on-one. If I spend a lot of time with a teacher, get to know her kids, drink some tea with her, and in the general flow of conversation make a suggestion for her class, she feels less threatened, less judged, and is overall more receptive. In this manner, I got the preschool and first grade teachers to teach their kids the vowels, and improve daily teeth-brushing activities in the classroom. I’ve also convinced them to integrate a daily activity with numbers where the kids are exposed to the abstract and concrete forms. That might not sound amazing to my Stateside readers, but trust me, it’s a mighty feat here.

In first grade, I haven’t had much success with the teacher. He has, however, agreed to let me work one-on-one with some struggling students (he has a million reasons why they aren’t his responsibility). 5/7 are making progress that I feel comfortable with! I believe the other two require a certification that I don’t possess, but to compensate I am developing a greater sense of patience, flexibility, and humor.

I’m teaching two fitness classes. This season, we are focusing on dance as a way of getting fit. We are exploring different dance forms from throughout the world including pop, jazz, traditional Arabian and traditional Japanese, ballet, and hip-hop. I have experience in some of these areas but I owe a lot to the internet. My advanced class is my pride and joy; those girls have my heart! (And when they misbehave, it’s heartbreaking!)

As for side projects (ha! so far they are the most time consuming), two schools have identified the need for an additional classroom. One of those schools would also like a playground. One would also like a water tank to supply constant running water. So my goals are: two classrooms, a playground, and a water tank. In the States that could be done in less than three months. Here, the paperwork alone may take three months. I’m willing to put in the effort. Not because I think the playground is a necessity (I can identify other things that I think are more important) but because the community sees “things” as a sign of progress, and if I don’t deliver “things” they are less likely to appreciate my service here. Forget that their kids are learning to read. They want something they can see! Whatever. I can do both, God willing.

As a side-side project (ha! ha!) I am working with two other volunteers to create a series on Afro-Paraguayan history. Ignorance is fierce in Paraguay. I’d compare it to 1950s US without the Jim Crow but with all of the misconceptions, racism, classism, and stereotyping one could stomach. The volunteers and I hope to compile resources and present our findings in the town of Emboscada, which has a high concentration of Afro-Paraguayans. It’s basically going to cover how black folks got to Paraguay in the first place, for what purpose, the end of slavery, and then a bit on the Afro-Paraguayan community today and visions for the future. It’s a big undertaking since resources are few and far between, but that will just make it all the more rewarding when it’s done.

Well, that is the work swing of things. Apparently, EEE is no more. We are now Education and Youth Development (EYD) so my work outlook may be changing. Vamos a ver...

Idiosyncrasies...

I’ve received quite a few emails regarding my living conditions in Paraguay. People are baffled by the idiosyncrasies, the clashes of modernity and—how shall I say?—the rustic charm of a developing nation. Hopefully, I can clear the confusion.

WHY IS THE PEACE CORPS IN PARAGUAY?
Let’s start with the basics. Why am I here? In theory, my job description includes aiding rural teachers by introducing interactive teaching methods using didactic materials, songs and games. Many rural schools lack these basic activities. The root of the problem (perhaps) was the dictatorship, in which teachers were appointed jobs based on social politics. Teaching had nothing to do with liking children, education, or a sense of social responsibility. It was just a source of income. Fast-forward 20 years after the fall of the dictatorship and that mindset lingers in some teachers and principals—they simply don’t want to teach. On the other hand, you have those that do want to teach but received poor training in how to make education fun. They were trained to believe that teaching meant writing notes on the chalkboard and having all the kids copy. That’s it. Time for tea! I’m here to introduce new ideas to willing recipients. I also work as a tutor for kids that the system has failed. And, I also help w/ community projects.

My secondary job is to improve the general livelihood of youth. This part is quite flexible. It includes job skills training, health and fitness, arts and crafts, social skills, and anything else a child might need to become a productive member of society. I enjoy this part the most because I believe that children can only learn when they aren’t sick, stressed-out, or otherwise unhealthy. I’ve started teaching dance (read: fitness) and health classes. In dance class, I throw in the basics of health, as well as geography and social studies. For example, I choreographed a dance to Shakira’s “Waka Waka” after the World Cup. Before teaching the dance, I did a mini presentation on South African history, geography, and social politics. In my health class, we cover hydration, exercise, and a balanced diet. To make class more interesting, we prepare healthy snacks together and play games dealing with health and food choices. For American kids, my ideas aren’t extraordinary. For kids in my site, my ideas are new and interesting because, for the most part, they have been copying off of the board for years.

HOW DOES PARAGUAY’S UNIQUE POSITION AFFECT MY JOB?
How do I do what I do? My site makes my job interesting. My town, and much of Paraguay, is a brain shattering clash between developing nation and 21 century. I have access to a decent amount of resources but still face economic, social, and logistical hardships. Let’s explore that before I continue:

Weirdness is ubiquitous. For example, a Mercedes Benz must share the road with an ox cart in the capital city of Asuncion. My town just received running water 8 years ago. Many people have cell phones and wireless internet but use outhouses and wash clothes by hand. I believe that the strangeness in the leaps of advancement is caused by political corruption and poor infrastructure. (Mind you, they go hand in hand.) For example, a new politician has no issues pocketing every penny that he receives. As a result, he’s driving a Benz while is neighbor strives to survive selling beans out of the back of an ox cart. Because money doesn’t go where it should, infrastructure is lacking. Water and power shortages are a daily occurrence, assuming that your town has been equipped with those amenities at all. Cell phones and wireless internet are popular because they require minimal government involvement. I’m sure that I said that wrong...for example, there aren’t power lines running to everyone’s houses to supply them with landlines, but some rich dude paid to have a Personal tower erected one town over, so everyone who can afford the one-time-purchase of a cell phone and/or modem has access to wireless communication.

How does this relate to my job? I brought my computer from the States and a wireless modem here, so I can chat with my sister while researching South African history. But to print my notes I’d need to wait at least an hour for a shoddy, Cold War era public bus to take me to the next town, and then wait another hour or more for it to bring me back. It’s only a 15 minute trip but it isn’t pedestrian friendly. Anything revolving paper (printing, books) costs an arm and your first born child because they’re luxuries. I have easy access to electronics stores where I can buy speakers for my iPod; then I can play my iPod during dance class where children are dancing barefoot and battling intestinal worms. I can do my job rather easily but the “rustic charms” of a developing nation are always present.

So when people see that I’ve changed my Facebook status they assume that I’m living somewhere comparable to the US and that I’m on a 2 year vacation. I’m not. Even with my fancy modern bathroom I might end up taking bucket baths when the water goes out. I have to go outside to use the “kitchen” sink. Everything shuts down when it rains because the dirt roads flood. I can IM my family but it takes 4 hours or more to load a YouTube video. I have Ramon noodles and instant coffee but neither does me any good when I can’t heat water during a power outage. (I nipped that in the bud by buying a gas stove, but you get my drift.) Disclaimer: I am not complaining. I am by no means the most disadvantaged PC volunteer.

Socially, there are many blurred lines as well. I can’t tell where I stand. Women in my town do not live alone. They do not travel alone. Most of the time, they do not sleep alone because they should be scared to do so. I’ve met more than one woman in her 20s who still chooses to share a bed with a sibling (when hubby isn’t around) because she’s scared to be alone. Women are usually married by age 20 at the latest, and working on their second or third kid by 25. In my town, women rarely drink in public. (Less than 10 years ago, women did not drink at all.) Girls as old as 18 still need permission to be out after dusk. They rarely get that permission. Public male and female interaction is limited. If you have a male friend over—even if you’re just sitting outside playing cards—he is instantly your boyfriend. And you’re likely screwing him since he visits you.

With all that said, there are a few single mothers in my site, a few women that are in college or university, one girl with a tattoo and labret piercing, a few that drink in public, and a few that have good male friends. Amazingly, these girls don’t have miserable reputations. I’m not sure what any of that means for me, though. I am a 24-year-old unmarried woman who has traveled alone, is living alone, drinks alcohol on occasion and is accustomed to having male friends that I don’t sleep with. Where do I fit into the groove of things?

There are upsides to the oddness of Paraguay. During one of my interactive model lessons in pre-K, we talked about colors and then took a field trip to a student’s grandparent’s house. To explore the colors we learned about, we picked orange oranges straight off of brown and green trees. We petted black and white cows, and chased red, white, and brown chickens. Then we went back to class and made pictures of what we encountered that day using printing paper and Faber Castell markers. Most American kids can’t explore colors in such diverse ways.

And in the midst of it all, I have the EPP kidnapping and killing people in the north, drug trafficking on the Bolivian and Brazilian borders, crazies who take public transit only to cut off girl’s ponytails and sell the hair...and families who keep their doors and windows unlocked all day long.

So if you’re still confused by my job functions and living conditions, you should be. God knows I am.

When Someone Dies, Life Stops

My morning started more or less like normal. It was rainy and cold, so I didn’t want to get out of bed. I managed to, however, and made myself some oatmeal and coffee, then sat around like a zombie until I mustered the motivation to plan my day. I decided to mount the screens for my windows (to keep out bugs), then box up the owners books and put mine on the shelf in their place.

My neighbors helped me with the screen for the windows. It started off with 15-year-old and I, but her mother (my friend) joined us soon afterward. I had wanted it to be a girls-only affair, but my friend insisted on getting her husband to help us, which meant that they spoke a lot of Guaraní and did everything while I only got to hand out nails. It took a few trips to the carpenter to get the measurements right (all of the windows are not the same size) and we were nailing, hammering, and finishing in no time.

During the process, the daughter asked if I heard what happened to our neighbor’s son. He had died in a motorcycle accident. My neighbor is an elementary school teacher. I have tereré with her three times a week, and her daughter is in my dance class. I didn’t think either connection made us close enough for me to go to the rezo (on average, a 9 day funeral event). I had continued working without a second thought. When my friend arrived a bit later, she asked me the same question. “Yes, [your daughter] told me what happened.” “Hmm,” she responded.

They invited me to lunch in their home. As we sat around digesting, my friend asked if I went to the church yesterday to visit my neighbor and her family. I replied, “No, I wasn’t invited.” “Hmm,” she responded. The subject changed to airplane rides and her daughter's “feo” boyfriend before returning to my neighbor. “You should come to the church with us. We are leaving at three,” my friend suggested. “Do I need to be invited?” I asked. She shook her head. “Just come.”

We didn’t go straight to the church. We went first to my neighbor’s house, where at least 100 people were gathered. Earlier in the day as we irreverently hammered at my windows, I hadn’t noticed that there was anything different. My neighbors always have people over, milling in and out of the house, pounding music until the rafters shutter. The only difference today was that it was quiet. There was no music. Everything had stopped. Everyone just stood around. I should have known something was wrong. There was no music...

My friend ushered me into the house and asked of Sonia’s whereabouts. I was surprise to hear that she might be in the kitchen cooking. Then I wasn’t so surprised. She likely needed the distraction. Blanca was going to take me back to the kitchen when I insisted that we wait; if Sonia needed some time alone, I wasn’t going to interrupt her solace in the only room of the house without a million people standing around. We waited.

The atmosphere was difficult to read. Everyone dressed differently, from jeans and tennis shoes to what I considered proper funeral attire. Some people were laughing and chatting just one room away from those whom were mourning in abrupt bursts. Sometimes people changed simply by walking through a doorway: one neighbor was bawling in one room, crossed the threshold of another room and greeted a friend with a smile. She burst into tears again soon after and I wasn’t sure what to do or think. Were the smiles an attempt to lighten the mood or were there mourners in Paraguayan funerals like those in ancient Israel?

I greeted other professors with a half smile and the expected kisses. Then I stood around with my friend and waited. Vehicles had arrived to carry the casket to the church. The rest of us would walk. Much time passed between the arrival of the vehicle and our departure, in which everyone waited and watched more that I thought appropriate. At one point, the deceased’s sister/my dance student erupted into a fit of tears that even made me cry. She collapsed into a chair and was instantly surrounded by her friends who petted her hair, dried her tears, and hugged her. Their response made my heart melt—then it froze. I noticed that everyone else in the room was just staring at the sobbing girl with the most detached expressions on their faces. No one downcast their eyes. No one cried with her. They just stared.

A fellow volunteer once warned me about the seemingly cold way that many view death here. They literally view death, straight in the eyes, without a blink. In American culture, staring is rude. I think it is even ruder at a time like a funeral. I didn’t know the deceased's sister as well as anyone else in that room, and yet I was bawling and wanting to scoop her up into the biggest embrace possible. How could they sit and gawk at her like that?

The iciness in my heart subsided when we all began to walk to the church. The crowd grew as we passed through town. People slipped in and out of doorways like ghosts, kissing my neighbor’s cheeks and returning into the darkness. Others joined the procession in silence. By the time we reached the church I would estimate that ¾ of the town was with us, standing outside, inside, waiting, watching.

I cried uncontrollably during the church service. The deceased was a 22-year-old cowboy. Fellow cowboys placed his riding jacket over his casket. Little details like that make me weak. All of the youth sat in one area of the church and sang for him. In addition to the traditional hymns, they learned two songs that they sang at the end of the service. The entire congregation cried then. I don’t know if they wrote the songs or if they were covers, but the youth sang with such sincerity that it didn’t matter. At one point, my English-speaking friend(who until then had been buzzing around trying to ensure that every aspect of the service was in order) silently began to cry amidst her yawns. She likely hadn’t slept much with so much planning to do. I put my arm around her and she rested her head on my shoulder for a moment. I felt like I needed to be there, maybe even that I was there just to hold her for those few moments when no one else would. I didn’t feel so much like an outsider looking in.

That sentiment gripped me more as we walked from the church to the cemetery. I was intentionally lagging behind when my friend wrapped her arm in mine. “Walk with us,” she said. “Us” included the deceased's mother, my friend, and three other teachers. They wanted me to walk with them. I was a teacher, too. I was a friend. They wanted me to walk with them to the cemetery. I hadn’t realized that I was intentionally being included. To them, sharing tereré three times a week and teaching their children meant that I was part of the community. I wasn’t just the outsider. I was a teacher, supporting another teacher in one of her darkest hours.

I felt the gravity of every step. We walked in silence, our eyes on the ground, our arms interlinked. Hundreds of others walked with us, trudging through the mud, silently praying to fend off the rain. My friend broke the silence, whispering, “It’s hard to walk one of our own to the cemetery and leave him there.” I started to cry again. It really was his final resting place; I hadn’t thought much about that expression until then. The entire community marched on.

At the cemetery, all of the youth and family members had one last chance to say their goodbyes. When they lowered the casket into the ground, the emotions erupted again, and then everything was quiet. Everything stopped again, but only for a moment. Slowly, people made the journey back to their homes. No one talked much. The hum of motorcycles made the most noise.

I now know why my mother doesn’t like funerals. They’re emotionally draining whether you’re close to the deceased or not. Maybe she and I are just too empathetic. Either way, I returned home exhausted. I knew that I had to write what I was experiencing in order to release it. I didn’t feel much better afterward, but at least I felt that my head was back on my shoulders. I also had some positive points to meditate on: I had been included, taken into a community as someone else left it. I want nothing more now than to give back a fraction of what has been given to me.

The Least Fun Rollercoast Ever

If anyone ever tells you that the Peace Corps is an emotional rollercoaster, they aren’t lying.

Just this week I’ve gone from loving my job to wanting to book a ticket home. There are little annoyances, like almost getting ripped off at a hotel, that irritate me on a daily basis. Then there are bigger issues that nearly push me over the edge. For example, I got kicked out of a host family’s house simply because one of the kids didn’t like me—and by kid I mean a 20 year old male, living with his mom, with no job. He moved out of the house and refused to move back in until “the stranger” was gone. It didn’t matter that his parents and three sisters are the ones that invited me. Apparently they didn’t “consult” him first. Regardless of the family dynamic and how I feel about it, the end result was that I was kicked out, potentially with nowhere to go. Fortunately, my former host family took me back in but the damage was done. The neighborhood was abuzz with gossip and everyone I met wanted to get involved in some way, though generally in no way that I considered helpful.

Realizing that you’re at the mercy of completely strangers is daunting. Being slapped with the reminder that not everyone has your best interest in mind is disheartening.

Then there are the great times. Just the other day I had a successful tutoring session. A boy who didn’t know the alphabet when we started now can identify all of the letters and is beginning to write them by dictation. He can also spell his name and sound out individual syllables. I’m SO proud of his hard work! I am relieved to see that I am having some sort of impact here.

I am also conducting a winter arts camp. For the older grades there are dance classes, and for the younger kids there are arts and crafts. My high school dancers are doing an outstanding job. They remind me of how much I love to dance; they also remind me that I need to be a good role model at all times: I showed up to class one day in my baggy, hunter green cargo pants—made of parachute material--that I’ve had since at least 8th grade. (They remind me of Aaliyah’s pants in the “Are You That Somebody” video.) After class the next day, two mothers asked me where I purchased the pants because their daughters wanted some exactly the same. The subsequent classes, a few girls showed up in baggy pants with pockets. I had to keep myself from laughing throughout class. I’m really excited to start seasonal classes with them later in the year.

Thank God, I’ve had success with some teachers, too. The jardin teacher has been super helpful with my winter camp. I’ve gotten to know her and her family very well. The preschool teacher has also made some suggestions for early childhood stimulation classes that will help prepare kids for jardin and preschool. In the upper ranks, the vice principal really liked my proposal for health classes with 3rd and 5th grade. She is supporting my efforts by helping me proofread and edit the syllabi. Other than not speaking Guarani, I have no complaints about work.

But just when things get good, you’re reminded that you aren’t at home. Perhaps that’s what makes service so tough. If I hated every minute of it, I could go back home to my family, friends, pets, my BED, AC/Heating, sushi, REAL coffee, my jacked up car which is still better than public buses here, and everything else about the US that I miss. If I adored every minute, I’d always know I was in the right place for this point in my life. Switching back and forth just makes my brain and heart tired.

WHAT'S BEHIND DOOR NUMBER 3?

After getting ousted from the host family’s house, I feverishly began my search for a place of my own. Some of my original options still stood, so I contacted an owner and arranged to move in within two days. On a rainy Friday evening I bought some goodies (a stove, mattress, dresser), moved in my junk and started the three day long cleaning process: sweeping the community of cobwebs and spider webs from the vaulted ceilings, as well as killing their creators; cleaning more of the same from all of the furniture; bleaching the bathroom; sweeping and scrubbing the beautiful tile floors; and unpacking.

On day three, the rain recommenced. I looked forward to sleeping in, reading and writing, and taking a long hot shower. What I got was rain in my living room and part of my kitchen. Before, I thought we had tracked the water. Now I could see it falling from the ceiling. Since the floors are tiled it wasn’t a terribly huge deal but I would’ve liked to have known about the leaks before moving in. The owner said he’d have it fixed Tuesday or Wednesday. The days have come and gone. The roof still leaks.

It’s raining again. A variety of cookware decorates my floors. Even with the leaks, I’m still really happy about the house. It’s the perfect size for me, and it has a lot of security features that I wanted. The location is close to the school, my friends, and the main roads leading in and out of town. Once the ceiling is fixed I won’t have a complaint in the world about this house. The next step will be painting and replacing the shutters if money allows :o)

CHA-CHING

Let’s talk about money. You will not starve on the Peace Corps living allowance. Depending on your site and how often you eat with neighbors, you can live quite reasonably. The strange thing is that, as it becomes the norm to have certain amenities (a fridge, for example), the Peace Corps budget hasn’t increased to accommodate modernization in more developed areas. Volunteers then have an awkward decision to make: they can live below the means of the rest of the community; they can use money from the States to live at the means of the community, thus diminishing money that should be used to readjust to our lives back home after service; or they can save every penny possible, live as a recluse, and finally buy a fridge two months before it’s time to leave for home. Peace Corps sees the problem and is actively working the fix it, but current volunteers are left wondering why some people are living posh while other are just making it month to month.

I certainly didn’t have enough to buy everything I wanted for the house with my Move-In Allowance. With that said, I’m not sleeping on the floor, either. It’s the Peace Corps. I didn’t expect to have a fridge, washer, dryer, and stove when I signed up. I was thinking mud hut and a hole out back to piss in. I am pleasantly surprised to have electricity and running water. I’m stupefied that I have wireless internet connection. Fellow volunteers in other countries ARE sleeping on the floor. They DON’T have running water, electricity, and wireless internet and at the end of the day I have no room to complain. Inconveniences are expected. Luxuries are appreciated. And service must go on either way.

My first somewhat necessary renovation is the fix the roof. My first not-necessary-but-desired renovation will be to replace the shutters. On cold rainy said like today I may as well be sleeping outside with as drafty as the house feels. Then I’m going to save up to buy a washing machine. It’s not what you’re imagining by any means, but it does get the job done better than my bare hands. Third on the list, I plan to save up for some paint. The interior walls are jacked and the house would look a lot merrier with a fresh coat of high quality color. To me, it’s a worthwhile investment. Lastly, I might add a sink in the kitchen (surprise, there isn’t one). I’m currently using the bathroom sink just for water, and washing dishes outside or in the shower.

Things are ended on the up-and-up. I’m still here, still planning cool stuff for my community in the future and still optimistic about this whole save-the-world-and-change-yourself gig. Suerte!

I Thought I Was Being Superficial, Then I Realized I Was Being Progressive

This session is all about housing, food, and why I don’t need to change my American perspective just this once...

Let me begin by saying that my sister and brother-in-law (along with every other member of my family) has done an excellent job spoiling—I mean, loving—me. For this reason, I have come to have rather high expectations in life. I came into the Peace Corps expecting physical and emotional hardship, all the while knowing in the back of my mind that the good times would certainly outweigh the bad and that I would have an exceptionally wonderful service simply because I’m me.

This is not entirely untrue. During training, I was one of the few trainees who encountered no problems with my host family. I had privacy, good food, encouragement, and a sense of inclusion in the family. Now as a volunteer, while not in the ideal situation, I still have come across a loving family that has offered me a full access to their home, their hearts, and their time.

I expected this wonderfulness to continue without hindrance. As I searched for more permanent housing, my host sister mentioned this beautiful 2 story house up the street. It is fabulous by rural Paraguayan standards and pleased my American sense of material elegance: it had a large kitchen with a gas stove (yay!), an unnecessarily large bathroom with the best water heating system available in the country, three bedrooms, and an attic that could be converted to make the perfect dance and arts studio. Of course, I wanted this house.

The owner, currently in Argentina, wanted me to pay $400USD. I laughed out loud because A.) I’m not paying USD for anything here B.) “volunteer” means I have no money, US or otherwise. Trying not to insult her, I explained that I “can’t” pay in USD. Then she asked for $450g, which is more reasonable (and well under $400USD) and I said I’d consider her offer. After conferring with other volunteers I concluded that I would only afford that house if I ate instant noodles for two years and never left my site. The other volunteer in my area is only paying $200g for her house, which is smaller but is still very nice. My counter offer was $300g. She didn’t budge. My max was $350g and she still didn’t budge. She politely thanked me for my interest and hung up the phone.

Are you kidding?

Aside from being upset that she was throwing off my success-groove, I was saddened by this woman’s apparent lack of business savvy. Our town is VERY small. I am the only new person to arrive in three years. She simply isn’t going to have any other offers on that house! She would rather have no income and have the house overrun by spiders than to have an additional $300g in her account each month (only $150g less than she expected). What nonsense!

So I’m still with my great host family, but sleeping in an old corner store. This is less than fabulous, but I have to remember that I am in the Peace Corps. Not the chuchi-super-fancy-house Corps, not the Desperate-House-Wives-of-Atlanta-Corps, but the I’m-dedicating-two-years-of-my-life-to-help-others-and-better-myself Corps. That might mean not having a two story house, which is fine.

Did I mention that a lot of my fellow volunteers and living in wooden shacks, sharing a room with three or more children, fetching questionable well water, and using wood burning stoves? Yeah. I won’t complain about my situation. But that’s just it. I have lived so well it is difficult for me not to expect more. It’s not a matter of deserving more, or needing more, or even being dissatisfied with less. It is simply that I am accustomed to more, and part of my Peace Corps journey seems to be lowering my expectations in life...right?

That is counter intuitive to me. No part of my upbringing supports that expectations should be lowered. If anything, expectations should be raised and precedents exceeded.

The standard of living should be raised. Why not? Why not have a community with clean running water, and secure and comfortable housing that uses sustainable resources? Isn’t that why we have Rural Economic Development and Rural Health and Sanitation departments in the Peace Corps? We aren’t preaching the gospel of superficiality and capitalism so much as trying to make people’s lives easier. There is nothing easy about hand washing clothes in filthy river water or chopping down every damn tree in town just to cook dinner.

So basically, I’m not changing my standards. I’m content with what I have but will continue to aim for more/

Let’s take Paraguayan food for example. Grab an animal, cook it in grease, and add some mandioca (like potatoes with nothing on them). Dinner is done! Everyday. I won’t settle for that. So what did I do? I made tofu fried rice for my family, using the healthiest veggie oil I could find, a crap-load of veggies, and tofu instead of animals. Before that I made whole wheat pasta with eggplant and tomatoes, and before that I made veggie omelets. They loved it all! Three days this week my family ate healthier because I didn’t settle for, “Well, at least they have food.” If you’re going to eat, why not eat food that actually benefits your body?

If you’re going to live, live well.

Agree?

I'm Officially a Volunteer!

SWEARING-IN WEEKEND

So you bust your butt for about three months in preparation to become a volunteer. You would think that they swearing-in process would be monumental, right? The event didn’t live up to the hype. Fortunately, the events before and after swearing-in were sufficient.

The week before swearing-in is the infamous talent show. It’s a free for all, open for no-talent, true talent, and anything in between. The education group decided to create a mixture; the guys mocked our health charlas and created a rap about sevo’i and ghiardia. I, along with my chicas, choreographed a backup dance. I must admit that I am very proud of our efforts. The lyrics were actually GOOD and the choreography was fun and energetic. (During our first rehearsal I wore the Michael Jackson’s Thriller T-Shirt my brother gave me, which helped me channel the late King of Pop.) We presented at the talent show amidst cheers and applause. Then we won :o) It might seem silly, but it was one of the best moments that I’ve had in training because everyone worked together and had a great time in the process.

Later that week we packed all our crap and heading into Asuncion for the official ceremony.
I swore in as an official volunteer on April 30. The ceremony was at the U.S. Embassy, which reminds me more of a botanical garden than an office building. The grounds are impeccably maintained with tropical foliage, and even a little waterfall.

The ceremony itself wasn’t groundbreaking, and after three months of emotionally draining training I expected more of a catharsis. But alas. The ambassador gave a speech—which, based on the amount of “ums” and its painfully apparent lack of organization, was improvised—followed by a volunteer’s speech. Then we ate cake. After that we all sort of looked at each other and tried to figure what we should do as official volunteers.

AFTER PARTY

I’ve got to be honest. Most of us made some really bad decisions as official volunteers. Yes, swear-in weekend is all about partying it up in the big city before venturing out to our prospective sites. Unfortunately, that tradition comes with a price. The price is having a bunch of drunken, loud, horny volunteers storming the city like we own it. There was more than one occasion when I was really ashamed of our behavior, and I questioned why such behavior is tolerated by the Powers That Be of the Peace Corps (and yes, they know exactly what’s going on). Fortunately, I did find my niche throughout the weekend. I got to spend time with people that I didn’t often see during training.

Being who I am, one of the highlights of the swear-in weekend was the food. Most of my friends ate cheap so they could spend money on beer. Not being much of a beer drinker, I took advantage of every night to eat at a great restaurant and selecting exactly what I wanted. It was marvelous. The food itself wasn’t “exotic” but it was good. The best dishes were from a Mexican restaurant (Hacienda de las Palomas) and Korean (I’m clueless of the name, because the sign was written in Korean, but it is on Avenida Peru near Mercado 4).

In Georgia, my siblings and I ate Mexican or Tex-Mex at least twice a week. Having gone without for three months is unfathomable. I nearly cried with joy when my friends and I approached the restaurant. We walked into the quintessential setting of warm hues and faux antique finishes. I welcomed the familiar aromas and salivated as I scanned the menu. I wanted everything--but first, a Tequila Sunrise. There was so much laughter and picture taking, it was like prom-night dinner. I ordered shrimp fajitas (because I hadn’t had shrimp in three months, which is also unfathomable) and savored every drop. There wasn’t cheese, which threw me off, but I easy ordered some along with some tasty guacamole.

In Georgia, we also had Japanese at least once a week. My friends weren’t down for Japanese food (claiming that there could be no good sushi in a landlocked country) so the closest I could get was Korean. I had never eaten Korean food before, and was really excited when my friend proposed going to the ever-shady Mercado 4 and trying out a restaurant. The free appetizers were a meal in themselves, and I was glad to try traditional favorites like kimchi. There was also spicy calamari and a vegetable soup with tofu. We were rolled out of the restaurant.

Other personal highlights include dancing until 5am, more than my fair share of coffee at a sidewalk café, and growing closer to my fellow volunteers in the process. Regardless of some of our behavior, I know that G-32 will have some kick-butt volunteers and I’m excited about the work that we will do here.

FIRST DAYS AT SITE

We can’t do great things if we can’t get to our freakin’ sites. For some of us, just getting to our new homes on Tuesday was a pain. Some roads flooded, trapping volunteers between Asuncion and unknown towns on the way to their sites. Others had buses that only left twice a day to take them to sites hours away—don’t be late or you’re stuck waiting 24 hours or more for your next ride.

For me, I arrived without much of a problem, only to find that I didn’t have place to stay. The teacher who was going to rent her house to rented it out to someone else at the last minute. And by last minute I mean she didn’t even tell me until I called her that morning. Anyway, the current volunteer in my site was able to find a place for me to stay and everything worked out. Likely for the best. I slept in a community center for the first two nights (NOT glamorous) before moving in with the family next door. Now I am sleeping in an old store (also NOT glamorous, but this is the Peace Corps). The plus side, which outweighs all, is that I am staying with an amazingly awesome family.

Wednesday, the current volunteer and I went to the neighboring pueblo of Santani (San Estanislao). It’s pretty perfect. There is a great grocery store that has a few American favorites, a mini Mercado 4 that is infinitely less shady but just as inexpensive, and a café with wi-fi. I think I’m set. This is the Peace Corps but I never claimed to be campo material.

Tomorrow I’m going to drag myself out of my comfort zone and head to the schools. I plan to start simple, working only with preschool and kindergarten for 4 hours, 3 days a week. I also want to pull kids out the classes that are really behind and work with them one on one in the area of writing/reading. The great thing about it all is that I can work at my own pace as long as I communicate my plans well to the teachers. As I grow more comfortable with my language abilities, I can increase my hours and work with more grades.

Prayers are welcomed. Wish me luck. Positive vibes are needed. Whatever your sense of peace, send it my way :o)

Prejudice, Semana Santa, and Other Happenings

Today someone called me ugly to my face. It was in Spanish with a Guarani accent but it was unmistakably “feo.” Now, my initial response was to be a smart ass, then I remembered that I was a guest in their home and that I’d likely screw up my wit with a language error anyway, so I left it alone. My second response was to seethe, but that only lasted a moment before a realized that I had nothing to seethe about. The man who called me ugly was about 70, toothless, dirty and with chicken poop on his feet, and apparently couldn’t take care of himself as he was mooching off of his sister’s and niece’s meager income. Could I really let this guy offend me?
I could, but that would be silly.

Fortunately, this episode did get me thinking about my reaction to racially-charged events in Paraguay. I’ve had quite a few. People here are going to say mean things about me, likely as they did behind my back in the States. Prejudice is everywhere. Racism exists in many places. In some cases, people used prejudices as a way to affirm their own identities (e.g. the US Klan). They have a sense of why they believe what they believe and what they hope to accomplish through it. Oddly, there are others who don’t know why they dislike what they dislike. In the case of the aforementioned Paraguayan (and much of the globe?) I don’t think he understand that his concept of beauty has origins in colonialism: pale skinned invaders tell the locals that they are less than, treat locals as if they are less than, and then propagate the settler’s sense of beauty and value. The Paraguayan was clearly the descendant of the Guarani; he has features that early Spanish values would have deemed, “feo.” Those values still rear their ugly heads on television, magazines, advertisements...and he laps them up, so much so that he regurgitates them without thinking. Did he realize that by those antiquated values he, his nieces, his sister and brother-in-law are all feo? Did he fail to notice that their skin is darker than the actors on TV, and their hair is thicker and curlier than the lady posing in the detergent ad? In short, he wasn’t marginalized, poor and dirty because he the descendant of a Spanish aristocrat.

In short, he is too clueless for me to take his opinion too seriously.

Even if he was better educated, it wouldn’t change much. The bottom line is that a racist person won’t like me regardless. It has nothing to do with my moral standing or work ethic or sense of family or anything else that I value. They dislike what they dislike and it has nothing to do with me personally. Asi es!

Now, that doesn’t make hearing verbal vomit any less appealing. It does influence how I react the next time a guy on a motorcycle drives by and calls me a nigger. Seething won’t help. Reacting definitely won’t help. Understanding why and moving on with my life helps. It’s worth blogging about, but not worth carrying on my shoulders for long.

Perhaps I should insert some disclaimer about not all Paraguayans being prejudice but 1.) any of my family and friends reading this already know that 2.) I can’t guarantee that it’s true. What I can say for certain is that I’ve met at least 8 wonderful Paraguayans whose company I enjoy. I made chipa with 3 of them today. Chipa is a type of bread made from mandioca (aka cardboard in stick form, like a potato), cheese, corn, and sometimes onions. During Semana Santa (Holy Week) Paraguayans fast for two or three days, eating nothing but chipa. This sounded miserable at first, but fresh baked chipa is pretty freakin’ awesome. What’s more awesome is making it! The dough is soft and holds forms well, like play-dough, so it’s perfect for making funny shapes. I made a violin, a piano, drums, and a couple geometric shapes with funky designs in the middle. It felt good to play with dough and use some of my creative talents that have lain dormant for two months. My host mom said I was guapa (hard working) and my host sister and I had a great time laughing at designs. She’s a little dirty: she made a pair of breasts, a penis (which she remolded into a flute before baking) and a paddle to spank her son with. It was all great fun.

Afterwards I sat on the curb and watched the neighborhood kids play soccer. There is one girl, Daisy, who is quite good and very competitive. It makes me sad that there isn’t a professional women’s team for her to aspire to. I tried to tell her that if she wanted, maybe she could play for the US. She seemed confused.

We get 5 days off for Semana Santa, which sounds like boringness waiting to happen, so my friends and I have already planned a trip to Asuncion for the weekend. We will spend three days with our family—soaking up the culture of Terere and watching grass grow—and then go to the city for two days and remember what its like to be over stimulated and gluttonous. I like extremes.

Long Field Practice

When I heard that I was going to Isla Pucu to meet Lindsey, I shrugged. One pueblo isn’t much different than another when you only know a name. I packed my school uniforms, an apo’i top for the supervision interview, and clothes for trudging through the campo. I figured it would be a bit like Naranjaisy but bigger.

I was quite wrong.

Isla Pucu is a little piece of heaven nestled quietly in the midst of rolling hills. It is considered a pueblo, but doesn’t have the city feel because everything is so green; most of the cobblestone streets are lined with trees and bursts of tropical flowers accent manicured lawns. The farmland surrounding the town is lush and speckled with quaint houses and cattle. The people are friendly but generally disinterested, which is a welcomed change for me. Everyone greeted me cordially but no one stared and very few asked questions.

I quickly learned why the town had such a familiar ambiance. Isla Pucu means “Long Island,” which is deceptive because 1.) it isn’t an island 2.) it isn’t New York. I’ve been told that it was a European colony, and at that time it was named something else. Those people left and wealthier Paraguayans moved in. Many of the current inhabitants are well-off because they or their family members have worked in America—primarily New York, hence the name—and sent money back here to Paraguay. Most of the people I talked to have lived in or have family working in Long Island or White Plains, NY.

My host family was no exception. Both parents spent a year or more in the States doing modest work (though neither speaks English). They came back as big-ballers and now live in a comfortable house with their two kids. My host sister, Claudia, dressed like she was ready for a Hollister photo shoot. Everyday. (Should I mention that she competes in—and wins—beauty pageants?) Her cute clothes, makeup, and highlights made me feel underdressed all the time. And there wasn’t anything that I could do about it since I brought my campo clothes and left my nice American duds in Naranjaisy. *sigh* My other host sister, Laura, was a bit more chill and reminded me of my real sister. I believe she is in school to be a hair stylist, but she didn’t wear her trade on her sleeve. My host mother, Estella, was rather demure and my boisterous host father, Emilio, instantly took up trying to teach me Guarani. Everyone was wonderfully nice and made me feel very welcomed. I settled in quickly and began the bittersweet process of getting to know people that I knew I’d have to leave.

When I wasn’t preparing for charlas on parasites, I enjoyed the ease of in-home internet access with my host sisters. We took pictures for Facebook, drank some T-re, and otherwise goofed around. We also watched brainless television, particularly a bad telenovela called “Victorinos.” At night I enjoyed taking a shower without shower shoes and drinking Coca Cola that was actually cold. In the mornings I made myself scrambled eggs or big bowls of Frosted Flakes. I guess you don’t know how precious these simple activities are until you haven’t had them for two months...

Of course, the peace and tranquility couldn’t last forever. Days at school were insane. We gave between 6-9 presentations a day (in Spanish, speckled with Guarani for flavor) about the parasite Sevo’i. I didn’t realize how much I hated repeating myself until then. We also administered oral evaluations to the kids, which means that I took the test too since I’m learning Spanish right along with them. We played 6-9 rounds of Duck, Duck, Goose (or Sano, Sano, Sevo’i) and freeze tag in the hot sun. It was a lot of work (more than most volunteers usually do in a school day, so I’ve been told) but it was great to get into the classrooms and put my skills to the test.

The experience reminded me that working with kids doesn’t come naturally for me. I really want to like “the creatures” as they are called here, but I just don’t have that magic touch that other volunteers seem to have. Everything feels forced to me. That’s something to consider when I get to site...

Leaving my host family and Isla Pucu was emotionally difficult. I hugged Claudia goodbye moments before she left for school, and we both lingered trying to think of something sentimental to say that we could both understood. We just laughed instead and hugged again. My host dad drove me to Lindsey’s house with my luggage and said goodbye in Guarani. My host mom was the last person that I got to see because she worked at the school. She invited me to come back and visit them and I think we got three good hugs in before she had to get back to her students. I didn’t get to say goodbye to Laura, which may be good because I likely would have choked up or said something stupid. I definitely plan on visiting my new friends. I know it will be even more fun to hang out with them when my language skills improve.

I really needed my vacation in Isla Pucu. Even though I was working, it was one of the first times that going home after work didn’t feel like going to second job. It was also one of the first times that I could hang out with locals my age that didn’t have kids to look after. The trip was a breath of fresh air and gave me the positive energy that I need to make it though the next few demanding weeks.

Site Placement Questionnaire—Almost there!

G-32 got screwed. We had our site placement interviews before long field practice, which is silly because we are asked what we want in our sites before we even know what a real site is like. Fortunately for me, I don’t think that I said anything that I regret and I will fill in the “Site Placement Questionnaire” with any details that I might have missed in the interview. It may not even matter; some say that the interview and questionnaire are just formalities and that Josefina has already matched us to sites. Regardless, I trust that it will all turn out for the best.

Visiting Isla Pucu confirmed that I want to live in a place that feels small but has a lot of options. I also want a site that is aesthetically pleasing. Perhaps most importantly, I want a site with progressive, liberal-minded people. (Now, keep in mind that progressive and liberal-minded Paraguayan-style is much more low-key than, like, US-West coast.) What made the people of Isla Pucu different is that they were chill but they CARED; in some towns in Paraguay that I’ve visited tranquilo translates to, “There are many problems that need fixing but I don’t give a damn. Drink terere.” In Isla Pucu, people generally seemed to use forethought: work smarter not harder; sacrifice a bit now for a better later; prevention is better than treatment, etc. A Peace Corps volunteer can do crazy-good things with a community like that. We spend less time trying to get people to care and more time making stuff happen.

I don’t know if Lindsey loves her site as much as I do. Our experiences would differ greatly since we are different people. But I see potential there that I hope to see in my site.

The Honeymoon is Over

We were told during orientation that we were in the “honeymoon” stage of our relationship with Paraguay. Most of us look at each other and shrugged. Very little is glittery about our small towns, and most of us are just happy to not live in mud huts. Surely there is nothing enamoring about piles of cow poo on the sidewalks—wait, there are no sidewalks—or million degree weather, or the never ending stares of the locals and the constant threat of parasites.

They then told us that weeks 3 and 4 would end the honeymoon stage.

I am in week 4. It is certainly over if it was ever there to begin with.

Everyone was in a slump today. No one was overtly negative, just hot and tired. And we are all a bit “over” group work. (If our trainers could control it, they’d make us take group bathroom breaks. “Everyone wait till 5pm to take a piss! We’ll do it as a group!”) Anyhow, we were given yet another group assignment today and I think we all secretly despised each other for it.

Then the cow poo hit the fan. We had our first real encounter with the bane known as “chisme,” the cute word here for senseless gossip. Apparently, some ladies got bored and decided to spread rumors that some of our group members were drunks. And by drunks, that means that they...had a drink? This wouldn’t be a problem, except that it’s hard for people to take you seriously as an educator when they think you’re an irresponsible alcoholic. Some of us were concerned that our trainers and language coaches would believe their family members over us. Needless to say, no one was feeling particularly fond of our neighbors that evening, but we decided to let it roll and pick our battles. We decided not to confront the culprits because it is considered rude here to confront people directly with a problem. (...yeah, that’s what I said). No one wants to make anything worse.

But the unspoken effects run deep. I think that there is a greater sense of distrust among us now; how do we know who is spreading rumors about us? In some cases, our own host moms are trying to ruin our reputations. It leaves a bitter taste in my mouth.

May sound random, but this whole experience makes me miss my mom. Back home, I’d roll my eyes whenever she told a re-story because she always seemed to exaggerate the details. If Brianna did a new dance, my mom would turn it into a 3 Act ballet set to Gershwin. If any of us had the least hint of talent, she claimed it would instantly make us famous and wealthy. But the great thing is that my mom always exaggerated for the benefit of her kids. She made us sound better. In sharp contrast, it really sucks to encounter “parents” here who may exaggerate stories about their “kids” with the intention of harming them. With that said, I *heart* my host mom. I just feel bad for my friends.

Cleaning House

Aside from chisme, I’ve had to get use to some other cultural differences. Some of the homes here (e.i. mine) blur the lines between inside and outside. There are open courtyards, windows that don’t close and don’t have screens, farm animals at your feet at the kitchen table...sometimes these things are pretty cool. Other times, not so much. Cool: waking up to a bunch of fuzzy baby chicks chirping and hopping around in the kitchen. Cool: Having a pear with lunch, then feed the cow the core. Cool: Showing with a tree frog. Not cool: the countless, dusty, bug infested cobwebs lining my ceiling and bathroom. Not cool: the plague of flies that always chill between my bedroom, the kitchen, and the bathroom. I kind of feel bad for them because the insects don’t know any better—some of our “rooms” are outside, which is their home—but I’ve gotten to the point now where I can’t catch and release one more spider! I just freakin’ kill ‘em. (I know, I lose PETA points.)

One day, I lost my mind and went on a cleaning spree. I dusted down all the cobwebs (gagging several times) and cleaned everything that was questionable. I was on a roll, so I wanted to attack the bathroom next, but I hesitated and decided against it. Would it offend my host-parents to clean their house? Probably. My host family understands that outdoor/indoor living has its inconveniences, so I don’t think they bother trying to tidy up some things. If I cleaned up after them might they be embarrassed or something? All of this is still new to me. Still don’t know what to do.

On the Brighter Side

The kids here are pretty awesome. There are a million of them with unexplainable amounts of energy, so there is always someone willing to play a game, or do barefoot yoga in an abandoned field, or participate in reading clubs. I was pleasantly surprised by how many kids here like books! Relative to incomes in this town, books are expensive luxuries and I’m glad that the other PCTs and I can share the goodness. We read about three short books with the neighbor kids in small groups, mixing in some games in between. In the beginning, I was really nervous because my language skills aren’t as strong as I’d like. Now, after giving two presentations in Spanish with a language interview on the horizon, chatting with a bunch of kids seems less daunting.

Oh, did I mention that I did two presentations in Spanish? Go me! Granted, it was nothing high tech or ultra impressive but I got up and there and made it happen. Baby steps.

Staging, Orientation, and a bit after...

Staging


It’s been quite a while and so much has happened!

For staging, I met up with 49 other invitees in Miami, FL. It was a bit overwhelming, especially since no one really knew what was going on between checking in, an orientation that wasn’t really an orientation, and a not so clear dinner schedule. Things lightened up a bit in the evening: after a lot of paper signing and vaccinations (H1N1--ick) a lot of invitees strolled to a nearby Cuban restaurant. For most of us, it was the first opportunity to have full fledged conversations and get to know the others in our group. Everyone was in a pretty good disposition and we shared stories about our different regions of the country.

The next morning was a blur. There was a lot of information thrown at us at once, along with some icebreakers and other games dabbled in the mix. By the time we packed an overnight bag (luggage customarily arrived late, we were told) and made it to the airport, everyone was ready for dinner and a nice long rest on the plane. We broke off into groups to enjoy our last meal in America—at the airport—and settled on some overpriced American favorites like chicken fingers, quesadillas, and our favorite “adult” beverages that we might not get in beer-ridden Paraguay.

Let me emphasize the sadness of the first two meals. During these times, all 49 of us were together and we began forming friendships. We valued these times and clung to each other much more than normal strangers would. And after over 11 hours of flying and layover time, most of us started to feel like a small family.

Then they split us up.

Welcome to the Peace Corps.

Orientation

The 49 of us were split into three groups according to our projects. This was a bit shocking for some, especially since we happened to befriend the very people we would rarely see thereafter. We had to start from scratch again. We went through introductions again, awkward moments again, trying to find our niches again...This was the first time that I really realized the amount of flexibility PC requires.

This set off something in me that I hadn’t expected. I felt very hesitant to really get to know anyone because I knew that in 3 months I be ripped from them and expected to make new friends in a new community in a new country...but of course, you can’t thrive for three months in a new environment without friends. So what’s a girl to do? I suppose I did what everyone else did and just adjusted. Come what may, I’ve made so great new accomplices :o)

The same day that we landed we we met our temporary host families and moved in. This could’ve been awkward, but my fabulous host mom, Graciella, made me feel very welcomed. She switched between Spanish (Castellano) and Guarani, the local language, in order to help me communicate with the rest of the family. At this point, everything was still a bit crazy and I desperately await the opportunity to feel settled.

Orientation didn’t help. It was a mess of information, spiral notebooks, handouts, skits, team building activities, more information. Wait, what happened? In the midst of it all, we shared stories about our new homes. Let’s start with the basics: most everyone had electricity in some capacity. Running water and indoor plumbing are both harder to find among the RHS invitees, though most of us in EEE and UYD have that, too. The food is high in starch, proteins, and calories (just about everything is fried) so most of us were having vegetable withdrawals by day three.

I felt special because my host mother is very understanding of my vegetarian diet. Salad and a variety of veggies balance out my meals, along with fresh fruit and plenty of chilled water. Now, none of this is bought at a grocery store, mind you. Some of it is dug straight out of the back yard. Anyhow, its fresh. Even the starches taste good because Graciella is a fabulous cook.

Everything else hasn’t been such a breeze. I share my bathroom with gnats, spiders, cobwebs and frogs the size of baseballs. The humidity keeps my body and hair from ever feeling completely dry. The heat is...freakin’ hot. Nothing creative to say about that. Every day at meal time is like a picnic: select your food fast and chow it down before the flies carry it all away! And while were talking about the animal kingdom, I pass about 10 cows, 6 pigs, 30 chickens, a goat or two, and a minimum of 6 stray dogs on my way to class every day.

Oddly, none of that concerns me much. I did sign up for the Peace Corps, you know, and none of this is really “extreme.” Just different. Make friends with the giant frogs and cows, cover your food and you’ll be just fine :o)

Training Begins!

We were split into language classes according to our previous experience. I was a bit disappointed to be placed in the lowest level Spanish class. I soon realized that it wasn’t that bad; most kids in the upper level courses had spent months abroad, if not years. No way that my independent study could compare to immersion. Anyway, we started our language classes in the morning and our technical classes in the evening and I sort of developed a normal, human schedule. In language class, things that I thought I had forgotten resurfaced, and nuances that were a stinging enigma were bought to light. I LOVE my language class. The professor is hilarious, the perfect match for my two riotous compadres, Stefanie and Sam. We could probably learn more if we laughed less. Or not :o)

That brings me to current day. Yay! PCV site visits this weekend. I hope to keep you updated.

This is ACTUALLY happening

No more Prep Time, Maybe.

Prep Time, Definitely-Right-Now-Maybe-Even-Should've-Started-Last-Week is here.

Since I was notified in August, I've been making financial arrangements, trying to set up a new account that I can access on site, training someone at my job to take my place, and otherwise trying to get my house in order. Even in the midst of all that preparation, the Peace Corps felt abstract. It wasn't until this weekend that reality hit me.

Just last night I bought my first pair of waterproof hiking boots. I also received a monstrous suitcase and some calling cards (thanks Daniel!). I sat down and created a list of things still needed/desired and what I've come up with is listed in the sidebar. Until now I'd only made mental lists to prepare for my trip. The second that I started making purchases and writing things down (or typing them, because I'm so 3008) the more real the trip became. It sounds silly but it's true.

These past two weeks also mark the influx of e-mails, phone calls, and conversations requesting/demanding that I stay in the States. Really, guys? Since August I've heard little other than "Bon Voyage" and laughter, and now everyone is laying it on thick? I'm not sure what to think of all this. The obstacles I'll face are rough, and the comforts of home are very tempting, but I really want to do this...

I've been asked a few times, "What will you miss most while you're away?" My reply usually involves sushi, coffee, a constant electric supply and my car. But the truth should be obvious to anyone who knows me. I'll miss the people who ask me stupid questions like, "What will you miss most while you're away?" I'll miss my goofy family and friends, the people who get my odd sense of humor and my disdain for “meat pieces.” I'll miss the people who know who I am beneath my façade and love me anyway.

I'll also miss English. I'm use to manipulating language for my numerous objectives. I'm used to subtle word play and being able to express myself adequately--sort of. In Paraguay, I’ll be reduced to an infant or worse, forced to point and gesture and probably draw pictures in the dirt. Knowledge is power. I don't know Guaraní. You put it together.

But I’m not worried. The peace that transcends understanding is with me and I'm not afraid. Not really. I'm mostly excited. There is something fun and intriguing about being tossed into shark infested waters and being told to find land. I'll be like a humanitarian SEAL, right? Except in my case, finding land leads to self discovery and the edification of those around me. At least that is what I am hoping for.

Prep Time...maybe later?

Yo--

This first posting is my attempt to make sure that I know how all this works. I have avoided blogs for so long (figuring that if we cared enough about how things were going, we'd pick up a freakin telephone) but since I will be going away for 27 months, a quick phone call or text may not do the trick.

Welcome to ericaspcblog! I was invited to Paraguay back in August; my staging and subsequent departure takes place Feb 8, 2010. I'm more excited than nervous, though that may change closer to departure. Or not :o)

I'll keep you posted. Thanks for reading!