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!