Papa Noel

As much as sometimes enjoy complaining about Paraguay (and do I ever), sometimes I can´t help but find an absolute, inexplicable, and innocent joy in it. Like the other day, sitting in the sand, toes in the (stream), grabbing chunks of juicy watermelon with my hands, while the boys throw each other in the water and the women wash clothes. I feel an incredible peace that is hard to find back home because there is always something else I could be doing. Right now, my job is to integrate into the community, so here goes.

I met a half-German man last week, and I spent the evening with him and his wife. They are a young, innovative couple, and, for the first time since I´ve been in site, I felt like I had someone I could have an intelligent, unguarded conversation with. I could speak my mind about sensitive topics and not be thinking about what I should be saying. There´s a big German mennonite population around here, so Juan Carlos said he would take me to visit his community. He showed me around his property, where he keeps bees and grafts citrus trees, and we talked about all sorts of things from birth control to religion.

When he asked me what my religion was (a frequent question), I felt comfortable telling him that spirituality was important to me, but that I didn´t adhere to one religion. I told him that religion can do good things for people, but I do not agree with the way it is frequently practiced, without thought and by merely copying the ways of parents.

It felt like a simplified answer to a question I hadn´t really thought about in a while, despite all the questioning. What is my religion? It´s been a while since someone has asked me that in English. It feels like a copout to just say that I´m spiritual, and the answer seems disappointing to some. The question sounds cliché, but it´s common enough that I feel like I should put more effort into my answer. First of all, what is religion? A belief in some things and a disbelief in others? Is it tradition, or ethics, or ritual? How do I explain myself to Catholics who only know other Catholics? I wonder some of them go to mass because they feel closer to the Divine, or if it is just what is done. Are they aware of a power greater than themselves that they call God? I´ve been to mass here, and I feel no such thing. I wonder if they will understand if I tell them that I feel God in any place at any given moment, in those inexplicable coincidences, and in myself. I never thought my ´religion´needed to be categorized or defined.

And the rollercoaster continues. It was hard to get used to the new family I´m staying with now, a few kilometers down the road from where I was previously. Even the wind blows differently. I´m living out of a backpack, moving to a new family every 15 or so days. It always feels like I´m camping, and I miss not having a home base. When I ask when the construction of my house will get started, I am told not to worry about it. They are still lacking the cement for the foundation, but, no problemo, there will be another meeting about it in a couple weeks. At least there´s talk.

The other night, I went to a resa, where everyone in the community prayed for and celebrated the life of a woman who died recently. They slaughtered a cow for the occassion, and the meat was hanging on awning when I got there, with everyone sitting around, drinking terere, as usual. The Señora had invited me over to eat dinner with them, and I had naively assumed that we would be eating cow meat (steak if I was lucky). But when she proudly brought me to the table, I was placed in front of a steaming bowl of blood soup with chunks of brain, heart, tongue and whatever other cow organs I had no intention of eating. Not wanting to disrespect my host, I dipped some mandioca into the broth and avoided making direct eye contact with the contents of my bowl. I wanted to cry and then vomit.

On a happier note, I´ve started working on my garden. With my sharpened machete, I went over to a neighbor´s house to cut some takuara (bamboo) to make my fence. I hauled it back to my garden site, and my host brother and brother-in-law helped me to strip and split it. After lunch, my host mom took me to the forest out back, where we were supposedly going to gather wood for my garden posts. She ended up giving me a tour of the property, bringing me to a neighbor´s house to terere (yes, it´s a verb, too) and help her carry melons back. On the way back through the woods, she told me that she actually already had fenceposts that I could use back at the house. Foiled again.

On Christmas Eve, I was feeling the absence of family, but I was comforted by the text messages I got from my Peace Corps friends about their experiences slaughtering cows and eating sheep´s brains. It´s nice to know I´m not alone in this. Most of the day was spent preparing the feast we would eat around midnight. We gathered ribbons and plant material from the yard to make an elaborate nativity scene, cooked (no Paraguayan meal is complete without mandioca, meat, and some sort of corn product), and drank clerico, a wine fruit punch. We got a tata (fire) going in the front yard to grill the meat, and we sat around for hours as visitors stopped by and we took our turns visiting neighbors. At the strike of midnight, we all kissed each other, like New Years, even the sleeping children and grandpa.

At that moment, I felt a surge of gratitude for this family who drives me crazy, but who has included me so completely into their family for the holidays, however different their customs may be. Sometimes I feel very far away, and those moments are precious, when I feel like I´m exactly where I should be. I try to keep in mind that it is, indeed, a blessing to have people and customs to miss.

Feliz Navidad y Nuevo Año!

The Long Way Home

After much adventuring, I finally made it to my site. It seemed like everything was going askew somehow, and all I could do was laugh (and sometimes cry) at God´s cruel joke on me. On Tuesday, Jason, Christina, and I took a bus from Asunción together to Villarrica. By the time we pulled into the station, I had missed my connecting bus, the only one that goes to my site per day. Because my phone was still not working, we started making calls on Christina´s phone and got the number of a volunteer, Brennan, who lives in Villarrica. He had the day off and gave us directions to his house. Christina decided to stay the night with me, so we saw Jason off and made our sweaty way on foot with our packs.

Brennan made us fresh mburukuja (passionfruit) juice, which we drank under the avacado trees while his neighbors serenaded us. He showed us around town and even had a spare bedroom for us. The next morning, when Christina and I returned to the bus station, I found out that my bus would arrive two hours later than I had been told. No problem. After killing some time at the internet cafe, I asked someone why my bus still had not arrived, and I was told that it would not come at all because it rained the night before. As soon as she said that, I started laughing hysterically. I just couldn´t stop. Everyone started staring at the crazy American who just lost it.

After talking to my contact on the phone, I decided to take a bus to Paso Yobai, about an hour from my site and where another volunteer lives. I naively sat in the back of the bus, and by the time I arrived I was covered in a layer of red dirt. As it turns out, there was a change of plans, and there was no vehicle that could take me and my stuff the rest of the way to Arroyo Moroti. Andrea and I walked to the police station and to the military barracks outside of town, but no one had a car. We did find a neighbor who aggred to take my pack to Arroyo Morroti for me on his moto, and then I would walk. For compensation, I went over to the gas station and filled an empty 2-litre soda bottle with nafta, then watched my pack bump haphazardly away from me. I started walking around 6, enjoying the sun as it made its decent into the hills to the west. On a side note, the verb they use for the sunset is ¨enter¨ and the verb for sunset is ¨leave.¨ I like that. There was still a hint of pink left in the sky when I realized that I didn´t know where I was. This was the same road I had biked a few weeks ago, but I suddenly didn´t recognize the fork in the road, and there were no houses in site.

I took a left and picked up the pace, spotting a power line in the distance and thinking it might follow a main road. It didn´t. There was only a footpath, but I did see a house, so I cut through a mandioca field to get there. When no one was home, I returned to the raod I had been on, but not liking the look of the jungle path ahead of me, turned back. When I heard the sound of an engine, I ran toward it. It was a farmer, Giraldo, returning home on his tractor. He stopped and gave me directions to Arroyo Moroti, and then, taking pity, offered to take me part of the way on his tractor. I hopped on the back and we proceeded, full speed, down the jungle trail. It didn´t seem like it was frequently-travelled road because we were falling branched the whole way, and by the time he let me off at the crossroads, I was covered in leaves and brush like a regualar jungle bum. From there, I only had to walk another fifteen minutes to get to my contact´s house.

But I made it. The best part of the story, however, is that just before I started my walk, Andrea informed me that a 16-meter long, pregnant anaconda had just escaped out of someone´s basement in a nearby town. What?! I can´t even imagine what that would look like. So, I survived getting lost in the Paraguayan campo and a potential encounter with a very large snake.

As my contact put a steaming plate of pig fat in front of me, I kept thinking, anytime now, things will get easier. The next day, I washed most of my clothes, which had suffered from a run-in with an open bottle of shampoo, and then hopped on the bus, which would take me a few kilometers down the road to the family´s house where I was to stay for the next week and a half. The Women´s Comite was meeting when I got there, so I joined in. I had been looking forward to staying in one place, but they thought it would be a good idea if I moved houses every three days to get to know everyone. I was so flustered, I said ok and tearfully hauled my pack down the road to another house. On top of that, I found that I don´t get cell phone coverage here, except for in certain spots between primera and segunda linea and only when the wind blows the right way.

Things did begin to improve, though. I broke gender boundaries on Friday and went out to the woods to work with the men. I helped them haul logs onto an oxcart, then balanced on top of the oxcart and then unloaded it in the big brick oven they use to make charcoal. I asked if they planned to plant new trees to replace the ones they cut down. They should their heads. ¨Opa!¨ This means ¨over¨ or ¨done¨. What´s done? I wondered. The forest? They need wood to make carbón to make fire to eat, and I´m not sure if it was an outside-the-box idea to say that if they keep cutting down the trees, there won´t be any left someday. I think there´s a lot I have to learn about the language and culture before I can go down that road.

I thought that Paraguayans had exhausted their uses for flour, salt, and oil, but Magdalena (the señora I´m staying with) served me a new breakfast concoction. It even has a name--hervido--or something like that. It was served in a bowl with a spoon and sort of resembled oatmeal, which got me excited. To be so, the first ten or so bites did taste good, washed down with rot-your-teeth sweet cocido, but after a while, it started to taste, and feel, like what it was: crumbles of flour and salt, fried and held together by oil.

Lastnight, though, I showed them something else you can do with flour. I made pizza. Magdalena runs an almacen (little store) out of the house and the delivery guy (who brings bags of whatever in the back of his pick-up from Villarrica) brought some yeast on request. Heladio, the señor, had been asking me if we eat the same food in America as they eat here, and he threw out what he knew about American cuisine--pizza. It´s hard to explain, or at least to get across the idea to Paraguayans, the concept of America, the melting pot. We have food and people and culture from all over the world, and it´s all sort of American. Heladio also asked me if all Americans have blue eyes, like me. Where do I start with the explanations? My own sister doesn´t even have blue eyes like me.

While the pizza was baking, they gave me some win and coke. I told them that wine was perfect to drink with pizza--very Italian. They scoffed at the idea of wine and cheese together. Apparantly, the wine and cheese combination is on the same scale as mixing watermelon and terere--they´re not accustomed to such lethal nonsense. But wine and cheese, I protested, is a classic combination. It´s as basic as peas and carrots, salt and pepper, peanut butter and jelly. But I realized that my examples provide absolutely no clarification.

I´m enjoying staying with the family, and they agreed to let me stay longer. I really don´t want to move every three days. I think I might go even crazier than I´ve already become. But it is hard not to have a home. I try to think of it like a travelling adventure, like I´m hitchhiking around Paraguay and whereever I land, I am. But it´s different because I´m landing in someone else´s home on a different planet. There´s no time that I´m off-duty, no clock to punch out on and go take a shower, have a drink and talk about all the crazy shit that happened that day, sharing my leftovers with the dogs, chickens, and piglets that wait under the table. And each day is epic.

This morning I woke up at 4am to catch the bus back to Villarrica to meet the governor. Well, the bus didn´t come. Determined to get into town to see friends and reconnect with the world, I caught a ride with a passing truck, who brought me to a crossroads a half hour away. From there, I started walking through the morning fog and caught another ride to a a bus stop with more frequent service. And just like that, I have a computer and a phone at my fingertips. With everything that has happened during the past week, I can´t imagine what the next two years will be like. Jahechata. (We shall see.)

America...Reagan Country

The last couple weeks of training were a whirlwind of completing projects and visiting families in the community I had formed relationships with. We tilled the green manures we had planted at the beginning of training back into the earth and we grabbed the chickens we had raised from wittle bitty chicks by their legs and carried them home to our respective families for dinner.

My host sisters who live in Buenas Aires came home for the holidays, so I got to meet them. The house was full of jabbering women, trying on new clothes from Argentina and doing their hair--kind of a shock after hanging out with mostly guys for so long. All the guys in my group have been growing their facial hair out, and the for the occassion of swearing in as Peace Corps volunteers, created some fine mustache art.

I am a full-fledged Volunteer with a capital "V." I was sworn in at the U.S. Embassy, amidst green, manicured grounds and pools, protected by six marines, countless security gurads, and a token deer, who grazes the property. My own little America away from America. Signs at the entrance prohibit guns. Ya think? I never got used to coming home at night to see my host dad smoking a cigarette in the dark with a pistola at his side "for protection."

These few days I have in Asuncion are the antithesis of my regular campo lifestyle. I have AC, a TV with English movie channels, and my first hot shower in months. In this summer heat, a cold shower suffices, but there's just something about hot water that gives me that so-fresh-and-so-clean-clean feeling.

The other night we has sunset g+ts on the rooftop terrace and watched the hazy, pink skyline and the Rio Paraguaya behind it. And beyond that, Argentina. There are some beautiful, old Colonial buildings, which is a nice change fromt he hastily thrown up structures I've been inhabiting. And the food! Paraguayan food has definately grown on me, though it's a love-hate relationship. (I spent my last night with my host family throwing up into a cardboard box). It is nice to eat something besides greasy tortillas and grissly meat. We went out for Korean food, and I gorged myself on seaweed salad and grilled tofu and veggies.

Now all of us are picking up last-minute items in the city and enjoying each other's company before we go our separate ways, which is exciting and intimidating. My visits to the internet cafe will probably become less frequent, until I can get a bike or a horse to transport me on those hilly, dirt roads. Until then, peace.

Musings on a New (Soon-To-Be) Home

Where do I begin? On Wednesday, at the end of a long, anxious day, I sat in a room while my boss held a folder that contained my future. My future site, that is, where I will be living for the next two years. I will be living in a small town whose name translates to ¨White Stream,¨where I will be a first-time volunteer. After finding out the news we all went to the bar to celebrate, and a few us missed the last bus out of town. So...we started walking. Knowing it would take hours to get to the next intersection, where we could catch a bus, and also realizing that I still had to pack and get up at 5am to go visit my site, I found some people to call us a taxi. Once at home, I packed my dayback with clothes and toiletries for the next five days, slept a few hours, drank cocido in the dark, and then walked to the bus stop at dawn.

As I got closer to my destination, the landscape changed. All of the sudden, there were mountains--green, rolling mountains, and big trees, and vineyards. When I got off at the stop where I was to meet my contact, I heard people shout "Americana." And sure enough, Gabriel (my new dad), was there to greet me. He had ridden his moto to the bus stop to make sure the next bus I got on was the right one and told the driver to let me off in front of his house (Gabriel´s). The bus chugged its way up and down dirt roads, crossing rickety bridges. Some women on the bus start chatting with me, offering me térere, and were so excited to find out I spoke Guarani. As usual, the subject got around to if I have a boyfriend, and if I´m going to marry a Paraguayan, and when I marry a Paraguayan, will I live here or go back to America? I tell them that I don´t even know where I´m sleeping tonight. When I got off at Gabriel´s house, his wife, Gertrudis, had lunch ready for me. A plate of hot pork from the pig they recently slaughtered. (I found the rest of the animal--head included--in the fridge). Then I took a siesta.

Gertrudis is the president of the Comité de Agricultores, and she was eager to show me around town. The next day, there was a health commission meeting at the next big town over, and I wanted to check it out--also to visit the Peace Corps volunteer who´s lived there for over a year now. It takes only 20 minutes on a moto, but since it´s Peace Corps policy that I don´t ride a moto (to the shock of everyone in the town---everyone drives a moto) I had to borrow a bike from a neighbor. I was looking forward to riding a bike, but I soon discovered what I had gotten myself into. There is practically no level ground and the road is mainly sand. Plus, I was riding a bike with two flat tires, one gear, and barely-working breaks. So, I arrived an hour later at the municipality hot and sweaty. I hung out with Andrea, my new PC neighbor and then made the trip back in the heat of the day. When I finally made it back home, I jumped in the shower and devoured a plate of ribs my Gertrudis placed in front of me. Man, I have never eaten ribs before, and I thoroughly enjoyed them. I even soaked up the extra grease with some mandioca and made those bone-slurping sounds I hate when Paraguayans do.

I also went with Ñati and Paula (13 and 17) to the colegio for their last day of school. I met some of the teachers and talked to one about helping teach a class on cooperatives. The students hosed down and swept out the classrooms and then had a dance party at 10am before heading home for lunch. Besides the two girls at the house, there is the 95-year-old aguelo who is blind and just about deaf. He talks to himself and doesn´t know if it´s day or night, so talks whenever he feels like it. Sometimes he thinks he´s a kid again, other times (most of the time) he´s asking for more caña. He likes to wear these teeny-bopper sunglasses with one eye piece missing, and his bed is in the backyard under the grape arbor. He is carried from bed to chair, following the shade, and pees and spits tobacco into a metal cup. He also has an 8-year old son, Hervasio, who also lives at the house, but the mother (who´s in her early 30s) lives somewhere else with her other son (Hervasio´s twin). Apparently, she´s poor and cannot afford to keep both children. Hervasio is the sweetest boy, and I hope I get to know him better. He´s growing up in some unusual circumstances. The other day, I saw him sitting next to his father, yelling into his ear.

One morning, I woke up to find Gabriel, Gertrudis, and her brother gathered around what looked like a series of crumpled up plastic bags. I walked over and watched Gabriel inspect said item with pliers and a stick. They didn´t know what it was, but it was something strange, found hanging from a tree, they said. What do we do with strange items in Paraguay? We burn them. Maybe it´s a bomb, Gabriel says, and I don´t yet understand his humor enough yet to know if he´s joking or not. Probably so, because he lauged when I told him it might be dangerous to throw a bomb in a fire. Then the aguelo felt like working, so he was given the task of shelling castor beans, which are then sold to make motor oil.

On Sunday, I accompanied Gertrudis to church, and only as we were walking in did she ask me if I was Catholic. No, but I have respect for religion. At the end of the sermon (pretty boring), Gertrudis got up to make an announcement. She told the entire congregation that they had a Peace Corps volunteer (me) to live with them for the next two years and then, on the spot, asked me to present myself. So, I stood up, unprepared, in front of a roomful of eager, brown eyes and told them a few things about myself in Guarani. And then they applauded.

After church, I want to the Farmers´Committee meeting, most of which I did not understand. Gertrudis explained that they were talking about where to build my house. Build my house? I asked Gertrudis how much that would cost. I was told not to worry about it. I was immediately brought back to "Peter Pan," when all the lost boys build cardboard house for Wendy, so she can sew buttons on their clothes. Later, we decided to build it on part of Gertrudis and Gabriel´s property, so I will have people looking out for me and a sunny space for a garden. I can´t believe I´m playing house in Paraguay.

After the meeting I went to the swimming hole to meet up the the high schoolers. (They had invited me to their end-of-the-year shebang). I feel so lucky to be living in a place with a clean body of water. I played volleball, joined in the mud-slinging fights, and ate lunch with them, my new young friends.

One afternoon, while we were just sitting around, drinking terere, Paula and a neighbor returned, speaking fast and animated, showing pictures on their cell phones. They claim to have seen Luison, the half-dog god of death in Guarani mythology. They supposedly found him, dead, in the school yard, and he smelled bad. Really? I asked Marisa (the 30-year-old sister) if she really believed it. Marisa said that she didn´t, but that lots of people do believe in the 7 Monsters (there are 6 more besides Luison), but that the monster that steals children is real because he stole a Señora´s child a long time ago. Wow. I´m living in the campo.

Yesterday, I woke up early to help Gabriel hoe his sugarcane field. Then he showed me the mandioca, the peanuts, the beans, the field he had to burn, the newer, better soil, and the rows of sesame he planted, but that have not germinated from a lack of rain. It´s going to be interesting to try to relate to farmers who are just living from one season to the next.

Lastnight, Gertrudis made grilled chicken, and Gabriel brough home a bottle of local (very local) wine for a going-away dinner. The bottle of wine cost about 75cents! I´m also living nearby to the German Mennonite communities, so I´d like to check out their operation. I was also excited to learn that there are a lot of indigenous Guarani communities around where I´ll be living.

This morning, I woke up at 3:30am for the bus that I was told would come at 4am. We ended up drinking hot mate until it finally came at 4:45 (time has a different meaning here). The aguelo, who had been up all night mumbling to himself, was asking for caña, and Gabriel relented and gave him a little bottle from the fridge. Gabriel then asked me if there were people like him in America, too. Yes, I said, there are people who are blind, people who cannot hear, people who are old and who can no longer remember things. On the bus, I was thinking about how there are not a lot of people in America who would care for their ailing grandparents the way they do here. Paraguay has a lot to share.

You, too, could be nailing pancakes to the wall

This is the long-awaited day when I find out where my site is, where I will live for the next two years. It´s Christmas come early. I rolled out of bed and stumbled to the latrine, kicking puppies and chickens out of the way. Then I tried the yogurt that I had sitting through the night, and found that it was perfectly curdled. I got some goat milk (the most delicious ever) from a neighbor, so I´ve been experimenting with goat yogurt, as well. After I drank my morning cocido, Christina, Nate, and Kieth came by, and off we went to the bus stop. The morning buses are always crowded with people and baskets of eggs, veggies, chickens, whatever people are bringing to market. It can be a challenge to get on and off the bus before it starts moving again.

It´s an exciting time. Training is coming to a close. Tomorrow, we all go to our respective sites for a 5-day visit in order to check things out and set up a place to stay when we first get there. I´m feeling better about my language. Yesterday I worked in the kokue (field) with my mom. We were weeding the corn, cassava, and peanut plants, and I could actually understand what she was saying. We may have had our first real conversation! She´s very difficult to understand, so she always has her kids translate for her. Her older daughters who live in Buenos Aires and are about my age are coming to visit soon, so that will be fun.

Last week, I was gone on Long Field Practice. Five of us trainees went to visit a current volunteer to practice our language and technical skills. I stayed with a really sweet family and slept with them (mom, dad, 5-year old, and 8-month old) in their one-room house. I got along with the mom, who´s 27, really well, and it was nice to see that I really can have Paraguayan friends here. We worked in the fields with various farmers and did a presentation (in Guarani) on a specific green manure, complete with a skit. It was fabulous.

On Saturday, there was an international music festival in a town about a half hour from where I live. It started at 8:30pm, and showcased singers, dancers, and musicians from Paraguay, Aregentina, Japan, and some other countries I didn´t catch. It ended at 3:30 in the morning, and becauses buses don´t start running until 4:30am, we walked for a ways. I finally got home when the roosters were crowing and the sky was turning pink. My parents had already been up for an hour, milked the cows, and were drinking their cocido by the fire.

In preparation for leaving for our sites, I´ve been hearing all sorts of stories about volunteers who go crazy. One woman, so the story goes, was found completely naked in her house, nailing pancakes to the wall. Another woman got so angry at a cow for eating her underwear that she stabbed the cow. We´ll see.

Obama ogana!

I spent election day sitting under a mango tree, talking about what I miss, feeling antsy. In a way, I felt helpless, sitting in Paraguay, and wanted to be a more active participant on this historical day, even if it was just watching the election on tv. All I could do was hope that my ballot made it safely to the US and that we will get the change the world deserves. I feel embarassed when I get into political discussions with people here. No one can understand what the hell is wrong with Bush, how he can destroy so many lives, and I feel ashamed that, as an American citizen, I have not done more to stop it. How, in the land of liberty and free-speech am I so powerless?

But I do have hope. That´s one of the reasons I´m here in Paraguay. When I rolled out of bed on Wednesday morning and my dad told me that "Obama ogana," I felt a surge of positivity that remained with me all day and still tickles me when I think about it. We went into the main training center that day and watched Obama´s acceptance speech on the internet. I think we can all walk a little taller now.

On another note, I´ve been doing lots of fun food projects. I bought some screen at the ferreteria and made a drying rack for fruit. I´ve been drying bananas, pineapple, peaches, and plums. So yummy! I did a presentation about it (in Guarani!) for a family in the community I´ve been working with.

I also got to work with bees the other day, and I´m feeling more confident about it. We checked up on the hives and harvested a bunch of honeycombs. Some people snacked on the drone larvae, which is supposed to be extremely high in protein, but I couldn´t quite hype myself up for it. I get enough meat here anyway. The other day for lunch, in my bean soup, I was give two chunks of what must have been cartilage attached to bone. I just couldn´t do it. While working with bees, Nathan got stung 14 times and had to give himself an epi-pen and get evacuated to Asunción, but he´s fine now. Those Africanized bees are fiesty, but they do produce some good honey. I ate it by the handful with bees still buzzing around it. I hope I get the chance to work with them in my site. I´ll find out where my site is in a week and a half. I can´t wait!

On Thursday, we went on a field trip to a permaculture farm, and the ´manager´studied in Corvallis. It was amazing to see how productive they were on such a small plot. They put their cow and rabbit poo in a biodigester, which turns it into fertilizer and can also be used as an alternative to propane. They had plans to make a compost-heated shower. There was also an impressive vermiculture set-up. At the end of the tour, they have us samples of their homemade cheese, yogurt, and marmalada, with some chipa, lemon cake, and cocido. It was the best yogurt I have ever had, and I´ve been inspired to teach my family how to make it.

On Friday, before class, I woke up and made some pizza dough, so it could rise all day. All my compañeros and some neighbors came over with all sorts of toppings. I made tomato sauce, Esteban made cheese, and my mom helped us get the tatacua going. We made the most delicous pizza in the outdoor oven, cooked to perfection on banana leaves. God, I love cultural exchange.

Tomorrow, I´m going away for a week on Longfield Practice. I´m visiting a volunteer and staying with a host family to practice my language and technical skills. I´ll also be giving a presentation on kumanda yvyra'i, which is a magical bean tree that fixes nitrogen in the soil, can act as erosion control, and the fruit can be used as animal forage or as healthy and delicious human food. Not bad.

Feliz Día De Los Muertos

These things I hold to be true...right now:
-When it rains, the road is no longer a road, but a river.
-"Another day" and "perhaps" both usually mean No.
-Toads (kururu)have a dangerous poison that comes out of their eyes, but...
-If you spit into a toads mouth, some kind of sickness will be cured.
-You never terere on an empty stomach.
-If you mix watermelon and terere, you will die.

I´ve been thinking about the potential challenges I will face when I´m alone in my site, and I realized that what might be just as hard as being able to complain to a sympathetic, English-speaking ear will be not being able to share my accomplishments and successes. This is what brings on nostalgia and loneliness. Even being able to share a simple joke with my family feels huge, and I want to be able to express that.

I asked my mama the other day if she knew of any remedies for constipation. She sent me off to get some semillas de lino (flax seeds), which she made into a tea. Later she made me another jujo tea from orange tree leaves and then rubbed my tummy while we watched the news. I had not counted on the fact that by sharing my health woes with my mom, the entire town would be privy to them, as well. Everyone, I mean everyone, knew.

My mom and I were walking to the school for a performance the other night, and I saw a guy I had met at the soccer tournament. I whipsered to my mom that he had been drunk and annoying, and she proceeded to tell him, not only that I had just said that, but that I had not had a bowel movement in days. My language is getting to the point where I can usually tell if the conversation is about me. Then when the guy advised me to drink lots of liguids, I was sure. What can I do? Everyone knows everything here, and I guess I´m sharing this information on the internet anyway.

The school peformance was...odd. We paid $1000 Guarani (about 25cents) to get in and then another 1000Gs. for a chair. The ´dances´were led by a whistle-blowing gym teacher, and the uniformed students performed calistenic routines, complete with counting. It was not what I had expected, but it did go along with what I have been hearing about the education system here. Creativity and even critical-thinking skills are not encouraged. Children are taught by following orders, memorizing by rote, and reading from texts. And they don´t go to school when it rains.

Yesterday, we got back from our Tech. Overnight. We were visiting another volunteer, staying with host families, and getting some practice in the field. We planted and harvested abonos verdes (green manures) with a sweet, old farmer, I made some chipa with his wife (on a side note--the Guarani word for wife translates directly into "to have slave"), and we mixed up some venemos caseros (homemade insecticide) from a local plant. On the way back home, we stopped at store that sold peanut butter. Oh, sweet, sweet peanut butter. I also bought a bag of something that resembled wheat germ, and as I was putting it in a birthday cake, my neighbor commented that it was cow feed. As long as it´s fiberous cow feed.

Ikatupa?...Ikatu.

I am now a quarter-century old, and things are looking up. On Saturday, after language class, my friends and I played a game of ultimate frisbee in the field by my house. We were then challenged by a group of Paraguayan youth, who proceeded to lay down the law in a soccer game. That night, we played cards, drank some caña, and had a jam session under the stars. The next morning, I led a yoga class, made some soy coffee, and then ate chorizo and mandi`o (yucca) with my family. After siesta, the big fútbol torneo started. I think Sundays are my favorite days because the whole community gets together for this event, and everyone´s happy, except the poor, squealing pig. I happened to get in the path of the pig´s exit when the winning team herded it home, and that could have been an ugly situation.

Sometimes I catch myself being extremely comfortable and complacent with the culture. Chickens are pecking around my feet, I don´t think twice about wiping my mouth on the tablecloth (that´s what it´s for), or sharing a toilet with hundreds of cockroaches. Other times, I get so frustrated by the foreigness of everything, how everyone in the community needs to know exactly what I´m doing, with whom, and for how long. What is simple smalltalk for them can be extremely prying and plain annoying for me. I get tired of having pasta with bread and some potato on the side. My days are long and exhausting, and sometimes I don´t want to roll out of bed and speak Guarani. Sometimes, I´ll say things in English to my family, just so I can get them out of my system, even if they won´t understand.

But I am progressing with the language, appreciating the cultural differences (and similarities), and I´m really inspired by what I´m learning about farming. We´ve been having some crazy heat lightning storms. It´s the most spectacular sky show I´ve ever seen. I had no qualms about walking around in it until I was told that it´s common (more common than I thought) for people to get electrocuted. Just the other week, I guess a cow was hit in a nearby field. It´s now my favorite time of day, the sun is about to set, it´s cooled off, but the mosquitos haven´t come out yet. Perfecto.

Let Freedom Ring...to a Polka Beat

On Saturday, it was my mom´s birthday (my real mom), and coincidentally (I think not), it was also a day of celebration for the Liberales. The two political parties here are the Colorados (red) and the Liberales (blue). The Colorados have been in power for a long while, and a new, blue president was recently elected. I woke up early to the Liberales theme song blaring from the stereo. Paraguayans love their music loud, and they pimp their rides out with huge sound systems that take up most of the space in the back of a truck. I heard this song repeatedly throughout the day, as the majority of my comminity is liberal. My family owns a CD that contains all of the songs you might need for any occassion. There are anthems, theme songs, a happy birthday, and even a wedding tune.

For breakfast I had my usual cafe con leche, but this time with crushed peanuts. Peanuts are a staple crop here, and they are so good roasted and put through a molino (grinder). I think I´m going to have to invest in a molino of my own. You can grind anything by hand. The other day I toasted some soybeans and dry corn, but it through the molino and fed it to our baby chicks.

After breakfast, I made soymilk and then sopa paraguaya in the clay oven. I also finally got to make zucannoes, which I shared with the community member who contributed to the dish. One guy gave me the zucchinies, I got soy meat from another woman, and one family gave me eggs. I could get used to this it-takes-a-community-to-make-a-meal mentality.

I have a lot more to say, but I have to run back to class now. Peace.

If It Doesn´t Work, Just Poke it With a Stick

I have just returned from a PC volunteer visit, where I spent four days with a current volunteer to get an idea of what life will be like. Carin is just about to finish up her service, so she has a lot of good advice and reassured me that, yes, training is exhausting. I went to my first campo fiesta on Saturday. Anyone can host a party in their yard, sell beer and chipa, play music, and charge on entry fee. The Señoras sit in chairs around the dance floor (i.e. the dirt yard) for hours, watching their daughters dance. Girls have to have had their quinceaño (like our Sweet 16 parties) before they are allowed to go to fiestas, and some of the young ones can really shake it! Everyone dances with a partner in lines. All of the music can pretty much fit into a few categories: kichaka (a simple 1-2 beat), kumbia (steppin´it up a notch), Reggaeton (my personal favorite), and Brazillian country.

There were a strain of redheads in Carin´s communidad, which I was curious about. Where did that recessive trait come from? Anyhow, it was a pretty tranquilo few days. We visited a few families, I checkout out her demonstration garden plot, and spent a lot of time sitting on the porch drinking terere in the heat. On Monday, we went into the nearest pueblo to do a radio show. I introduced myself in Guarani and gave a little shoutout to my new friends in the campo. I´ve actually been pleased by how much I can actually understand of the language.

Lastnight, played some Paraguayan cards (they only have 40 in a deck here), drank some wine and soda (yes, in the same glass), and then the power went out. This is pretty common, especially when there´s wind or heat lightning (of which there was both). A neighbor came by with a long stick, gave the electric line a little poke, and, voilá, there was light. It´s the little things.

I took the 5:30am bus from Carin´s town back to my own area. If it had been raining, I would have had to figure out something else, as buses can´t run in the mud. Only 10% of Paraguay´s roads are paved. Getting up that early does not even phase me anymore. It´s actually the nicest part of the day, with the sun rising, the roosters crowing, before it gets too hot. I´m going to run a few errands in town before heading back to my family. I´m looking forward to reuniting with everyone.

Last week, we had a party for my papa´s birthday. They cooked asada and chorizo (lots of meat) on a fire in the front yard. I played guitar for a while, and some of my American friends came over and sang with me. Then we turned on some polka music, and I danced with my papa. I´ll upload some pictures later. I also made another batch of zucchini bread. My ma wanted to learn how to make it, and I even found baking powder, though I think it was faulty. My zucchini hook-up brought over a few more gigantic zucchinis for me, so I´m going to make a zucanoe. My sister also turned 11 while I was gone, so I told her we´d have a mini celebration tonight. And then I have to prepare for a presentation on raising chickens. The fun never stops. Jajotopata!

Will Play for Chipa

Yesterday was chipa day at my house. Chipa is a traditional Paraguayan dish made of corn and yucca flours, questo, egg, milk, some other stuff, and baked on banana leaves in the clay oven my papa built in the backyard. My sister finally explained to me the importance of the day. Five years ago, her brother (the only son) died in a car accident at the age of 24, so every year, on the anniversary of his death, they get together to pray, make chipa, and celebrate his life. The extended family and other people in the community came over, as well as my PC friends. I was commissioned to lay guitar for the occassion, and even if I forget the words to a song, the majority of my audience does´t know the difference.
My guarani has been improving poco a poco. I´m pysched to be able to form simple sentences. I´ve had more technical training, as well, which is a lot of fun. We sit under the mango tree, passing terrere (cold mate), and playing games with soil. On Saturday, the nine of us Crop Extensionists were given the challenge of creating a garden on a plot of borrowed land in one hour. With the help of some local ninos who taught us how to plant yucca, we created a beautiful garden. We´ll also be raising chickens and making green manures during training. I´m in my element.
I´ve started to feel the constraints of being an American woman in this country. I wanted to take a walk lastnight before it got too dark, but my family discouraged me from going further than the soccer field about 100 meters from my house. I know it´s in my best interest to follow their advice, but it´s frustrating to have such little independence. There´s only one other woman in my group, and we will have to deal with our own challenges of being accepted as knowledgable and hard workers when we each go to our villages. For now, I´m glad that Christina is just down the road from me.
I made zucchini bread for the family during chipa day, and now papa wants me to make a cake for his birthday next week. The only problem is that I havn´t been able to find anything resembling baking soda or powder. Alright, I gotta go catch the bus back to my village. Oh, the adventures of public transporation in the developing world.
For the record, I have not noticed the toilets flushing in the opposite direction. My home toilet does not flush at all, and the others I´ve seen just to straight down...with force. And in a couple weeks, we´ll be switching to daylight savings time--springing ahead one hour. yes, it is spring. ciao.

And the winner gets...a pig!

Mbaé cheipa! How´s that for a new language? I´m on a quick lunch break from training. Today we´re talking about community development in the big town, where there is some internet access. So much has happened in just one week. I´ll try to start from the beginning. We (my 31 American compatriats and I) took a red eye to Sao Paulo, Brazil, and then onto Asuncion. When the plane was parked at the gate, a bunch of armed guards waited outside while a red carpet was rolled onto the jetway. As it turns out, the red carpet was not for us-- we had been sharing the plane with the president of Paraguay. The rest of that day was a blur of collecting bags, driving to the Peace Corps training center, meeting trainers, and then preparing to meet the families we are to live with for the next three months. Going on little sleep and knowing only their names and how to say "hello" in Guarani, we went to our respective villages to meet our new Paraguayan families. Adela is my new mama, Dionisio is my papa, and I have two sisters--Fabiola and Lilliana--who are 10 and 16. The parents don´t speak a whole lot of Spanish, though they can understand me, so my hermanas were giving me the ins and out of the village, who I´m related to (the entire town), and the names of trees and vegetables in both Spanish and Guarani. My dad grows tomatoes, melons, sugarcane (to feed the cows), yucca, and a few other veggies. I have my own room that opens up to the patio, where the wooden table is shifted to follow the shade or wherever someone feels like sitting. Next to my room is where the rest of the family sleeps in two beds. The bathroom is a glorified hole in the backyard with the biggest cockroaches I have ever seen. Every night I tell myself that they are afraid of me, not the other way around. We do have running water, and it also happens to be very cold, so my showers are quick and refreshing. While I shower, I can talk to the cows. There are two full-grown and a calf. One of the cows is pregnant and due next week, so I hope I´m around to see the birth. My dad taught me how to milk the other morning, and one of these days my mama said she´d show me how she makes cheese. My house is within walking distance to a few other volunteers, and the 9 of us who are crop extensionists have our intensive language training together at a mini site in our village. I am learing Guarani with four others, so there is a lot of personalized attention. I seen third world countries before; I´m not shocked by the driving or the poverty or the dirt, but it´s hitting me differently now that this is my home, and not somwhere I´m passing through until I can finally get a hot shower. This is it. This is my new life. I´ve been spending a lot of time with my family, eating lots of greasy, breaded things, playing guitar for them (which they love), having dance parties with my sisters, and trying to communicate in both Spanish and Guarani. They are amazed by my iPod and think it´s hillarious that I can stand on my head. I´ve actually been surprised by how content I´ve been with having almost virtually no alone time. I´ve been waking up around 6am, which is late by Paraguayan standards--most of my family is up at 4. Paraguayans are fanatics about fútbol, and I can see the field from my house. On Friday, there was a tournament, and everyone in the village turned out to play or spectate. It was quite a scene, and when the winning team was determined, the pig that had been grazing contentedly on the sidelines, was dragged, squealing onto the field. This was the prize for the winning team to share...and eat. There is so much more to say, but I have to get back to my training center now. My head hurts sometimes with all this stretching and thinking, but I´m happy. Jajotopata!

Stereotypes Can Be Fun

While in Queens, my sister and I went out in search of a deli in which to buy our traditional bagels and schmeer for breakfast. This was the first time, however, that we were not accompanied by a member of the Aronowitz family, and we had no idea where to go. We cruised around until we found a shop that looked promising. The display coolers were stocked with all sorts of cured meats, but when I asked if they had lox, I became the laughing stock of the five Italian guys working there. This was an Italian deli, and we were a couple of misplaced "Jew broads." Yep, that's actually what they called us, all in good fun of course...I think. I realized then that we looked the part with our diamond earings and gold necklaces still attached to us from trying on our inheritance. I asked for a cup of coffee, so we could get our bearings and decide what we wanted to do. They were a little more sympathetic when we explained that we were from Oregon, but wondered what we possibly ate in that foreign land. We decided to look for breakfast elsewhere and said farewell to our new Italian friends. It wasn't until we were walking into the local Walbaums that I realized I had not paid for my coffee. I hope they don't send their mafia after me.

Now I'm chillin' in the Coconut Grove, Miami-style. Manana: Paraguay!

Taking Over the World

So, here I am, presumptuously starting a blog dedicated to recording my adventures and experiences in hopes that I can share something of interest, connect to my loved ones, and, ultimately, create world peace. Baby steps. I am currently in New York, taking in the sights and sounds and smells of America while I still take them for granted.

Another day closer to this new life that has been gaining momentum with every inquisition and preparation. I keep meaning to write my first blog post (ooooh boy, that makes me giggle), but I have been procrastinating because I feel like it should be saved for the beginning of this voyage. But when is the beginning? Really, this all started a long time ago and is constantly ending and restarting. I also feel a pressure to have some life-changing experience, which sounds intimidating, but when I really think about it, is not such a big deal. You never know what’s going to change your life. I believe this to be true, and because this is my blog, it is my truth. And if you are reading this, it has infiltrated your truth. Muahaha—now I will take over other continents.

But, really, what I’m trying to say is that I’m going away. I wish rhyming always came that easily. Going away to Paraguay, “el corazon de America,” just in time for spring in the southern hemisphere, where toilets flush in the opposite direction (though this is yet to be determined).

For those of you who don’t know, I’m joining the Peace Corps as a “Crop Extensionist,” which means I’ll be kickin’ it old school with small-scale farmers to promote the continuation of their agrarian tradition, while preserving the land for subsequent generations, unlike some other countries (ahem). This is a very exciting time to be there because (1) the first non-authoritarian president was placed into office this year, (2) landless farmers are seeking change to the current system in which <1%>karass. (“one hundred and fourteeeen”). Trusting in the abundance is much easier when I am surrounded by health and happiness. But what about all those people who are disenfranchised and taken advantage of—in our own towns and around the world? Do they not trust enough? Perhaps this trust (in, I presume, God, the Divine, the Great Unknown) is actually a trust in ourselves and each other (because we are God) to share whatever wealth we have, monetary or other.

There are already people and things I miss, and I haven’t even left the country yet. But the longing that is usually described as pain, can be a sort of pleasure because it is a reminder of what I have in my life. I am extremely blessed to have so many inspiring people in my life, a multitude of beautiful places I can call “home,” and a pocket full of juicy thoughts I may dip into while staring at different stars in an opposite season with jaguars in my backyard.

Next stop: Miami (bienvenido ami ami)