I make story

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!