Bull Eggs
It’s a normal day at around 4:30 and its t-ray, or terere time. I’ve just been working on the farm of my neighbor all morning harvesting beans and I’m super jolly to be quenching my thirst on top of a hill full of grazing cows and a view that overlooks a sea of green and yellow sugar cane. We’re sitting next to a newly sprouting grape vine and under a giant mango tree that has been sending mangos on suicidal face dives for months on end now. I find the mangos to be nothing short of the 8th wonder of the world but to my neighbors their abundance is so overwhelming that they’ve become apathetic toward them. But in general, nothing out the usual, just sitting there having a standard conversation about nothing; the lack of rain, the fact it was recently discovered the President of Paraguay had 2 love children while he was priest, the upcoming quinceanera birthday party on Saturday and a whole mixed bag of other goodies. From that mixed bag I with old time classic “what did you have for lunch?” The very common response of empanadas was given and I should have sufficed, but it didn’t. I followed up. “What kind of empanadas?” I asked. He finished sucking the ‘remaining drops out of the guampa and pointed to a brown bull out in the distance. “You see that bull out there? We stuffed the empanadas with his eggs.” Haha very funny I said, I know that bulls don’t lay eggs. No no he assured me—we ate his eggs. I quickly tried to picture the flashcard I’d made for egg in guarani. There’s no way bulls lay eggs is there? Could that really be what he said? I kept on asking him the question, each time a little slower and louder —as if talking into a cell phone that’s getting really bad reception “you ate the eggs of a bull?” He not only assured me that I had spoken correctly but also did this whole Italian thing whereby he brought his hand to his mouth and made a kissing sound in order to signify the deliciousness of the eggs. In the midst of my confusion I asked “So where do these eggs come from, out of its ass?” No no no he told me. Not those eggs but HIS EGGS. As he said this he made a motion with his hands in front of him as if he was weighing one object in each hand to see which was heavier—left hand or right hand. And it dawned on me, like a child who finally understands the dilemma of the birds and bees, he ate bull testicle empanadas for lunch. My stomach threw itself into a pretzel. It was like that time I was drunkenly walking around a party looking for a sobering cup up water. Shining like the sorcerer’s stone on the table, there it was, a freezing cup of water. I picked it up and as I took a gulp I realize I’d mistaken the water for H2O’s longtime archrival, cheap vodka. I’d smelt before I’d tasted it but it had already been too late. I coughed the vodka back up and threw up in my mouth a little bit. Little did I know it in those days, but accidently drinking vodka is a lot like finding out your neighbor has just eaten the balls of a bull, and loved every bite of them. When our t-ray session was over I scurried on home with a hop in my stop-- I’d never been so excited to go home and make myself a bowl of vegetarian fried rice— for the 3rd night in a row.
Talk to the hand cuz yo breath aint fresh?
The other day I was in the pueblo teaching at the “Centro Abierto”. I mentioned it earlier as a home where a nun runs a morning school for what she calls “street kids”. Most of them have horrific family lives and are very poor so La Hermana Araceli runs a center where they come eat breakfast, go to classes, and finish with lunch. All classes are taught by volunteers in the community and the meals given for free to the kids.
I have been teaching there one day a week since I arrived in site. I take my guitar and sing songs and teach them about geography. Were currently writing a ditty about the 5, not 7, continents they teach here. I’m also starting yet another world map with them next week.
About a month ago a new girl started at the Centro Abierto, a cute 5 year old named Silvia. Silvia is tiny, like most five year olds but carries herself like a Fortune 500 executive. She arrived that first day and immediately took a liking to me. We spent that whole day together. I was holding her tiny hand, spinning her like a ballerina, and throwing her up in the air. Like the beginning of most great relationships, it was right out of a movie. As the day came to a close she pulled my ear to hear mouth to tell me a secret. “My parents split up and my dad already got married to another woman. Therefore, I don’t have a dad anymore but at least I have a mom.”
Every morning after breakfast and giving thanks to god for the food that they’ve just eaten, Silvia does a b-line for me and I give her a big hug. Ever since confiding in me she’s stayed glued to my side. Sometimes I feel bad about not sharing me attention enough but I just can’t get enough of this precious little girl. .
So while were outside at recess I snuck over to see what three girls, about age 8, were doing so privately in corner with notebooks in hand. Silvia latched onto me, like always, and we approached the girls. As luck would have it they were practicing their reading skills and asked for my help. As I joined them on a log next to a hop-scotch whose lines had been drawn into the dirt I was instantly transformed into Adam Sandler in Big Daddy when he’s at the playground telling little kids about “YooHoo with a little rum”. I thought to myself “Just chillin with some 5 and 8 year olds at recess—all I’m missing now is a cold chocolate milk. As we sounded out words together, which is ten times easier to teach in Spanish than in English, I had an absolutely heart melting moment.
One of the 8 year olds said something to me. I thought I understood what she said but it made no sense so I repeated the sentence looking for confirmation. The 8 year olds laughed at me because I’d obviously misheard a word and the catty one of the group proceeded to say “You don’t even understand Spanish OR Guarani!” Before I could even laugh at the absurdity of saying such a thing after I had only confused one little word, Silvia put her hands on her hips and threw the laughing girls a look that only the female species is capable of giving. With conviction she said “Pero EL procura, But HE tries!”. It was so incredibly cute that my heart started spilling over like an ice cream cone in the Paraguayan sun. I was one step away from throwing Silvia in my backpack, grabbing a bus to the airport and buying a one way ticket back to The States. It was the only time anyone has ever defended me since I got here-- and it came from a 5 year old named Silvia.
Me and my cougar
I came zooming down the hill on my bike, like I do every time I’m coming home from the pueblo, and I heard an unexpected yell from my girlfriend. As I had already passed the house where she was drinking terere with her daughter, I did a quick Uie and clapped outside their gate. Enguahe Mateo. I entered saying the standard permiso and walked up to my girlfriend and gave her the customary two kisses, one on each cheek. Eguapy, And I was sitting down in the t-ray circle. I gave a firm smile to my girlfriend and told her that I would have passed them by had I not heard her voice.
Backtracking for a second here— this hot and heavy relationship between us started about six months ago, as soon as I moved into my current house in the compania. On that lovely day, my neighbor, in his 40’s, had so kindly invited me to eat lunch with them and said that a special little lady who was really excited to meet me, HIS MOTHER. We met and immediately hit it off. She was exactly the kind of old women that couldn’t get enough of my Guarani and laughed at just about everything that everyone said. Just a happy go lucky women in her mid 70’s.
Since meeting her I’ve been frequently invited for lunch when my neighbors know she is going to be there. We always have a good time joking around. She has one of those infectious laughs and the way she scrunches together the web of wrinkles on her face while giggling just kills me. In the midst of a joke one day I must have asked her if she wanted to be my girlfriend. She thankfully accepted and the joke has been running like the wind ever since.
Back to this particular day when she hollered at me as I passed by—After un buen terere I was invited inside to eat lunch with the family. Lunch was normal, the standard meat and pasta I’ve grow so accustomed to, but it was during the clean up that thing got a little awkward. My girlfriend was behind and had asked me a question. I did a quick180 so I could answer her and in the process swung my hand around over the back of the chair. It all happened so fast are the only words I can use to describe what had just occured. You see, when I had swung my arm around while turning to face her— I had smacked the absolute crap out of her boob— and we’re talking about an absolutely enormous boob, one not being supported by a bra, and with the kind of gravity compliance technology that only women in their 70’s are equipped with. I was shell-shocked. Do I say something—and acknowledge that I’ve just smacked the ever living shit out of this women’s pecho, or just act like nothing happened. I chose option two and quickly asked if I could help with any of the dishes.
Neither of us has ever acknowledged what happened. It’s like an unspoken silence that says “We both know I’ve been to second base with you, but let’s just leave it at that”
Is god living in my vegetable garden?
I must have been 17, because I remember there was 9/11 coverage on the TV. I was sitting in my living room with my dad. We turned off the TV and started in on a conversation about god. A pretty normal phase I’d say—I wanted proof that a god existed and I wasn’t going to believe in a higher power until I had it. I remember thinking “Just flip on the TV and see for yourself if you’re looking for a reason to denounce religion. People killing in the name of god and this is the kind of madness I’m supposed to take shelter in?” I remember expressing my frustration with my dad and him being sympathetic. He said something to the tune of “I understand your confusion. It’s quite a common doubt, but I think one day when you have kids of your own you’ll understand.”
¨Having kids” I though. “What does that have to do with god?”
He responded calmly with a you’ll see and my mind started wondering.
“Wait, so you’re not going to start in on some verse about how Moses parted the red sea and we escaped from slavery, and that should be my proof?” His response had surprised me. I guess I had already prepared myself to dismiss anything my dad said, but this whole kids of your own schpeal really took me off guard. It made me think, you know childbirth is a pretty unbelievable process—almost literally unbelievable.
Up until recently I had no way of even remotely comparing the incredibleness of bringing new life into this world, until I started my vegetable garden. Of course, I realize that vegetable gardens may seem like peas in comparison to child birth, but have you ever had a vegetable garden?
I have become quite fond of my garden. I wake every morning and the first thing I do is water it. It’s probably the best part of my day. It’s super quiet, there’s a chill in the air, my neighbor is milking her cow, and all the plants look gorgeous from the morning dew. After a million failed attempts at a whole range of veggies, I’ve finally started to actually eat a little bit out of my garden—peppers, lettuce, onions, corn, beans. I know it may seem like nothing, but to me it has been amazing source of fulfillment.
Yes, I have worked on a lot of farms since I got here. I’ve planted, hoed, and harvested an assortment of fruits and vegetables—but nothing is quite like doing it all yourself. To take a tiny little seed, no bigger than a thumb tack, put it into the earth, tend to the soil, and then eat its fruit just a few months later is simply euphoric.
Te pongo un ejemplo: How amazing is it that a tiny lettuce seed, about the size of a poppy seed, could be put into the ground and two months later give you a full head of lettuce. The only thing it asks in return is that you supply it with nutrient filled soil and clean up any weeds that grow around it. Imagine that, just for a minute— A POPPY SEED. It’s absolutely tiny. Imagine stripping it off your next Panera bagel, ripping a chunk of grass out of your yard and planting that little seed in its place. Then, to think that very head of lettuce you just bought at the grocery store was produced just like that. And to top it all off, if you want to wait a little while longer before ripping out that lettuce, it will make pods on top and give you plenty of seeds to go ahead and replant that delicious vegetable.
I don’t know if you’re thinking, “Wow Matt has really started smoking a lot of pot since joining the Peace Corps” or if this is actually interesting, but to me this incredible process is beyond explanation. Obviously there is a scientific explanation—but are kidding me, the size of poppy seed? Or in my dad’s example— the size of a tiny sperm?
Trust me, I know these are anything but new realizations, but in a world where something like 9/11 can attempt to crush the spirit inside of us, sometimes all it takes is a father’s perspective, or a simple vegetable garden, to remind us of that we’re just pieces of a puzzle, a really big incredible puzzle.
(Side note: I realize the above portion may seem preachy or elementary but I spent 23 years of my life and the only fruits and vegetables I’d seen were corn growing on the side of the highway and apples when we went picking for them as a little kid. I’ve gone to the grocery store a million times and it never occurred to me the mind blowing process that fills the produce section. I will surely never be able to see it the same.)
Opa for now but it shouldn’t be too long until my next post. Cuidense!
Thursday, April 23, 2009
Thursday, March 5, 2009
The Legend of Pinkey and Lovey
Let’s jump right into it…
Dog, man’s best friend, or should I say guardian
Before getting into one of the more impressive dog stories I have ever encountered I must explain a little bit about the differences between dogs here and back in The States.
As we all know, back in The States dogs have the reputation of being our friends, but here in Paraguay they are used to safeguard homes and prevent animals from entering your yard. (Cows, bulls, chickens, pigs and other animals can be commonly found roaming around or lost. That’s why every home has a 4ft high fence made of a few rows of barbed wire) With that said, dogs can still be incredibly affectionate to their owners but that is almost never seen because owners show no affection toward the dogs. Therefore, dogs are most commonly paid attention to when anything foreign approaches a house. When something does, the dogs shoot out from under the barbed-wire fence and start barking their heads off at the foreign object. That foreign object could consist of any animal but could also be a car or person. Regardless of the type of dog, it is absolutely guaranteed to be utterly ferocious in the defense of its property.
Ok, moving closer to the story here. I’m sure that you remember that before moving to my own house I was living in the pueblo* with the sweetest women and her four kids. (She’s still my best Paraguayan friend) During my two months I guess you could say that I became very fond of their two dogs, Lovey and Pinkey. When I first moved in I began to show them some “normal American dog affection” and throughout my duration they would get super excited to see me every morning. Upon opening my door they run up to me and in the midst of their exuberation it looked almost as if they were dancing as crazily as that super sweaty dude at a concert who bounces around like a pinball trying to start a mosh-pit but eventually realizes he’s at a rock show and not a Maralyn Monson concert. Ever since I moved out they still definitely recognize me but it’s never been the same…until I spent a ton of time at their house the last few weeks because I was working on a near-by project.
*(A pueblo being little town centers with shops and a market)
The day was like any other. I finished my business in the pueblo and went over to Gloria’s house to get my bike and start on my four mile bike ride home. As I made my way into the distance I noticed that Pinkey and Lovey were still following me, a very common occurrence had I been on foot. But I most certainly wasn’t on foot. In fact the first two miles of my ride are beside a road where cars, trucks and motorcycles pass quite frequently. As I rode my bike alongside the road, the dogs had no regard for the automobiles in the street and were running on top of the pavement in my defense. In addition to protecting me from automobiles they were simultaneously fighting off dog after dog. You see, every house I pass on the road has a dog and when they see these foreign dogs approaching their turf they shoot out as if they were a greyhound at the dog track in the defense of their house. Pinkey and Lovey were continually trying to keep pace with me while barking with all their might at oncoming dogs. I was sporadically trying to burn out in attempts to lose them but they stayed right with me as if I was Obama on his way to give his inauguration speech. We got a good mile in and I stopped to call Gloria. She told me to just keep on going and eventually they’d turn around. I tried everything I could to get them to head home but it was about as useless as trying to buy an individual lawn chair. A mile later as I approached my dirt road they were still with me every step of the way. I called Gloria again and she told me she’d send one of her kids to come get the dogs once her kids got home…which wasn’t soon enough.
I entered the dirt road that would take me the next few miles and was witness to one of the more amazing 15 minutes I have ever seen. As I passed the 60 or so house that lay ahead of me, EVERY SINGLE HOUSE seemed to have a dog fly out of its yard and bark its ever living guts out at Pinkey and Lovey. Every 50 meters a new barking match, and super high intensity. We’re talking about only the kind of intensity that can been seen at a little league baseball game when the umpire makes a tough call and two opposing parents start in on a yelling match. The one outraged parents throw their lawn chair to the ground and start yelling. Seconds later an opposing parent throws out a “O why don’t you sit down?!”. The outraged parent then maturely replies with a “why don’t you make me?”. As they realize they’re the only two lunatics this worked up by a little league baseball game they begin to justify their actions by walking toward each other and yelling. As they get closer, sleeves are being rolled up and an embarrassing comb-over is exposed as an Ellisville Sharks baseball cap is thrown to the ground by a gust of wind and a bulging vain. Both faces light up bright red and a call from a disgusted wife says something like “now this really mature”. Their faces are almost smashed together as they have now entered “the zone of detectable bad breath and unwanted nose hair”. By now, spit it flying out so liberally from both of their mouths that if you could somehow capture it all if would constitute a productive step in combating the effects of global warming. That’s how intense each of these confrontations is.
And for me, I was like that parent in the top row of the bleachers just looking down on it all. This is because I was up on my bike going down a hill and I could see every situation developing as we continued to make our way to my house. With every finished barking match, they would move on but they had also just notified the upcoming dogs that something was a comin’. It made me feel like I was in the press box watching a football game where one team has just done a reverse, trying to run from one side of the field to the other. Those players close to the guy with the ball are darting over to try and make the tackle but the defensive backs who are far from the ball are sloooowy but surely make their way to other side of the field, or in this case, the road. Still on my bike, I was watching as each barking match developed, fall behind me, and catch back up with me without fail. Every new house we reached I was biting my lip that much harder because I was sure, as my mom would say, “somebody is going to get hurt”. The obviously ironic part of the ride is that they were acting as MY body guard yet I was the one scared out of my mind for them.
As we made our way into my yard 15 minutes later my heart began to slow and I took a glance back to see two limping dogs still running after me. By now it was slightly raining and I felt pretty sure that Gloria’s kids were not going to be coming out that night. I walked up to my little gate (see previous blog hammock picture), and closed it behind me as to leave the dogs staring up adoringly at me. I turning around looking out and once again felt like Obama, except now I had arrived on the stage, with my protective shield and two bodyguards by my side. I licked my lips, raised one finger in the air, and started in on a speech about how providing unsolicited security on foreign land is exactly the kind of action that leads to more violence than if no security was provided for in the first place.
I went inside and began to boil some pasta for the dogs and as I did they were STILL as ferocious as ever, except now they were defending my yard against the cows and bulls that are constantly around my house. These animals are ten times the size of these dogs and yet at the first sign of making a move toward my barbed wire fence, which they stand no chance of entering, Pinkey and Lovey were constantly darting out and barking at these giants until I woke up 10 house later to find a super rainy day and two dogs that had made their way home in the middle of the night.
It’s 1pm on a Friday afternoon
and I have left the house only to get milk and eggs from my neighbor. My laziness can be attributed to the fact that it’s been raining all day-- and when you life in a world of dirt roads there’s nowhere to go in ankle deep mud. I would say is about the equivalent of a sleet storm in the states, completely debilitating.
Luckily, the senora with the eggs and milk was making beans and since she and all my other neighbors think BEANS is my favorite food I was offered a plate to bring back to my house. You may be asking “How could beans be anybody’s favorite food?” Well I’ll tell you. The honest truth is that I really don’t like beans that much BUT I’ve made it very clear to anybody that asks me what I like to eat, I LOVE BEANS. The reason for this goes back to what I’ve mentioned about a lot of fried food and fatty meat being consumed by my neighbors and to put it nicely, I simply prefer the beans. It’s also really comical to my neighbors that I love beans because beans are kind of a “poor man’s” food. According to the stereotype, they are what you eat when you don’t have money for meat. There is a popular saying in Guarani “hendy kavaju resa”. It means that the eyes of your horse are lit up because he’s starving. It’s used to mean “times are tough right now”.
The reason for even writing right now is because I’m waiting for the rain to stop so I can head into my pueblo and finish painting a huge world map with a bunch of kids on the wall of my cooperative. But, before getting into that project I’ve got to backtrack a bit and explain why I’m doing the map in the first place.
Like I mentioned in the last blog, it’s hard for us to get integrated due to language and cultural constraints. Therefore, a common project that volunteers have done in the first part of their service is paint a world map in a visible place. It is a very educational, low cost, highly interactive project-- so for someone like me who can easily lose themselves staring at a map, I knew this was definitely a project with my name all over it.
My first of two recent maps was done when I went to my buddy Eric’s site a few weeks back. He had decided that he was going to paint a big map right on the front of his house and so I went out to help him. Can you imagine how outrageous painting a map on your house would be if this were The States...absolutely absurd. Anyway, my buddy lives about 10 miles from the nearest pueblo. The only way for him to get out to his site from the pueblo is by taking a 4:30 AM bus or in this case at Noon on Sundays.
I arrived on a Sunday morning so he met me in the pueblo. We went and bought a ton of paint supplies and also a ton of groceries for his new house. As we began to schlep several heavily loaded bags to the bus stop it started to rain. We both knew what this meant…the bus may not come because when it rains the bus doesn’t drive on the muddy road. We started asking around town if the bus was going to come and it seemed every person we asked said yes but gave us a different departure time. When it was all said and done we had waited 6 hours for a bus that never came. Por suerte, there is another volunteer that lives in this pueblo and we were able to go crash at his house. We popped in a DVD on his laptop and were instantly transformed to another world—a world where instead of busses being cancelled because of rain, you watch DVD’s on the bus.
So we wake up at 4am to once again schlep all the paint and groceries to the bus stop (a mile or so) and begin waiting. This time we only waited an hour and a half to give up on the bus and went back to our buddy’s house to get some more sleep. We knew another bus wasn’t coming later that day so we started the trek on foot so we could hitchhike out to his house. After a bumpy ride in the bed of a late ‘80s model F150 we got to his house and began working on the map.
Drawing a big map is actually a lot easier than it sounds because we had a book with great instructions that makes it pretty easy. Almost 36 hours later the map was done and we had a crowd of about 10 of Eric’s neighbors watching us apply the finishing touches.
This crowd I just mentioned is the exact reason for doing the map in the first place. To spark interest in not only Geography but the million other questions that come to mind when looking at a world map. In the case of these very rural Paraguayans, the chance to look a map is actually quite a rare thing. I’d say that in the course of our 36 hours of map making about one third of our mostly adult onlookers could not find Paraguay on the map and another third couldn’t indentify Paraguay’s neighbors. Most shockingly, there was also a fair percentage that weren’t exactly sure what was before their eyes—meaning there was no little or no connection between the painted colors on a wall and a world map. Many knew it was a map but didn’t know of what. They were literally that unfamiliar with a world map. I hope it goes without say that I’m not trying to put down Paraguayans but highlight the incredibly learning opportunity a map can present. They are incredibly smart and have incredibly large skills sets. Access to education is clearly where this unfamiliarity comes from.
As we sat in front of the map taking pulls of boxed wine, we were almost brought to tears seeing our group of onlookers still standing around discussing the map hours after coming up to see what we were doing. I was witness to a million amazing questions about religion, culture, attractiveness of the opposite sex in a particular country, animals, history and many other things-- all because the map was there to spark enormous curiosity in Eric’s neighbors. To say the least, we felt it was a huge a success—even if that one night is the only learning experience that comes out of the map.
So of course, the first thing I did when I got to my site was ask the manager of the cooperative if I could paint a huge map on the coop wall and draw lines from Paraguay to all the different countries that the coop is exporting it’s sugar. He gave me the OK and I got to work.
My idea, a little different from Eric’s was to first draw the map in pencil and then go to the radio and invite all the kids in town to come and paint the countries. That way, while they painted I could share what knowledge I have of the map and quiz them on what country/continent they were painting. As I write this I can say my map is about 95% done. It’s missing the exportation lines and the names of the countries but all the hard work was done.
When I refer to hard work I guess you could say that I’m referring to drawing the map, directing the kids, organizing all the materials, fixing a million coloring mistakes and setting up and taking down the stage every day for two weeks. We needed the stage because the map is huge and we needed something for the kids to climb on to reach the map. To be honest, I only mention the stage to share what was running through my head every time a kid climbed up or down the ladder to get on or off the stage.
Well first I was thinking, “ojala no se caiga”/“please god don’t fall”. But then after that I was repetitively thinking that if we were in the The States I would have had to jump through a million hoops to get all necessary permission and insurance to be able to let a group of sometimes seven or eight kids stand together on a four foot high stage that is literally right on a road where cars pass. I was just amazed at what life is like without permission slips or the thought of getting sued if someone were to get hurt. It’s literally not even on their register. I am oftentimes incredibly perplexed by a lifestyle that doesn’t involve so many rules —which is a lifestyle that can only be properly brought to life on a bus ride in the country’s capital, Asuncion.
Taking the Bus in Asuncion
You may remember me talking about crazy “bus life” in a previous blog. That part was about my bus rides during training when I was going to and from the training facility and my site. As crazy as those rides were, some of the rides in the capital of more than a million inhabitants are even crazier, but in their own way. The following paragraph will take you through an actual bus ride that I had between the Peace Corps office and a shopping mall about two miles down the street.
So I scoot out of the PC office and make my way to the main road, a four lane busy street with all sorts of stores, restaurants, and supermarkets on both sides. I look back and see that my bus is coming so I throw my arm up to flag it down. It doesn’t matter that I happen to be right in front of an intersection or that there is an actual bus stop 30 meters ahead of me, flag the bus down wherever you so please and it will stop to pick you up. So I pull my money out and hand it to the driver. Before even looking at the money he starts driving again. He shoots a glance at the money and hands me my receipt. We’re off and driving on a busy four lane street and meanwhile he throws my money in his little drawer and begins to make change…still while driving. This skill has been mastered through an ancient Paraguayan art which involves the counting/sifting of money while driving a bus full of passengers on a busy road. I finally get to my seat and look out the window. I see a pick-up truck with, wait…count em, 8 POLICEMEN sitting around the outer edges of the bed of a pick-up truck. No, that’s no misprint…I did write POLICEMEN. The actual police in the most progressive city in Paraguay stuff themselves 8 deep into the cab of a pick-up truck while on a busy road and ride around looking for beautiful women. (That’s a personal opinion) It actually reminds me a lot of my high school days, expect in the case of the policemen they actually end up talking to the beautiful women. Anyway, my eyes shoot to the front of the bus and a man wearing what I call “an actor’s book bag” puts his bag down and wipes the sweat off his brow. (An actor’s book bag is one of those bags that is kind of like a male purse and is worn with the strap cutting the chest in half. It’s almost like a laptop bag but only more stylish) So the actor’s book bag man starts in with his routine… “disculpa la molestia senores y senoras…” He then continues for the next minute explaining the counterfeit CDs he’s got in his bag. He describes how every CD is a different genre containing hits from the previous year and a hodgepodge of 80’s classics—Paraguay’s favorite decade of American music. He finishes up and tells us the price, 5 Guaranis/$1 for each CD which contain more than 100 songs each. Then he waits for that crucial second for everyone to look away and he gets right back at it “But, but , but!, today I have the special privilege of offering you three CDs for only 10 Guaranis or if you buy four CDs it will only cost you15 Guaranis PLUS, I’ll throw in a special CD containing all sorts of Regaeton you’ve never heard--for free!” It’s all very entertaining and these guys who sell the CD’s are very good at what they do. I’d almost put them on par with the people who run those late night infomercials about slicers and dicers. I can’t tell you how many times I made a move toward the phone after seeing a dozen different fruits and vegetables get diced or blended up in the matter of seconds. Late night infomercials never fail to make life seem easy. But getting back to the bus yet staying with fruits and vegetables—as the man with actor’s bag makes his way towards the exit in back, a group of fruit venders spay their respective fruits with water as if it were a produce section on wheels. The only difference is that those nice little sprinklers hanging from glistening mirrors have been replaced by dirty 12 oz spray bottles. In one hand their basket of fruit and with the other they shake the hand of the bus driver. That hand shake symbolizes: “I’m not here to ride your bus, just here to take advantage of the market you’ve so kindly gathered up for me”. As they file in like a pack of ants they try to make eye contact with every person on the bus in an attempt to sell anything from apples and watermelon to tomatoes and strawberries. Seconds later the line has made its way to the back of the bus; they all hop off and begin to flag down the next approaching bus. Meanwhile, I haven’t yet made it to my stop but the guy next to me has. He gets up and pulls the cord. The driver would gladly let him off here but because he has to make a left turn he’s moved to the center lane. We’ve come to a stop in a now six lane intersection and the guy who just pulled the chord simple walks straight off the bus through a door that was never even closed. That’s right. The front and back doors of busses quite often stay open all the time. That means not only can people potentially hop off whenever they want, like this guy, but it also means that when the bus is crowded (quite often) that people are literally hanging on for dear life as they stand in aisles and doorframes as the bus is moving . I eventually get off and walk into a mall full of gelled hair, food courts, McDonalds and a movie theater. For me, the last 15 minutes of my life has just defined “being in a developing country”.
Looking for a good most embarrassing story
One of the most commonly used ice-breakers is going around telling new people your most embarrassing story. In my case, I feel like I can never think of a good one and always get frustrated because I know I must have some good ones out there. Anyway, this next little story is about how I think I may have found a keeper…that’s if I get caught.
Let me begin by saying that many situations like the previous bus story don’t even begin to faze me anymore; it’s just how things are now. But sometimes I catch myself laughing at myself, and that usually means its fit for a good blog story. This particular story has to do with that little spray bottle that the fruit venders use to spray their fruit. Although I haven’t become a fruit salesman quite yet, I am consistently using one of those spray bottles. I use it on really hot nights to douse my bed and body before going to sleep. I do this to help me stay cool as I try to fall asleep. The part of the story that still makes me laugh is when I spray myself down with the water bottle. I stand there under my fan wearing nothing but my boxers and my glasses I begin to pulverize my neck, arms, chest, stomach and legs with water-- and for those few seconds I feel like a model preparing for a photo shoot. But in reality I can’t help but always think that if my friends back home saw what I was doing right now they’d probably be crapping their pants laughing. And the kicker is, because the next thing I do is read, I’m usually too lazy to take off my glasses and while spraying myself I end up waving my head around in all sorts of directions to prevent the water from blowing up into my glasses. It makes me think of when I was in camp in the 7th grade and one of my friends caught another friend examining his biceps in the mirror. We joked about it forever and I remember thinking how embarrassing that was for my friend who got caught. I have no doubt that if I were caught pulverizing myself with that spray bottle that I would absolutely have my new most embarrassing story.
That’s it for today. Any questions…honestly, do you all have any questions?
I have to say that I recently read an absolutely fascinating book called “Confessions of an Economic Hit Man” by John Perkins. I highly recommend it. Ya esta.
Hasta luego.
Dog, man’s best friend, or should I say guardian
Before getting into one of the more impressive dog stories I have ever encountered I must explain a little bit about the differences between dogs here and back in The States.
As we all know, back in The States dogs have the reputation of being our friends, but here in Paraguay they are used to safeguard homes and prevent animals from entering your yard. (Cows, bulls, chickens, pigs and other animals can be commonly found roaming around or lost. That’s why every home has a 4ft high fence made of a few rows of barbed wire) With that said, dogs can still be incredibly affectionate to their owners but that is almost never seen because owners show no affection toward the dogs. Therefore, dogs are most commonly paid attention to when anything foreign approaches a house. When something does, the dogs shoot out from under the barbed-wire fence and start barking their heads off at the foreign object. That foreign object could consist of any animal but could also be a car or person. Regardless of the type of dog, it is absolutely guaranteed to be utterly ferocious in the defense of its property.
Ok, moving closer to the story here. I’m sure that you remember that before moving to my own house I was living in the pueblo* with the sweetest women and her four kids. (She’s still my best Paraguayan friend) During my two months I guess you could say that I became very fond of their two dogs, Lovey and Pinkey. When I first moved in I began to show them some “normal American dog affection” and throughout my duration they would get super excited to see me every morning. Upon opening my door they run up to me and in the midst of their exuberation it looked almost as if they were dancing as crazily as that super sweaty dude at a concert who bounces around like a pinball trying to start a mosh-pit but eventually realizes he’s at a rock show and not a Maralyn Monson concert. Ever since I moved out they still definitely recognize me but it’s never been the same…until I spent a ton of time at their house the last few weeks because I was working on a near-by project.
*(A pueblo being little town centers with shops and a market)
The day was like any other. I finished my business in the pueblo and went over to Gloria’s house to get my bike and start on my four mile bike ride home. As I made my way into the distance I noticed that Pinkey and Lovey were still following me, a very common occurrence had I been on foot. But I most certainly wasn’t on foot. In fact the first two miles of my ride are beside a road where cars, trucks and motorcycles pass quite frequently. As I rode my bike alongside the road, the dogs had no regard for the automobiles in the street and were running on top of the pavement in my defense. In addition to protecting me from automobiles they were simultaneously fighting off dog after dog. You see, every house I pass on the road has a dog and when they see these foreign dogs approaching their turf they shoot out as if they were a greyhound at the dog track in the defense of their house. Pinkey and Lovey were continually trying to keep pace with me while barking with all their might at oncoming dogs. I was sporadically trying to burn out in attempts to lose them but they stayed right with me as if I was Obama on his way to give his inauguration speech. We got a good mile in and I stopped to call Gloria. She told me to just keep on going and eventually they’d turn around. I tried everything I could to get them to head home but it was about as useless as trying to buy an individual lawn chair. A mile later as I approached my dirt road they were still with me every step of the way. I called Gloria again and she told me she’d send one of her kids to come get the dogs once her kids got home…which wasn’t soon enough.
I entered the dirt road that would take me the next few miles and was witness to one of the more amazing 15 minutes I have ever seen. As I passed the 60 or so house that lay ahead of me, EVERY SINGLE HOUSE seemed to have a dog fly out of its yard and bark its ever living guts out at Pinkey and Lovey. Every 50 meters a new barking match, and super high intensity. We’re talking about only the kind of intensity that can been seen at a little league baseball game when the umpire makes a tough call and two opposing parents start in on a yelling match. The one outraged parents throw their lawn chair to the ground and start yelling. Seconds later an opposing parent throws out a “O why don’t you sit down?!”. The outraged parent then maturely replies with a “why don’t you make me?”. As they realize they’re the only two lunatics this worked up by a little league baseball game they begin to justify their actions by walking toward each other and yelling. As they get closer, sleeves are being rolled up and an embarrassing comb-over is exposed as an Ellisville Sharks baseball cap is thrown to the ground by a gust of wind and a bulging vain. Both faces light up bright red and a call from a disgusted wife says something like “now this really mature”. Their faces are almost smashed together as they have now entered “the zone of detectable bad breath and unwanted nose hair”. By now, spit it flying out so liberally from both of their mouths that if you could somehow capture it all if would constitute a productive step in combating the effects of global warming. That’s how intense each of these confrontations is.
And for me, I was like that parent in the top row of the bleachers just looking down on it all. This is because I was up on my bike going down a hill and I could see every situation developing as we continued to make our way to my house. With every finished barking match, they would move on but they had also just notified the upcoming dogs that something was a comin’. It made me feel like I was in the press box watching a football game where one team has just done a reverse, trying to run from one side of the field to the other. Those players close to the guy with the ball are darting over to try and make the tackle but the defensive backs who are far from the ball are sloooowy but surely make their way to other side of the field, or in this case, the road. Still on my bike, I was watching as each barking match developed, fall behind me, and catch back up with me without fail. Every new house we reached I was biting my lip that much harder because I was sure, as my mom would say, “somebody is going to get hurt”. The obviously ironic part of the ride is that they were acting as MY body guard yet I was the one scared out of my mind for them.
As we made our way into my yard 15 minutes later my heart began to slow and I took a glance back to see two limping dogs still running after me. By now it was slightly raining and I felt pretty sure that Gloria’s kids were not going to be coming out that night. I walked up to my little gate (see previous blog hammock picture), and closed it behind me as to leave the dogs staring up adoringly at me. I turning around looking out and once again felt like Obama, except now I had arrived on the stage, with my protective shield and two bodyguards by my side. I licked my lips, raised one finger in the air, and started in on a speech about how providing unsolicited security on foreign land is exactly the kind of action that leads to more violence than if no security was provided for in the first place.
I went inside and began to boil some pasta for the dogs and as I did they were STILL as ferocious as ever, except now they were defending my yard against the cows and bulls that are constantly around my house. These animals are ten times the size of these dogs and yet at the first sign of making a move toward my barbed wire fence, which they stand no chance of entering, Pinkey and Lovey were constantly darting out and barking at these giants until I woke up 10 house later to find a super rainy day and two dogs that had made their way home in the middle of the night.
It’s 1pm on a Friday afternoon
and I have left the house only to get milk and eggs from my neighbor. My laziness can be attributed to the fact that it’s been raining all day-- and when you life in a world of dirt roads there’s nowhere to go in ankle deep mud. I would say is about the equivalent of a sleet storm in the states, completely debilitating.
Luckily, the senora with the eggs and milk was making beans and since she and all my other neighbors think BEANS is my favorite food I was offered a plate to bring back to my house. You may be asking “How could beans be anybody’s favorite food?” Well I’ll tell you. The honest truth is that I really don’t like beans that much BUT I’ve made it very clear to anybody that asks me what I like to eat, I LOVE BEANS. The reason for this goes back to what I’ve mentioned about a lot of fried food and fatty meat being consumed by my neighbors and to put it nicely, I simply prefer the beans. It’s also really comical to my neighbors that I love beans because beans are kind of a “poor man’s” food. According to the stereotype, they are what you eat when you don’t have money for meat. There is a popular saying in Guarani “hendy kavaju resa”. It means that the eyes of your horse are lit up because he’s starving. It’s used to mean “times are tough right now”.
The reason for even writing right now is because I’m waiting for the rain to stop so I can head into my pueblo and finish painting a huge world map with a bunch of kids on the wall of my cooperative. But, before getting into that project I’ve got to backtrack a bit and explain why I’m doing the map in the first place.
Like I mentioned in the last blog, it’s hard for us to get integrated due to language and cultural constraints. Therefore, a common project that volunteers have done in the first part of their service is paint a world map in a visible place. It is a very educational, low cost, highly interactive project-- so for someone like me who can easily lose themselves staring at a map, I knew this was definitely a project with my name all over it.
My first of two recent maps was done when I went to my buddy Eric’s site a few weeks back. He had decided that he was going to paint a big map right on the front of his house and so I went out to help him. Can you imagine how outrageous painting a map on your house would be if this were The States...absolutely absurd. Anyway, my buddy lives about 10 miles from the nearest pueblo. The only way for him to get out to his site from the pueblo is by taking a 4:30 AM bus or in this case at Noon on Sundays.
I arrived on a Sunday morning so he met me in the pueblo. We went and bought a ton of paint supplies and also a ton of groceries for his new house. As we began to schlep several heavily loaded bags to the bus stop it started to rain. We both knew what this meant…the bus may not come because when it rains the bus doesn’t drive on the muddy road. We started asking around town if the bus was going to come and it seemed every person we asked said yes but gave us a different departure time. When it was all said and done we had waited 6 hours for a bus that never came. Por suerte, there is another volunteer that lives in this pueblo and we were able to go crash at his house. We popped in a DVD on his laptop and were instantly transformed to another world—a world where instead of busses being cancelled because of rain, you watch DVD’s on the bus.
So we wake up at 4am to once again schlep all the paint and groceries to the bus stop (a mile or so) and begin waiting. This time we only waited an hour and a half to give up on the bus and went back to our buddy’s house to get some more sleep. We knew another bus wasn’t coming later that day so we started the trek on foot so we could hitchhike out to his house. After a bumpy ride in the bed of a late ‘80s model F150 we got to his house and began working on the map.
Drawing a big map is actually a lot easier than it sounds because we had a book with great instructions that makes it pretty easy. Almost 36 hours later the map was done and we had a crowd of about 10 of Eric’s neighbors watching us apply the finishing touches.
This crowd I just mentioned is the exact reason for doing the map in the first place. To spark interest in not only Geography but the million other questions that come to mind when looking at a world map. In the case of these very rural Paraguayans, the chance to look a map is actually quite a rare thing. I’d say that in the course of our 36 hours of map making about one third of our mostly adult onlookers could not find Paraguay on the map and another third couldn’t indentify Paraguay’s neighbors. Most shockingly, there was also a fair percentage that weren’t exactly sure what was before their eyes—meaning there was no little or no connection between the painted colors on a wall and a world map. Many knew it was a map but didn’t know of what. They were literally that unfamiliar with a world map. I hope it goes without say that I’m not trying to put down Paraguayans but highlight the incredibly learning opportunity a map can present. They are incredibly smart and have incredibly large skills sets. Access to education is clearly where this unfamiliarity comes from.
As we sat in front of the map taking pulls of boxed wine, we were almost brought to tears seeing our group of onlookers still standing around discussing the map hours after coming up to see what we were doing. I was witness to a million amazing questions about religion, culture, attractiveness of the opposite sex in a particular country, animals, history and many other things-- all because the map was there to spark enormous curiosity in Eric’s neighbors. To say the least, we felt it was a huge a success—even if that one night is the only learning experience that comes out of the map.
So of course, the first thing I did when I got to my site was ask the manager of the cooperative if I could paint a huge map on the coop wall and draw lines from Paraguay to all the different countries that the coop is exporting it’s sugar. He gave me the OK and I got to work.
My idea, a little different from Eric’s was to first draw the map in pencil and then go to the radio and invite all the kids in town to come and paint the countries. That way, while they painted I could share what knowledge I have of the map and quiz them on what country/continent they were painting. As I write this I can say my map is about 95% done. It’s missing the exportation lines and the names of the countries but all the hard work was done.
When I refer to hard work I guess you could say that I’m referring to drawing the map, directing the kids, organizing all the materials, fixing a million coloring mistakes and setting up and taking down the stage every day for two weeks. We needed the stage because the map is huge and we needed something for the kids to climb on to reach the map. To be honest, I only mention the stage to share what was running through my head every time a kid climbed up or down the ladder to get on or off the stage.
Well first I was thinking, “ojala no se caiga”/“please god don’t fall”. But then after that I was repetitively thinking that if we were in the The States I would have had to jump through a million hoops to get all necessary permission and insurance to be able to let a group of sometimes seven or eight kids stand together on a four foot high stage that is literally right on a road where cars pass. I was just amazed at what life is like without permission slips or the thought of getting sued if someone were to get hurt. It’s literally not even on their register. I am oftentimes incredibly perplexed by a lifestyle that doesn’t involve so many rules —which is a lifestyle that can only be properly brought to life on a bus ride in the country’s capital, Asuncion.
Taking the Bus in Asuncion
You may remember me talking about crazy “bus life” in a previous blog. That part was about my bus rides during training when I was going to and from the training facility and my site. As crazy as those rides were, some of the rides in the capital of more than a million inhabitants are even crazier, but in their own way. The following paragraph will take you through an actual bus ride that I had between the Peace Corps office and a shopping mall about two miles down the street.
So I scoot out of the PC office and make my way to the main road, a four lane busy street with all sorts of stores, restaurants, and supermarkets on both sides. I look back and see that my bus is coming so I throw my arm up to flag it down. It doesn’t matter that I happen to be right in front of an intersection or that there is an actual bus stop 30 meters ahead of me, flag the bus down wherever you so please and it will stop to pick you up. So I pull my money out and hand it to the driver. Before even looking at the money he starts driving again. He shoots a glance at the money and hands me my receipt. We’re off and driving on a busy four lane street and meanwhile he throws my money in his little drawer and begins to make change…still while driving. This skill has been mastered through an ancient Paraguayan art which involves the counting/sifting of money while driving a bus full of passengers on a busy road. I finally get to my seat and look out the window. I see a pick-up truck with, wait…count em, 8 POLICEMEN sitting around the outer edges of the bed of a pick-up truck. No, that’s no misprint…I did write POLICEMEN. The actual police in the most progressive city in Paraguay stuff themselves 8 deep into the cab of a pick-up truck while on a busy road and ride around looking for beautiful women. (That’s a personal opinion) It actually reminds me a lot of my high school days, expect in the case of the policemen they actually end up talking to the beautiful women. Anyway, my eyes shoot to the front of the bus and a man wearing what I call “an actor’s book bag” puts his bag down and wipes the sweat off his brow. (An actor’s book bag is one of those bags that is kind of like a male purse and is worn with the strap cutting the chest in half. It’s almost like a laptop bag but only more stylish) So the actor’s book bag man starts in with his routine… “disculpa la molestia senores y senoras…” He then continues for the next minute explaining the counterfeit CDs he’s got in his bag. He describes how every CD is a different genre containing hits from the previous year and a hodgepodge of 80’s classics—Paraguay’s favorite decade of American music. He finishes up and tells us the price, 5 Guaranis/$1 for each CD which contain more than 100 songs each. Then he waits for that crucial second for everyone to look away and he gets right back at it “But, but , but!, today I have the special privilege of offering you three CDs for only 10 Guaranis or if you buy four CDs it will only cost you15 Guaranis PLUS, I’ll throw in a special CD containing all sorts of Regaeton you’ve never heard--for free!” It’s all very entertaining and these guys who sell the CD’s are very good at what they do. I’d almost put them on par with the people who run those late night infomercials about slicers and dicers. I can’t tell you how many times I made a move toward the phone after seeing a dozen different fruits and vegetables get diced or blended up in the matter of seconds. Late night infomercials never fail to make life seem easy. But getting back to the bus yet staying with fruits and vegetables—as the man with actor’s bag makes his way towards the exit in back, a group of fruit venders spay their respective fruits with water as if it were a produce section on wheels. The only difference is that those nice little sprinklers hanging from glistening mirrors have been replaced by dirty 12 oz spray bottles. In one hand their basket of fruit and with the other they shake the hand of the bus driver. That hand shake symbolizes: “I’m not here to ride your bus, just here to take advantage of the market you’ve so kindly gathered up for me”. As they file in like a pack of ants they try to make eye contact with every person on the bus in an attempt to sell anything from apples and watermelon to tomatoes and strawberries. Seconds later the line has made its way to the back of the bus; they all hop off and begin to flag down the next approaching bus. Meanwhile, I haven’t yet made it to my stop but the guy next to me has. He gets up and pulls the cord. The driver would gladly let him off here but because he has to make a left turn he’s moved to the center lane. We’ve come to a stop in a now six lane intersection and the guy who just pulled the chord simple walks straight off the bus through a door that was never even closed. That’s right. The front and back doors of busses quite often stay open all the time. That means not only can people potentially hop off whenever they want, like this guy, but it also means that when the bus is crowded (quite often) that people are literally hanging on for dear life as they stand in aisles and doorframes as the bus is moving . I eventually get off and walk into a mall full of gelled hair, food courts, McDonalds and a movie theater. For me, the last 15 minutes of my life has just defined “being in a developing country”.
Looking for a good most embarrassing story
One of the most commonly used ice-breakers is going around telling new people your most embarrassing story. In my case, I feel like I can never think of a good one and always get frustrated because I know I must have some good ones out there. Anyway, this next little story is about how I think I may have found a keeper…that’s if I get caught.
Let me begin by saying that many situations like the previous bus story don’t even begin to faze me anymore; it’s just how things are now. But sometimes I catch myself laughing at myself, and that usually means its fit for a good blog story. This particular story has to do with that little spray bottle that the fruit venders use to spray their fruit. Although I haven’t become a fruit salesman quite yet, I am consistently using one of those spray bottles. I use it on really hot nights to douse my bed and body before going to sleep. I do this to help me stay cool as I try to fall asleep. The part of the story that still makes me laugh is when I spray myself down with the water bottle. I stand there under my fan wearing nothing but my boxers and my glasses I begin to pulverize my neck, arms, chest, stomach and legs with water-- and for those few seconds I feel like a model preparing for a photo shoot. But in reality I can’t help but always think that if my friends back home saw what I was doing right now they’d probably be crapping their pants laughing. And the kicker is, because the next thing I do is read, I’m usually too lazy to take off my glasses and while spraying myself I end up waving my head around in all sorts of directions to prevent the water from blowing up into my glasses. It makes me think of when I was in camp in the 7th grade and one of my friends caught another friend examining his biceps in the mirror. We joked about it forever and I remember thinking how embarrassing that was for my friend who got caught. I have no doubt that if I were caught pulverizing myself with that spray bottle that I would absolutely have my new most embarrassing story.
That’s it for today. Any questions…honestly, do you all have any questions?
I have to say that I recently read an absolutely fascinating book called “Confessions of an Economic Hit Man” by John Perkins. I highly recommend it. Ya esta.
Hasta luego.
Monday, February 23, 2009
pics
Pic from forever ago. Eric and Paulette
Map in Eric´s site
My map
Paraguayan chair
Planting green pepper
first time I cooked...¨like this¨
Thursday, January 15, 2009
I could really use us a turkey sandwich on rye with swiss and cole slaw
So as I begin this next blog entry and look over the things I want to talk about I can’t help but think to myself how once again I’ll hardly be talking what I actually do as a Peace Corps volunteers. I mean, we’re supposed to be out here saving the world right? Well not really. Luckily from things I’d read before arriving and from people I’ve met down here I knew that getting something really significant accomplished was like trying to avoid the toilet after a bowl Paraguayan bean salad—possible but not done unless you squeeze your butt cheeks a little bit.
We come in as complete strangers who don’t speak their language. On top of that we have a sign on our back that says “rich American here to teach English”. A fantastic example I was given once was—Imagine you’re sitting in the high rise office building of a larger supermarket chain and in walks a Paraguayan farmer who can barely speak English. You may know in the back of your mind that he may have something to contribute to your company... but its sure going to take a hell of a lot time and work in order to actually listen and implement something he’s got to say.
Therefore, just to reiterate, I truly spend most of my time just working with neighbors and trying to learn about their situation so IF AND ONLY IF they someday want my help I can approach the work with sufficient background knowledge.
The bad example of trying to help someone if and only if they want my help can be found in that vegetable garden in which I was helping a few months back. You may remember the pictures.
After not having checked on things for about three weeks, I went back to see how things were going. Upon getting there I realized that the watermelon, cantaloupe, and lettuce we had planted were all ruined and inedible. After successfully planting those crops, and teaching them what I had learned and read about them, I wanted to leave them for a while and see what happened. Like so many stories I’d heard about, it turned out not so well. I had told them that the watermelon and cantaloupe require a lot of water so if there is a drought you’ll have to water them—there was a drought. I also told them that once the fruit have decent size they have to be wrapped in newspaper to protect them from the sun. Neither of these were carried out. As for the lettuce, they did eat some but left the rest to rot because they couldn’t eat it fast enough. The truth is that they could have probably taken the left over lettuce when it was ripe and sold it to neighbors.
Like I said, this experience confirmed one of life’s biggest lessons—you can’t help someone who doesn’t really want to help themselves. As it relates to this particular family, this experience has reaffirmed that many people who live in what would be by economic standards “poverty” aren’t really that interested in escaping that poverty. Due to good soil and a small population, the vast majority of my neighbors have enough food to survive every day and that’s all that matters to them. This project was done poorly because at the time I was living with a host family who didn’t have a garden I was looking for someone to let me practice preparing soil and planting something. The family with whom I worked with had said they were interested in expanding their garden and would be willing to do the maintenance after planting… but of course I really had no idea what to expect.
I should also mention that despite the failure of the vegetables in this particular little project I firmly believe and the relationship formed between me and this family is a very valid step in an effort to spread peace. The stereotypes about Americans never cease to amaze me. I was the first American this family had every met so naturally my entrance in their life came with a million questions. Therefore, if irradiating ignorance means helping the peace process then Peace Corps volunteer definitely exemplify their title.
Just for giggles, some of the questions I constantly get: “Is there beer in the U.S?”, “You and Aurora were neighbors in the US no? (Aurora was a PC volunteer from Oregon who lived in my community before me), “In the US everyone works in factories no?” (People associate factory jobs with good jobs because it means a steady paycheck and development of the country) There have been so many other good ones but there not coming to me now. Anticipate them in the next post.
A Very Paraguayan Christmas
In the weeks leading up to Christmas, the question that everyone was dishing out besides “Haku iterei no?” (This is some serious heat no?) was “Moo ehasata la navidad?” (Where are you going to spend Christmas). My response to everyone was that I wasn’t sure and that I was going to split my time between neighbors in my compania and old friends from “the pueblo”, where I was living before. I soon came to realize that whoever I was talking to was going to invite me to spend Christmas with their family, and sure enough they always did.
The excitement kept building up around me and on the 22nd I was invited by a friend to come hang out with him during his radio show. I didn’t have any expectations going into his little community radio show but when I got there I came to realize that my buddy had pretty much planed to interview me. This of course was no big deal as he asked questions like the following: “So why do you wear that helmet thing when riding your bike?”, “Could you sing part of a song in English for us?”, “What kind of books do you like to read when taking a shit?”, Could you talk to us a little bit about the differences in Christmas spirit between Paraguay and the U.S.?”
I then went on to explain how helmets are a smart preventative measure and sang the beginning of a Paraguayan crowd pleasure “We Will Rock You” by Queen. The question about the toilet is actually a complete and utter lie. I just made it up. Similarly, due to the fact I’m Jewish and have never really celebrated Christmas, I had to kind of make up my answer to the Christmas spirit question. What I ended up saying was something to the following effect—“What’s interesting about that question is not that there are so many differences… but more that there are so many similarities. Christmas is a time to spend with the family, take a break from hard work, and share in the beautiful traditions of years past. That seems to me to be exactly what Christmas is not only about here, but also back in the U.S.” To say the least, that response was warmly accepted.
So you’re probably asking right now—“So do you lie to people about your religion?” The answer to that would be “no”. It’s just that on the radio which the whole town listens to isn’t exactly the best time to start introducing the Jewish Peace Corps Volunteer. I can just hear the gossip now “Did you hear that Mateo is now doing something similar to those Mormon Norte Americanos? He’s trying to convert us all to his religion, but instead of giving us money, he wants to take all of our money and start some sort of bank.”
As I am now writing this I can officially say that I’ve had not only my first Christmas but my first Paraguayan Christmas. Despite having previously been a Christmas Virgin, I can say with quite certainty that by far the biggest difference between Christmases here and there is that in the U.S. the celebration of Christmas happens the day of the 25th but here in Paraguay that celebration takes places the night of the 24th and culminates when the clock strikes midnight.
I was later trying to figure out this difference and see if I could find a direct relationship to the differences in culture. Since then, I have come to a conclusion but I can’t say for sure if this is right or not. My conclusion is that in the US Christmas has a lot to do with Santa in the snow with his rain deer, coming down the chimney and delivering presents. In Paraguay, they’ve never seen snow and due to financial restraints there is much less present giving. Therefore, instead they kind of have a party leading up to Christmas and drink and eat till their heart’s delight. The ironic thing is that they could have bought everyone fun little presents for price spent on food and booze but that’s not how they do things down here. In a society that teaches very little saving, they have adapted very well in order to enjoy life in the present.
Tsssssss, Tsssssssss
If the title above doesn’t mean anything to you-- it’s the hissing sound. More specifically, it’s that sound you make during an exam when you’re trying to get the attention of the person next to without the teaching hearing that you’re about to cheat. This is a sound very widely used down here--everywhere but the classroom.
During our two day training in Miami before coming down we had learned that hissing was a common thing for Paraguayan men to do to women…especially American women. Despite this being true, hissing is also used between any two kinds of people in order to call attention. This means that Paraguayans don’t just do that soft whisper kind of hissing but have brought hissing to a whole new decibel. It’s practically an instrument down here. What has fascinated me so much about hissing is that it is a replacement for what would be the call of a name in our culture. For example, if we were in the states and I was walking on the sidewalk on one side of the road and you were sitting on your porch on the other side of the road, you’d probably call out my name like “Hey Matt”. Here, that name call is replaced by the hiss. Although there may be several people in the vicinity of the person you’re hissing at AND you know the person’s name whom you want to call they STILL opt for the hiss. I can’t believe it to this day and simply call out people’s names when I want their attention from afar. But, I must say that I did get to use this infamous hiss just the other day.
I was walking through the little plaza in the small populated part of town and from a distance spotted the ice cream man who walks around wheeling around his Styrofoam ice cream container all day. As he began to walk in the opposite direction my mouth began to water with every step he took. I needed to act fast I knew the only thing between me and dirty ice cream scooped out of a 6 year old Styrofoam container was…a hiss. As I prepared for that hiss I though everyone in the plaza was going to look at me like some sort of alien but no such thing happened. I launched the hiss with all my might but it didn’t reach the ice cream man. It only made it as far as the kid 20 in front of him, about 50 yards away from me. The kid looked at me and I raised my eyebrows and chin in a single motion in order to signal that it was the ice cream man I wanted, not him. He quickly turned around and snapped a Paraguayan hiss at the ice cream man for me. My world turned into a baseball diamond and it was as if a ball had just been hit in the gap, the left fielder sprinted out to get it, threw a perfect strike to the cutoff man and then gunned the runner out at home. And as fast as a 6-4-3 double play, I had my ice cream in hand and was making my way back to the dugout… which I now call my home.
“Take your shirt off, twist it around your head spin it like a helicopter”
Two things that I’ve mentioned quite vigorously in this blog are that my neighbors are farmers and that it’s hot. Consequently, one has the pleasure of very rarely seeing a resting male, implying he’s drinking terere or beer on his front porch, with a shirt on. I think for me it’s quite comical to see because never in a million years could I picture my dad and buddies sitting in a circle with their shirts off and their bellies showing--as if they were Abercrombie models at the pool. But, that’s exactly what it looks like. And after a long day of work it seems like there nothing more Paraguayan than ripping your shirt off and settling down for a shirtless Brahma beer. It may be surprising that I mentioned these men as having bellies--considering they work their humps off all day, don’t overeat, and don’t have a McDonalds around every corner—it surprised me too. What I’ve learned is that these bellies come from eating fatty red meat, plenty of fried food, and a fair helping off beer each week. Truly, the most entertaining part of drinking beer with a group of shirtless middle-aged men is seeing how they simultaneously turn into mosquito killing machines. If you’re outside at about 6pm or 7pm it’s a fact that a mosquito is bound to land on you about every ten seconds. Instead of this being something that bothers them it’s as if nothing is going on at all. And while in mid conversation hands are flying all over the place killing mosquitoes that dare to make a shirtless Paraguayan man their landing pad. Even better, is when someone doesn’t feel a mosquito land on them but the guy next to them happens to see it land. He’ll without a doubt wind up and smack the crap out of that mosquito as if his open hand to the bare shin of his buddy was, as my big brother used to call it when he gave me Charlie horses as a kid, a love tap.
Speaking of my big brother, he is almost surely reading this part of the blog and asking himself “So do the women take off their shirts too?”. Well, if you consider a woman who is breast-feeding shirtless, then yes they do. The families down here are quite larger and that means ton of kids and lots of breast feeding going on around me. For some of you this may be completely normal but for me I came to Paraguay at age 23 I had only seen one women every breastfeeding in my presence. (About 15 years ago when Tim from Tennessee’s wife when they came over to fix the computer) In Paraguay, it is a completely normal to be hanging out with a women, many times more like a “young adult”, and in mid sentence without a warning she pops her boob out and brings her baby up to her chest. Now of course I understand there is nothing more natural in the world but coming from my upbringing this is still a very distracting site. The amazing part is how the other men around don’t flinch or falter in the slightest in their conversion. Me, on the other hand, I want to throw up my hands and say “Did you guys just see what happened!? She just puller her breast out without warning! What do we do? What don’t we do? Where am I supposed to put my eyes? What are the rules about looking the breastfeeding woman while she’s talking…or how about if I am talking to her? Am I a terrible pervert if I quickly glance at her boob? Somebody please fake and injury! I think I’ll go use the bathroom so I can sit on a wooden box and do some preparational meditation for the next time this happens…
Simple is Good
A few different friends have written me after reading my blog and said something to the effect of “reading your blog makes me of how thankful I am for the things I have.” In response, I have to be honest and say that although I live in an “underdeveloped” rural area, I can’t say that I always agree. Let’s examine un poco.
Here, for example, nobody has a car, restaurants to go eat at, or a cell phone constantly ringing.
In the case of our society, we have the pleasure of spending tons of money on an air/lung polluting car, while talking on a cancer transmitting cell phone, on the way to restaurant where we eat food that probably traveled thousands of miles to get to us and contains who knows what preservatives and chemicals.
Let’s pretend that over that meal we continue discussing the two situations. We may talk about things like how healthcare is so much better. But then you might look the harm done to your body in my simple above example and think “Maybe, just maybe, it kind of evens out?” (Also considering how I mentioned in a previous blog how many preventative medicines are free here.) In the states, we love the vast selection that a grocery store provides. Here, they have the incredible pride of eating the food that comes right from the soil they live and work upon. Not to mention the peace of mind they get from knowing their food is completely natural and didn’t travel on truck halfway across the country/world to find its way to their plate. In the states, we think it’s better because we have air conditioning. Here, they just use the heat as an excuse to relax more. In the states we love going out to eat. Here they eat almost every meal together, as a family (many times that includes grandparents too). In the states, we have very few bug issues. Here, there are tons of bugs and nobody is even the slightest bit inconvenienced. It’s the kind of peace of mind that allows them to ignore millions of bugs which extends into all aspects of their life, yet many Americans pay tons of money to get these issues treated.
Clearly this list could go on forever but the point of bringing this up is not to be depressing and point out how destructive our culture is, but much more to reiterate what we all already know—luxuries or “things” don’t make us any happier or our love any richer.
Many Paraguayans here often ask me if I like Paraguay better or worse than America. What I tell them is that there is no real answer, “it’s just different. For me, whether I’m in Paraguay or in the US, it’s much more practical to find happiness within my present surroundings than try to and change my surroundings to what I think is going to make me happy in the future.”
Lastly, it would be completely unfair to the ideals of democracy and development to finish this up without mentioning the things Paraguayans would start cutting off limbs in order to have--and rightfully so. Those include: a high functioning system of law and order, education (especially a computer based one), and health facilities/insurance.
Hope everyone had a very happy new year. I truly miss you all. I love getting updates on your lives so please email them. Take care.
~Mateo
We come in as complete strangers who don’t speak their language. On top of that we have a sign on our back that says “rich American here to teach English”. A fantastic example I was given once was—Imagine you’re sitting in the high rise office building of a larger supermarket chain and in walks a Paraguayan farmer who can barely speak English. You may know in the back of your mind that he may have something to contribute to your company... but its sure going to take a hell of a lot time and work in order to actually listen and implement something he’s got to say.
Therefore, just to reiterate, I truly spend most of my time just working with neighbors and trying to learn about their situation so IF AND ONLY IF they someday want my help I can approach the work with sufficient background knowledge.
The bad example of trying to help someone if and only if they want my help can be found in that vegetable garden in which I was helping a few months back. You may remember the pictures.
After not having checked on things for about three weeks, I went back to see how things were going. Upon getting there I realized that the watermelon, cantaloupe, and lettuce we had planted were all ruined and inedible. After successfully planting those crops, and teaching them what I had learned and read about them, I wanted to leave them for a while and see what happened. Like so many stories I’d heard about, it turned out not so well. I had told them that the watermelon and cantaloupe require a lot of water so if there is a drought you’ll have to water them—there was a drought. I also told them that once the fruit have decent size they have to be wrapped in newspaper to protect them from the sun. Neither of these were carried out. As for the lettuce, they did eat some but left the rest to rot because they couldn’t eat it fast enough. The truth is that they could have probably taken the left over lettuce when it was ripe and sold it to neighbors.
Like I said, this experience confirmed one of life’s biggest lessons—you can’t help someone who doesn’t really want to help themselves. As it relates to this particular family, this experience has reaffirmed that many people who live in what would be by economic standards “poverty” aren’t really that interested in escaping that poverty. Due to good soil and a small population, the vast majority of my neighbors have enough food to survive every day and that’s all that matters to them. This project was done poorly because at the time I was living with a host family who didn’t have a garden I was looking for someone to let me practice preparing soil and planting something. The family with whom I worked with had said they were interested in expanding their garden and would be willing to do the maintenance after planting… but of course I really had no idea what to expect.
I should also mention that despite the failure of the vegetables in this particular little project I firmly believe and the relationship formed between me and this family is a very valid step in an effort to spread peace. The stereotypes about Americans never cease to amaze me. I was the first American this family had every met so naturally my entrance in their life came with a million questions. Therefore, if irradiating ignorance means helping the peace process then Peace Corps volunteer definitely exemplify their title.
Just for giggles, some of the questions I constantly get: “Is there beer in the U.S?”, “You and Aurora were neighbors in the US no? (Aurora was a PC volunteer from Oregon who lived in my community before me), “In the US everyone works in factories no?” (People associate factory jobs with good jobs because it means a steady paycheck and development of the country) There have been so many other good ones but there not coming to me now. Anticipate them in the next post.
A Very Paraguayan Christmas
In the weeks leading up to Christmas, the question that everyone was dishing out besides “Haku iterei no?” (This is some serious heat no?) was “Moo ehasata la navidad?” (Where are you going to spend Christmas). My response to everyone was that I wasn’t sure and that I was going to split my time between neighbors in my compania and old friends from “the pueblo”, where I was living before. I soon came to realize that whoever I was talking to was going to invite me to spend Christmas with their family, and sure enough they always did.
The excitement kept building up around me and on the 22nd I was invited by a friend to come hang out with him during his radio show. I didn’t have any expectations going into his little community radio show but when I got there I came to realize that my buddy had pretty much planed to interview me. This of course was no big deal as he asked questions like the following: “So why do you wear that helmet thing when riding your bike?”, “Could you sing part of a song in English for us?”, “What kind of books do you like to read when taking a shit?”, Could you talk to us a little bit about the differences in Christmas spirit between Paraguay and the U.S.?”
I then went on to explain how helmets are a smart preventative measure and sang the beginning of a Paraguayan crowd pleasure “We Will Rock You” by Queen. The question about the toilet is actually a complete and utter lie. I just made it up. Similarly, due to the fact I’m Jewish and have never really celebrated Christmas, I had to kind of make up my answer to the Christmas spirit question. What I ended up saying was something to the following effect—“What’s interesting about that question is not that there are so many differences… but more that there are so many similarities. Christmas is a time to spend with the family, take a break from hard work, and share in the beautiful traditions of years past. That seems to me to be exactly what Christmas is not only about here, but also back in the U.S.” To say the least, that response was warmly accepted.
So you’re probably asking right now—“So do you lie to people about your religion?” The answer to that would be “no”. It’s just that on the radio which the whole town listens to isn’t exactly the best time to start introducing the Jewish Peace Corps Volunteer. I can just hear the gossip now “Did you hear that Mateo is now doing something similar to those Mormon Norte Americanos? He’s trying to convert us all to his religion, but instead of giving us money, he wants to take all of our money and start some sort of bank.”
As I am now writing this I can officially say that I’ve had not only my first Christmas but my first Paraguayan Christmas. Despite having previously been a Christmas Virgin, I can say with quite certainty that by far the biggest difference between Christmases here and there is that in the U.S. the celebration of Christmas happens the day of the 25th but here in Paraguay that celebration takes places the night of the 24th and culminates when the clock strikes midnight.
I was later trying to figure out this difference and see if I could find a direct relationship to the differences in culture. Since then, I have come to a conclusion but I can’t say for sure if this is right or not. My conclusion is that in the US Christmas has a lot to do with Santa in the snow with his rain deer, coming down the chimney and delivering presents. In Paraguay, they’ve never seen snow and due to financial restraints there is much less present giving. Therefore, instead they kind of have a party leading up to Christmas and drink and eat till their heart’s delight. The ironic thing is that they could have bought everyone fun little presents for price spent on food and booze but that’s not how they do things down here. In a society that teaches very little saving, they have adapted very well in order to enjoy life in the present.
Tsssssss, Tsssssssss
If the title above doesn’t mean anything to you-- it’s the hissing sound. More specifically, it’s that sound you make during an exam when you’re trying to get the attention of the person next to without the teaching hearing that you’re about to cheat. This is a sound very widely used down here--everywhere but the classroom.
During our two day training in Miami before coming down we had learned that hissing was a common thing for Paraguayan men to do to women…especially American women. Despite this being true, hissing is also used between any two kinds of people in order to call attention. This means that Paraguayans don’t just do that soft whisper kind of hissing but have brought hissing to a whole new decibel. It’s practically an instrument down here. What has fascinated me so much about hissing is that it is a replacement for what would be the call of a name in our culture. For example, if we were in the states and I was walking on the sidewalk on one side of the road and you were sitting on your porch on the other side of the road, you’d probably call out my name like “Hey Matt”. Here, that name call is replaced by the hiss. Although there may be several people in the vicinity of the person you’re hissing at AND you know the person’s name whom you want to call they STILL opt for the hiss. I can’t believe it to this day and simply call out people’s names when I want their attention from afar. But, I must say that I did get to use this infamous hiss just the other day.
I was walking through the little plaza in the small populated part of town and from a distance spotted the ice cream man who walks around wheeling around his Styrofoam ice cream container all day. As he began to walk in the opposite direction my mouth began to water with every step he took. I needed to act fast I knew the only thing between me and dirty ice cream scooped out of a 6 year old Styrofoam container was…a hiss. As I prepared for that hiss I though everyone in the plaza was going to look at me like some sort of alien but no such thing happened. I launched the hiss with all my might but it didn’t reach the ice cream man. It only made it as far as the kid 20 in front of him, about 50 yards away from me. The kid looked at me and I raised my eyebrows and chin in a single motion in order to signal that it was the ice cream man I wanted, not him. He quickly turned around and snapped a Paraguayan hiss at the ice cream man for me. My world turned into a baseball diamond and it was as if a ball had just been hit in the gap, the left fielder sprinted out to get it, threw a perfect strike to the cutoff man and then gunned the runner out at home. And as fast as a 6-4-3 double play, I had my ice cream in hand and was making my way back to the dugout… which I now call my home.
“Take your shirt off, twist it around your head spin it like a helicopter”
Two things that I’ve mentioned quite vigorously in this blog are that my neighbors are farmers and that it’s hot. Consequently, one has the pleasure of very rarely seeing a resting male, implying he’s drinking terere or beer on his front porch, with a shirt on. I think for me it’s quite comical to see because never in a million years could I picture my dad and buddies sitting in a circle with their shirts off and their bellies showing--as if they were Abercrombie models at the pool. But, that’s exactly what it looks like. And after a long day of work it seems like there nothing more Paraguayan than ripping your shirt off and settling down for a shirtless Brahma beer. It may be surprising that I mentioned these men as having bellies--considering they work their humps off all day, don’t overeat, and don’t have a McDonalds around every corner—it surprised me too. What I’ve learned is that these bellies come from eating fatty red meat, plenty of fried food, and a fair helping off beer each week. Truly, the most entertaining part of drinking beer with a group of shirtless middle-aged men is seeing how they simultaneously turn into mosquito killing machines. If you’re outside at about 6pm or 7pm it’s a fact that a mosquito is bound to land on you about every ten seconds. Instead of this being something that bothers them it’s as if nothing is going on at all. And while in mid conversation hands are flying all over the place killing mosquitoes that dare to make a shirtless Paraguayan man their landing pad. Even better, is when someone doesn’t feel a mosquito land on them but the guy next to them happens to see it land. He’ll without a doubt wind up and smack the crap out of that mosquito as if his open hand to the bare shin of his buddy was, as my big brother used to call it when he gave me Charlie horses as a kid, a love tap.
Speaking of my big brother, he is almost surely reading this part of the blog and asking himself “So do the women take off their shirts too?”. Well, if you consider a woman who is breast-feeding shirtless, then yes they do. The families down here are quite larger and that means ton of kids and lots of breast feeding going on around me. For some of you this may be completely normal but for me I came to Paraguay at age 23 I had only seen one women every breastfeeding in my presence. (About 15 years ago when Tim from Tennessee’s wife when they came over to fix the computer) In Paraguay, it is a completely normal to be hanging out with a women, many times more like a “young adult”, and in mid sentence without a warning she pops her boob out and brings her baby up to her chest. Now of course I understand there is nothing more natural in the world but coming from my upbringing this is still a very distracting site. The amazing part is how the other men around don’t flinch or falter in the slightest in their conversion. Me, on the other hand, I want to throw up my hands and say “Did you guys just see what happened!? She just puller her breast out without warning! What do we do? What don’t we do? Where am I supposed to put my eyes? What are the rules about looking the breastfeeding woman while she’s talking…or how about if I am talking to her? Am I a terrible pervert if I quickly glance at her boob? Somebody please fake and injury! I think I’ll go use the bathroom so I can sit on a wooden box and do some preparational meditation for the next time this happens…
Simple is Good
A few different friends have written me after reading my blog and said something to the effect of “reading your blog makes me of how thankful I am for the things I have.” In response, I have to be honest and say that although I live in an “underdeveloped” rural area, I can’t say that I always agree. Let’s examine un poco.
Here, for example, nobody has a car, restaurants to go eat at, or a cell phone constantly ringing.
In the case of our society, we have the pleasure of spending tons of money on an air/lung polluting car, while talking on a cancer transmitting cell phone, on the way to restaurant where we eat food that probably traveled thousands of miles to get to us and contains who knows what preservatives and chemicals.
Let’s pretend that over that meal we continue discussing the two situations. We may talk about things like how healthcare is so much better. But then you might look the harm done to your body in my simple above example and think “Maybe, just maybe, it kind of evens out?” (Also considering how I mentioned in a previous blog how many preventative medicines are free here.) In the states, we love the vast selection that a grocery store provides. Here, they have the incredible pride of eating the food that comes right from the soil they live and work upon. Not to mention the peace of mind they get from knowing their food is completely natural and didn’t travel on truck halfway across the country/world to find its way to their plate. In the states, we think it’s better because we have air conditioning. Here, they just use the heat as an excuse to relax more. In the states we love going out to eat. Here they eat almost every meal together, as a family (many times that includes grandparents too). In the states, we have very few bug issues. Here, there are tons of bugs and nobody is even the slightest bit inconvenienced. It’s the kind of peace of mind that allows them to ignore millions of bugs which extends into all aspects of their life, yet many Americans pay tons of money to get these issues treated.
Clearly this list could go on forever but the point of bringing this up is not to be depressing and point out how destructive our culture is, but much more to reiterate what we all already know—luxuries or “things” don’t make us any happier or our love any richer.
Many Paraguayans here often ask me if I like Paraguay better or worse than America. What I tell them is that there is no real answer, “it’s just different. For me, whether I’m in Paraguay or in the US, it’s much more practical to find happiness within my present surroundings than try to and change my surroundings to what I think is going to make me happy in the future.”
Lastly, it would be completely unfair to the ideals of democracy and development to finish this up without mentioning the things Paraguayans would start cutting off limbs in order to have--and rightfully so. Those include: a high functioning system of law and order, education (especially a computer based one), and health facilities/insurance.
Hope everyone had a very happy new year. I truly miss you all. I love getting updates on your lives so please email them. Take care.
~Mateo
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