tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-86689829569190553182024-02-07T06:11:00.356-08:00Long Way HomeMusings of a Wayfaring Homesteader*emily*http://www.blogger.com/profile/09550257610066609831noreply@blogger.comBlogger64125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8668982956919055318.post-57312895963971609832015-06-09T12:11:00.002-07:002015-06-09T12:11:53.395-07:00Garden as RitualWow. It's been over a year since I've posted. I have made it through pregnancy, my wedding, and the first seven months of my daughter's life, so it is time to crawl up out of my private hole and share my dirt with the technological world. <br />
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There have been many changes in my life over the past year, and I have often felt like I'm just a backseat passenger, rather than an active participant--let alone driver-- of my life. So I decided to take things back into my own hands and grab this life by the proverbial horns. And to do it without leaving my property.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgodUO6PFXVBUeWBTfngz3o1VGkKdY6NhRnonR8z0LMkyVXOFOL0cKRI_BO7sTH80AgvmldeXAc0FkiAlkTm_Np0x-cnsCRyYrT_vjDz5av3r4KqRHrkPhUiheDlNzG9cSXH9O6RWd3xW7/s1600/InstagramCapture_c16ba824-dd4f-4f6a-811c-ba5ce325a774.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgodUO6PFXVBUeWBTfngz3o1VGkKdY6NhRnonR8z0LMkyVXOFOL0cKRI_BO7sTH80AgvmldeXAc0FkiAlkTm_Np0x-cnsCRyYrT_vjDz5av3r4KqRHrkPhUiheDlNzG9cSXH9O6RWd3xW7/s400/InstagramCapture_c16ba824-dd4f-4f6a-811c-ba5ce325a774.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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For some background, one of the many things I love about my husband is the way in which we balance each other. He accomplishes so many creative projects--woodworking, playing guitar, art, etc., while I am too distracted by dirty dishes or dirty diapers or the weird dirt in the cracks of the windowsill. As much as I want to carve out time to create sacred space, to artistically express myself, it doesn't often happen, because I prioritize other, "more practical" things. Ryan can pick up his guitar and sit in the middle of a chaotic, disorganized room, and be perfectly content. He teaches me to (dishes be damned) do something that feeds my soul, and I teach him to make the bed and put the clothes away NOW, not later, or tomorrow.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivRNQ8v3rVJMDaVbvh85tn4iZfNnjNpM8czi_J4cPBSUuSEyTy1gkz_3wZwA1mcEgfsQizWeZxWEkZIkCToaF6AN71S6x9aznIWk_f0xCS3GuljPMmhvuDJ3xRs0PFSqiDrVBl_uumlhWg/s1600/IMG_5962.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivRNQ8v3rVJMDaVbvh85tn4iZfNnjNpM8czi_J4cPBSUuSEyTy1gkz_3wZwA1mcEgfsQizWeZxWEkZIkCToaF6AN71S6x9aznIWk_f0xCS3GuljPMmhvuDJ3xRs0PFSqiDrVBl_uumlhWg/s400/IMG_5962.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Before Planting</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<span style="text-align: center;">So I decided to take on a task that is creative, sacred, and fun. I created a Womens' Medicinal Spiral Garden. I weeded the area, then built a short retaining wall (since it's on a slope) out of old wooden rails from a bridge that was being replaced in NW Portland. Then I hauled and stacked rocks from a local quarry in the shape of a spiral. I added compost, and started gathering medicinal plants. This relatively simple process took me weeks and weeks, as my primary task is taking care of my daughter, in addition to keeping up on household duties, chasing goats, herding chickens, caring for rabbits, a dog, a cat, and gardens. </span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5BIwrxzswbhn-H23ea3XnDVZJ4qWE8zNyxT2DG2XVhz-lg2cLC9erdsFClUoj4cIAcyP4LZvPg9fjc-g2ZPhtGjkaH0l1BU330L6fenBdaGxZ3KPP9cRYW1JgriX1aeTKvuUUSJ8ZqsvV/s1600/IMG_5973.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5BIwrxzswbhn-H23ea3XnDVZJ4qWE8zNyxT2DG2XVhz-lg2cLC9erdsFClUoj4cIAcyP4LZvPg9fjc-g2ZPhtGjkaH0l1BU330L6fenBdaGxZ3KPP9cRYW1JgriX1aeTKvuUUSJ8ZqsvV/s400/IMG_5973.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">After Planting</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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I invited some women friends over for a ritualistic planting of the garden. Ritual is something that has floated in and out of my life, and I have more recently made an effort to become empowered in using ritual to change my life. There is a comfort in the structure and format of ritual that has been practiced by women for centuries. Of course, we create our own practices, too, and speak words that feel true to us. And that's what's so amazing about ritual. You can create magic anytime, anywhere, however you want. Friends donated some medicinal plants of their own, and after blessing these plants with out intentions, casting the circle, and calling the directions, we put them in the earth. <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwbcSdNkD6OhSSeJ7xc-DASkw5qQEIVN7544_NRaUkN74EdRtmPliUdPIy0alo-0n1dw39EUxezMzKYdjBvuPap__O5qakIWffDAGTPSc2AFPjry-veBWNgYKtDRL7TVAJyZiIKUlgxizr/s1600/IMG_5978.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwbcSdNkD6OhSSeJ7xc-DASkw5qQEIVN7544_NRaUkN74EdRtmPliUdPIy0alo-0n1dw39EUxezMzKYdjBvuPap__O5qakIWffDAGTPSc2AFPjry-veBWNgYKtDRL7TVAJyZiIKUlgxizr/s400/IMG_5978.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
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Now that my garden is complete, I feel lightness around my duties. It feels just a little easier to play with my daughter and save the dishes for later. Of course, your lesson may be a different one. There is power in ritual. It is magic, and it is quantum physics. I encourage you all to bring some intention, some ritual into your lives, to be witnessed by your friends as you share your fears and visions. Let us all be healed. <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6QS1uiyVobFwiRWrubAruYR29MLdeZaWHXjGfCTqMGF8-4VpY8C8X4IVENc1ybqWtCn_VcXvuiMbyixlujMeImYFC9ZHJwuMrjEF8JG61kKWgiQhQDWFgAaQ3ArewLghdVIleZwSHT4Zr/s1600/InstagramCapture_e6f2a820-b542-41b9-b674-9e43ad2faab9.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6QS1uiyVobFwiRWrubAruYR29MLdeZaWHXjGfCTqMGF8-4VpY8C8X4IVENc1ybqWtCn_VcXvuiMbyixlujMeImYFC9ZHJwuMrjEF8JG61kKWgiQhQDWFgAaQ3ArewLghdVIleZwSHT4Zr/s400/InstagramCapture_e6f2a820-b542-41b9-b674-9e43ad2faab9.jpg" width="400" /></a>*emily*http://www.blogger.com/profile/09550257610066609831noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8668982956919055318.post-5511971625967649342014-04-22T17:57:00.001-07:002014-04-22T18:00:38.807-07:00Spring at Alder Eden<blockquote class="tr_bq" style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
<div style="text-align: start;">
<span style="background-color: #073763; color: orange;"><span style="font-family: Arial, helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;"><b><i>"In the spring, at the end of the day, you should smell like dirt."</i></b></span></span> </span></div>
</blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq" style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
<strong style="background-color: #073763; font-family: Arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px; text-align: start;"> <span style="color: #ffd966;"> </span><span style="color: orange;"> -Margaret Atwood</span></strong></blockquote>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUDvJK7V3Rl0pdzS3a4bzhUpLhc4N-MKZIc5cbzkoSpzUO2zseFYYiuCUkpENpCFvz8B5pPODHzAyqX3wZlsAahLzDUJptdIXBLXFuPYCwQK6bjAzV0Z-qug4WiQcsrzRkG7ck4oklVDQM/s1600/IMG_4703.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUDvJK7V3Rl0pdzS3a4bzhUpLhc4N-MKZIc5cbzkoSpzUO2zseFYYiuCUkpENpCFvz8B5pPODHzAyqX3wZlsAahLzDUJptdIXBLXFuPYCwQK6bjAzV0Z-qug4WiQcsrzRkG7ck4oklVDQM/s1600/IMG_4703.JPG" height="165" width="400" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMC2g10bqYJHim0Tlr1pRB2l-jcrSTDEhi70pUoTL6qdJm3qBJS87mPerKQbmUljLbdzmGz2yUkOW6kFoc9-ekOx0LdTBXcbGau06Xi5BKLEt_AiZmc0MFYij4atKm5MFKksHKBrhEug_9/s1600/IMG_4671.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><br /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh88JUoqzvqRpaUyUOop5coRdVbZAwItZIM8uhfV-Vlx-SkTJq8RaKmGqG74Xd1QlgJDVz8L2IZZW_wuvWTwe9qZyw6NoWW8pF63ru_laX74qq1DVRpSWTT9croy-eMR7zsInby9_PRU9EZ/s1600/IMG_4744.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><br /></a><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Spring is bursting at the seams here at
Alder Eden. This is the name we have given our land, in honor of
Arbor Eden, a community-centered farm run by an amazing couple who used to live on our road. We also happen to have a lot of alder trees on our property. People
are not usually excited by alder trees. They are generally the first
tree to pop up after a disturbance, and they grow thickly, often
shading out everything else. Alder is used for firewood and
furniture-making, but it is not a wood that will last outside in the
weather. That is actually one of the things I like about alder: It
doesn't last forever; it decomposes and provides nutrients for other
plants. We have a a stand of alders in the center of our pasture,
which, while beautiful, will have to come down soon before they start
to shade my crops.
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh88JUoqzvqRpaUyUOop5coRdVbZAwItZIM8uhfV-Vlx-SkTJq8RaKmGqG74Xd1QlgJDVz8L2IZZW_wuvWTwe9qZyw6NoWW8pF63ru_laX74qq1DVRpSWTT9croy-eMR7zsInby9_PRU9EZ/s1600/IMG_4744.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh88JUoqzvqRpaUyUOop5coRdVbZAwItZIM8uhfV-Vlx-SkTJq8RaKmGqG74Xd1QlgJDVz8L2IZZW_wuvWTwe9qZyw6NoWW8pF63ru_laX74qq1DVRpSWTT9croy-eMR7zsInby9_PRU9EZ/s1600/IMG_4744.JPG" height="400" width="340" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">There is so much new life, and after
the quiet of winter the birds make a stunning entrance. I don't know
that I ever really appreciated spring like this before. Of course, I
always welcome sun and warmth, but I never before had a connection to
a piece of land that I belonged to, that I knew I would nurture and
continue to connect with. I feel an almost maternal pride at the new
weeds that pop up. And there are a lot of weeds! </span></div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiS0SHm_O3mjk9wrlhwoplG72BV-U0xw8O9ASGYR1ilZgAAFbRzU8PpBfTc-48PkaMUyTg9-nFNvpZY8-eZydcp9vZp-gHZgX58NlnlDH38wM4Og7IMde5kRMdk4W4BuV8LQcsKMTgtNjBh/s1600/IMG_4727.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiS0SHm_O3mjk9wrlhwoplG72BV-U0xw8O9ASGYR1ilZgAAFbRzU8PpBfTc-48PkaMUyTg9-nFNvpZY8-eZydcp9vZp-gHZgX58NlnlDH38wM4Og7IMde5kRMdk4W4BuV8LQcsKMTgtNjBh/s1600/IMG_4727.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Cold Frame</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">After decades of hostile blackberry takeover, the reclamation of the land is
something beautiful to witness. It's like war survivors rebuilding
their shell-shocked city. I appreciate anything that's not a
blackberry bramble. First it was yellow dock and borage. Then
comfrey and nettle, bed straw, burdock, dandelions, and countless
others, whose names I have not yet learned. And so many of these
greens are edible. For about a week, my fingers had a constant, dull
throb from harvesting stinging nettles to make tea, soup, scrambles,
strifries. I added miner's lettuce, oxsalis, and violets to salads,
and deep-fried dandelion blossoms to dip in some fresh nettle pesto.
I also learned that the curling leaves of yellow dock, as well as the
leaves of borage are edible. </span></div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2yEzL9UwO_Vg5mZDj_XpsKU-vhMXfyeIhMHYne3w68TEtKtKVX_207eEQOEglTbYmxwXOArKGUvCad1s05K3SXcRWuD2FjVTreXOIC8r0_FVnpOOqBAUn272gTEnKX8X1AfbDS80Ac6oM/s1600/IMG_4723.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2yEzL9UwO_Vg5mZDj_XpsKU-vhMXfyeIhMHYne3w68TEtKtKVX_207eEQOEglTbYmxwXOArKGUvCad1s05K3SXcRWuD2FjVTreXOIC8r0_FVnpOOqBAUn272gTEnKX8X1AfbDS80Ac6oM/s1600/IMG_4723.JPG" height="400" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Fresh Salad</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"> The other night, I made a stirfry with
yellow dock and borage leaves, and burdock root. I am a dedicated
gardener, but there must be something so much more nourishing about
foraging for wild plants that have come up without the help of my
tended garden beds. This is another kind of gardening, practiced by
the native peoples here, though it was not always recognized as
gardening. </span></div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgM63vuMF7lFem5-OatEsSpoCstM5geie5-ggoqfkj1n3AiMiaRG7VYXU5zg-kcN_Oh3Fifkfb98I0Elqza8bjQarkQfuLqm84vkzD42dAOm6A-PHM2TguIeV37v8PzalFyb_4XRKDT7v72/s1600/IMG_4776.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgM63vuMF7lFem5-OatEsSpoCstM5geie5-ggoqfkj1n3AiMiaRG7VYXU5zg-kcN_Oh3Fifkfb98I0Elqza8bjQarkQfuLqm84vkzD42dAOm6A-PHM2TguIeV37v8PzalFyb_4XRKDT7v72/s1600/IMG_4776.JPG" height="400" width="331" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Dandelion Fritters with Nettle Pesto</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">This first spring has also brought
fresh energy for projects. We actually made it through the winter
(with the help of a Mexican vacation)! Both Ryan and I have felt
newly inspired, and I can finally look around and feel like we're
accomplishing something. We hauled cedar limbs out of the woods from
a tree that had fallen during the winter storms, and made
rot-resistant garden fence posts. </span></div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPAtl9XT7iJcV7FZwJuqc0utslUPUhj7EO8U9qf5da6RLm_ADqiYoq-RpIjiYkieKup9wvs_zdn-IHbUku1YGBq5tH1Trds4yZHzD3k6z_pQzGFUwlWrKCMArBPcZhmUGnd1zANgoyTfkK/s1600/IMG_4751.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPAtl9XT7iJcV7FZwJuqc0utslUPUhj7EO8U9qf5da6RLm_ADqiYoq-RpIjiYkieKup9wvs_zdn-IHbUku1YGBq5tH1Trds4yZHzD3k6z_pQzGFUwlWrKCMArBPcZhmUGnd1zANgoyTfkK/s1600/IMG_4751.JPG" height="400" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ryan's Gate-Building Skills</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">The small plot I had been
sheet-mulching since last summer, now contains rich soil. I built a
three-chamber compost bin from scrap pallets, where we put both our
kitchen scraps and our human waste. Yes, we save our shit.
</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEha6c_LBNjlrqwzIhRDwGrlKYIDDOkzrmoYshJq0HvqEijb-MoHxuN6gee9jTy6HD4bsjF9m62XjZevBlXnQZ73ZoeTZTB4fxGqn1gvdyARMne3bsHevXg9ZoNPFMBQQC3oWK4LBbPYq3Qj/s1600/IMG_4779.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEha6c_LBNjlrqwzIhRDwGrlKYIDDOkzrmoYshJq0HvqEijb-MoHxuN6gee9jTy6HD4bsjF9m62XjZevBlXnQZ73ZoeTZTB4fxGqn1gvdyARMne3bsHevXg9ZoNPFMBQQC3oWK4LBbPYq3Qj/s1600/IMG_4779.JPG" height="283" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Compost</td></tr>
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<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">We don't yet have indoor plumbing, but
even if we did, I would be hesitant to poop into precious clean
water. Instead we use a bucket and, instead of flushing, we add a
handful of sawdust. When the bucket gets full, we dump it into the
compost pile and cover it with straw. I created three sections in
the composting area so there will always be one working chamber, and
the center chamber contains dry, carbon-rich material, like straw and
dead leaves. When one chamber gets full, I'll move to the other
one. </span></div>
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<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">After two years, we will have created
humanure, which we can use to mulch our plants and trees, and the
cycle continues. The bucket doesn't stink at all, and it's really
not that bad to empty the bucket once a week. The sawdust does an
amazing job of removing odor. When I worked on a sailboat ten years
ago I had to haul twenty buckets of solid and liquid waste (sans
sawdust) and dump it into local sewage treatment plant processing
tanks. That was gross. This is dreamy.
</span></div>
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</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Enough about poop. We also have
animals! This homestead has grown to twenty-eight souls. In addition
to our three laying hens, Cricket, Pinchot, and Fraulein, we got ten
more chicks, who are quickly outgrowing their box. A month and a
half ago I bred my female rabbit, Trillium, to our new stud, Lord
Bergamot, and they produced seven healthy baby bunnies. They are the
cutest balls of fur to ever fit in your hand, and they are an instant
cure for those afternoon blahs. </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrDmn19syjDTjB9UkiKZjdCybu-GEVmGDIk2yIRE_1mqA_dlgD9_feKwT4HNZC0T5ZnF1eGbvd9uMa_W6_6P9QJRfOYO3RSrpK_Qss0C_p0F0ehVF7qMF5OCNKZWbd2k5NII7kbuwIaOsp/s1600/IMG_4759.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><br /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrDmn19syjDTjB9UkiKZjdCybu-GEVmGDIk2yIRE_1mqA_dlgD9_feKwT4HNZC0T5ZnF1eGbvd9uMa_W6_6P9QJRfOYO3RSrpK_Qss0C_p0F0ehVF7qMF5OCNKZWbd2k5NII7kbuwIaOsp/s1600/IMG_4759.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"> </a></div>
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</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtgvdICX_jlLJaAOKMVRvAg4f3a3G7pFw5wmKPI1vvS4Z0euJSGDtntrHMXGOlqnQC84YGAtYy1PXMkbkYI84A3saxnjj33TsL3DikrY0IBp77RODiYa0SqnykqZ_C0jOkbnBzQuzUiu62/s1600/IMG_4782.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtgvdICX_jlLJaAOKMVRvAg4f3a3G7pFw5wmKPI1vvS4Z0euJSGDtntrHMXGOlqnQC84YGAtYy1PXMkbkYI84A3saxnjj33TsL3DikrY0IBp77RODiYa0SqnykqZ_C0jOkbnBzQuzUiu62/s1600/IMG_4782.JPG" height="400" width="280" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"> On Ryan's birthday we purchased two
weaner pigs from a young couple who raised them on all-organic feed
in Hood River. The pigs are a heritage breed called American Guinea Hog, known for their sweet dispositions and propensity to forage.
So, Burdock and Borage joined us on the land and have been excellent
tillers.
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">We created a roving paddock system,
using a solar panel charger, which sends electric currents through
two rings of wire, placed low to the ground, where their more
sensitive snouts would hit. This has (mostly) kept them in. The
paddock is easy enough to move every few weeks, so they always have
access to fresh forage material and never have to stand in their own
feces or muck. Joel Salatin calls this the <i>pig savannah</i>.
</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinXW1bY5-bDa5psRSzNDVfzIz9c_gEWDi4XK-vk3Q_zLQ9shB10PPqHjbLhaej_XuezvtAA3PdipCAv_7DtmBc-nb2qIDPq6pqus6Qm4AuIZJf-0WO26Z8_JpWaEbhW_bKCcwD21haMAlE/s1600/IMG_4778.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinXW1bY5-bDa5psRSzNDVfzIz9c_gEWDi4XK-vk3Q_zLQ9shB10PPqHjbLhaej_XuezvtAA3PdipCAv_7DtmBc-nb2qIDPq6pqus6Qm4AuIZJf-0WO26Z8_JpWaEbhW_bKCcwD21haMAlE/s1600/IMG_4778.JPG" height="276" width="400" /></a></div>
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<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Most recently, we found a big, beautiful dog named Thelma. She is 110 pounds of love muffin. A Great White Pyrenees mix, she is a trained working dog, and her specialty is guarding chickens. She has also taken a liking to the bunnies...</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNgUR2XRah08oJVAUCbqndU6ax8ZyVSYN_krStLsicw8EU9ZPVYdWgE1F234MySFEw2ITcQmnqxRqFz8PrtFHoTw2Wwlnonk09EbrLdDrTWNiDTwjvzBH5ISaDR1wbKyVu6VnpBbxMH36M/s1600/IMG_4754.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNgUR2XRah08oJVAUCbqndU6ax8ZyVSYN_krStLsicw8EU9ZPVYdWgE1F234MySFEw2ITcQmnqxRqFz8PrtFHoTw2Wwlnonk09EbrLdDrTWNiDTwjvzBH5ISaDR1wbKyVu6VnpBbxMH36M/s1600/IMG_4754.JPG" height="400" width="345" /></a></div>
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<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">In two weeks, they cleared a large
section of a terrace, where I then easily planted blueberries and
raspberries. They really are sweet creatures. I often hang out in
their paddock and rub their bellies and let them crawl on my lap. I
imagine that it will be difficult to slaughter them in September, but
I would rather love them now and honor their lives, rather than
trying to protect myself from grief by becoming emotionally detached. </span></div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjyymT_YvBJ8X2gCwSD0Cc3mRTZcUBqYGfQwRFBqEMhyJgxSAysEekh2qgbBKYeQsBpGENWONym13j1q2YlWzN5j9eR0pl2LCKvgk1NTDxVMkx9nTh51HcaC6tfN8zmYAZ4imWLne5DBMl/s1600/IMG_4748.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjyymT_YvBJ8X2gCwSD0Cc3mRTZcUBqYGfQwRFBqEMhyJgxSAysEekh2qgbBKYeQsBpGENWONym13j1q2YlWzN5j9eR0pl2LCKvgk1NTDxVMkx9nTh51HcaC6tfN8zmYAZ4imWLne5DBMl/s1600/IMG_4748.JPG" height="400" width="242" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Thelma</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Many people have been surprised that we have named the pigs that we
plan on eating. It is such an odd logic to allow ourselves to name
and love animals for pets, but not the ones that we will actually
ingest. I would rather eat something that has been well cared for,
honored in life, and killed with respect. Even with the movement for
more sustainably-produced food, this respect is often still lacking.
These are living creatures, and I will not pretend that I will not
grieve for their loss. I also do not remove myself from the cycle of
life and death, and I plan to wield the knife myself.
</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrDmn19syjDTjB9UkiKZjdCybu-GEVmGDIk2yIRE_1mqA_dlgD9_feKwT4HNZC0T5ZnF1eGbvd9uMa_W6_6P9QJRfOYO3RSrpK_Qss0C_p0F0ehVF7qMF5OCNKZWbd2k5NII7kbuwIaOsp/s1600/IMG_4759.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrDmn19syjDTjB9UkiKZjdCybu-GEVmGDIk2yIRE_1mqA_dlgD9_feKwT4HNZC0T5ZnF1eGbvd9uMa_W6_6P9QJRfOYO3RSrpK_Qss0C_p0F0ehVF7qMF5OCNKZWbd2k5NII7kbuwIaOsp/s1600/IMG_4759.JPG" height="400" width="276" /></a></div>
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<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">New life is what overwhelms right now. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsFsnRYyENJeOvXwKe2h17Oxsx80FJLpEaNII2RZD68SZNS8GanC29ndMeWSpiJcdMYRG9ClL3KqLOuyGwJSN_v5GtCEQoP5k54Rg7W3dhGkL2GN2NoZyeRIZPmjz9kpOZs8w5dZdV7wP8/s1600/IMG_4737.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsFsnRYyENJeOvXwKe2h17Oxsx80FJLpEaNII2RZD68SZNS8GanC29ndMeWSpiJcdMYRG9ClL3KqLOuyGwJSN_v5GtCEQoP5k54Rg7W3dhGkL2GN2NoZyeRIZPmjz9kpOZs8w5dZdV7wP8/s1600/IMG_4737.JPG" height="346" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ryan & Fraulein</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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*emily*http://www.blogger.com/profile/09550257610066609831noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8668982956919055318.post-6985944897580938272013-09-08T17:11:00.000-07:002013-09-08T17:11:17.619-07:00Finding Home<span style="font-family: inherit;"><i>This is my life: I live in a barn with my sweet, hardworking,
handsome fiance, four chickens, two rabbits, a disappearing cat, a
shy mouse, and quite a few curious, yet respectful spiders. I
daydream </i></span><i style="font-family: inherit;">about a Vita-mix and electricity to run it. I also imagine
bathtubs and hot, running water with which to fill them. Though
these are good fodder for thought, I am content; more content, in
fact, than I can ever remember being.</i><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><i> * * * *</i></span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeF50bVzHcmWtFT38BQXZhwHvWm944laAiesOPKcWBkUKimW_Do7aRenKZA9It5VnahSV5B_vfHf1NsHyQYRjMZco_1J1w62Pn_cqPjeHTkTi7-CfeTAvpB799aSVklGExCJ9vNQADFfhE/s1600/IMG_3885.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="435" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeF50bVzHcmWtFT38BQXZhwHvWm944laAiesOPKcWBkUKimW_Do7aRenKZA9It5VnahSV5B_vfHf1NsHyQYRjMZco_1J1w62Pn_cqPjeHTkTi7-CfeTAvpB799aSVklGExCJ9vNQADFfhE/s640/IMG_3885.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
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<div style="text-align: right;">
</div>
I am awake before five this morning, laying in bed and listening
to the rain pound on the metal roof of the barn. I pull on clothes
from the day before, plus a wool jacket to defend against morning
temperatures, even in August. I heave open one of the sliding barn
doors to let in some light. Pale pink clouds make wispy streaks
above the massive cedar trees. The chickens, hearing me rustle
around, call out. I put the coffee percolator on the propane stove
before going to let them out of their coop. Cricket-Cricket, Pincho,
Fraulein, and Red hop-slide down the ladder directly to their food.
Trillium, the doe rabbit, starts running back and forth in her hutch
excitedly, while old-man Jackson sits in the bathroom corner of his
hutch and stares with his huge, bunny eyes. The rain has stopped,
though overhead trees drip an omnipresent reminder of the night's
precipitation. By now the sky is clearing to light blue, and mauve
clouds are drifting away to <br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXx8cRK1BLisw6dia26r-rK7xIF6ADkU4dAQGUA6Igi4CRHiY6OclPsIKr7wgrDU9vg96G5VPBSy3VqftExzS-9kyDAS-Kv_gAuo1AuRj-bFeHfbvWDnxBeMG2ER6QXtn4Lr2_oYbp-1u8/s1600/IMG_3888.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="146" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXx8cRK1BLisw6dia26r-rK7xIF6ADkU4dAQGUA6Igi4CRHiY6OclPsIKr7wgrDU9vg96G5VPBSy3VqftExzS-9kyDAS-Kv_gAuo1AuRj-bFeHfbvWDnxBeMG2ER6QXtn4Lr2_oYbp-1u8/s320/IMG_3888.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Green manures sprouting.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
make room for what looks like another hot
day. Hopefully there was enough rain that I don't have to water the
slope that is planted with green manure seeds, which need daily
watering during this time. Of course, the area underneath the
biggest cedar tree is bone dry. I did not have much hope for
cultivation there, anyway. It also looks like the chickens are
having a second breakfast of my seeds in that area. With all the
blackberry removal that's been done, I am trying to protect the slope
from erosion, while improving the quality of the soil after years of
the invasive Himalayan blackberry, since the property has been
abandoned for over ten years.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJBHzVdhDWWwIPFt83Jrs6oucjlcAujHEaKVL0BuI2V4Shnc6alfEFcS3SjIy9lbqMtu__JmClGfNcSVx0-wZqF89Q57sh6clQLFnWT93g1-0Rzt18PbOwtDdA-iGevnAH1RrPuzKUYNpK/s1600/IMG_3678.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJBHzVdhDWWwIPFt83Jrs6oucjlcAujHEaKVL0BuI2V4Shnc6alfEFcS3SjIy9lbqMtu__JmClGfNcSVx0-wZqF89Q57sh6clQLFnWT93g1-0Rzt18PbOwtDdA-iGevnAH1RrPuzKUYNpK/s320/IMG_3678.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
I'm hoping the mix of winter grasses I
planted take root before the fall rains come. Watering has been a
task. The old water line is leaky, so we mostly leave it shut off at
the meter, located a quarter mile up the road. When I want to water,
I hook up a hose and sprinkler head to the outdoor spigot, open the
attached valve, then head up the road to switch on the main line at
the meter. This, however, is a luxury after hauling water up from
the creek.<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjt5w6wiOmof1LghkJ2UGqLtlBVfBIDpMT_VecUIOFnZmiaWPJy5bBU6opYaSfS-jGG6YMvkoNMyMGvo2cJ8_YrQDvFMue34nfl7g83TMGMpcNDSYftlEjt3xruR0u4f_6dlUq77Lxn0GoX/s1600/IMG_3810.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjt5w6wiOmof1LghkJ2UGqLtlBVfBIDpMT_VecUIOFnZmiaWPJy5bBU6opYaSfS-jGG6YMvkoNMyMGvo2cJ8_YrQDvFMue34nfl7g83TMGMpcNDSYftlEjt3xruR0u4f_6dlUq77Lxn0GoX/s320/IMG_3810.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Kitchen before</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9bdhcSGfKiPdQ8vD2OSrjqpPO4HNywPmYZY_EEi2ddFVnkV-LHjM-5-cxanh41XA1XClhTSRT8Soah_dKNFnYbuK30veQ12UKCKySXyltptJ9H-NKpIxbqMgYVwiGxnRfsWWY1AXplGKE/s1600/IMG_3830.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9bdhcSGfKiPdQ8vD2OSrjqpPO4HNywPmYZY_EEi2ddFVnkV-LHjM-5-cxanh41XA1XClhTSRT8Soah_dKNFnYbuK30veQ12UKCKySXyltptJ9H-NKpIxbqMgYVwiGxnRfsWWY1AXplGKE/s320/IMG_3830.JPG" width="275" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Kitchen after</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Because everything takes so long, each minor improvement feels
monumental. A few amateur stairs that I created on the path are a
source of pride. I never knew that a few hours spent with the
weed-whacker (a recent purchase!) could so dramatically improve the
landscape and my mood.
<br />
<br />
<br />
How many years have I been daydreaming about my homesteading
future? How I would tend the garden, milk the goat, and put the
finishing earthen plasters on my beautiful home? What a strange
realization to awaken and find that I am, in fact, living what had
always been in the future, and that none of it is as I had imagined.
I knew it would be hard work—I looked forward to it, but I also did
not realize just how hard it would be. And not just in the physical
sense. This is the part of homesteading that was not a part of my
fantasies: hauling years' worth of abandoned junk out of the woods,
trying to determine the best way to...get
water, power, make a floor, keep warm for the winter. I find myself
waiting for clear direction from an "expert," like the water company,
for instance, but it seems like it's all up to us.
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCrzXukGs02XcWqRkRjXP8PPBSMuDtGjQ7F_ok1tY9o2SquQSqAq9910D4J3FVGZrgzVlA8vVOwD74lT_LET6Ecs_ZfXwu4PzFGltgO0dhwKvmWhcMFwrzgrowfW43eRveRFzIG9f3Aieb/s1600/IMG_3733.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCrzXukGs02XcWqRkRjXP8PPBSMuDtGjQ7F_ok1tY9o2SquQSqAq9910D4J3FVGZrgzVlA8vVOwD74lT_LET6Ecs_ZfXwu4PzFGltgO0dhwKvmWhcMFwrzgrowfW43eRveRFzIG9f3Aieb/s320/IMG_3733.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sheet mulching</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvnIm8mEldemN5B-AkTJdRMmxdq2VIIrwtRsmUlREZ28KZm5fPVMuKuTQs_BLG7h5mM_VKTOlw3eWOKe7DrVS7bDpw-5snUVDhv4UCblSuC8xzXiXJwBJJzeMo8K59INQ3m4J9vJpY-7Aj/s1600/IMG_3802-001.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvnIm8mEldemN5B-AkTJdRMmxdq2VIIrwtRsmUlREZ28KZm5fPVMuKuTQs_BLG7h5mM_VKTOlw3eWOKe7DrVS7bDpw-5snUVDhv4UCblSuC8xzXiXJwBJJzeMo8K59INQ3m4J9vJpY-7Aj/s320/IMG_3802-001.JPG" width="289" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ryan with coffee.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXAYaMgGjV-_vVnowHyOvlx01gN3gaXQ8GG82-CUTVgrgm2MxhyphenhyphenxMYukhI2Lk0TpITXjp9YJ3xLuJc3bqWFZwZANbSr_mTVwE7abKlj0I8olxmAkfK7fRCNRD6c8JpDDYkIEaAsXtbeNAa/s1600/IMG_3703.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXAYaMgGjV-_vVnowHyOvlx01gN3gaXQ8GG82-CUTVgrgm2MxhyphenhyphenxMYukhI2Lk0TpITXjp9YJ3xLuJc3bqWFZwZANbSr_mTVwE7abKlj0I8olxmAkfK7fRCNRD6c8JpDDYkIEaAsXtbeNAa/s320/IMG_3703.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Trillium</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVhGkiqFTIom0mwBH5_4XuuNq3XExX6AU177ceW20TJD4QK8092VkJHwUORZ3lMt6WsZlmUbOKdvdP57WoGGvTnT3pVvFi6s2_FZuJEqlwlZB1R_sA4cJdUavNCvEgnuGRA-ddlA8UI4ds/s1600/IMG_3798-001.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="211" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVhGkiqFTIom0mwBH5_4XuuNq3XExX6AU177ceW20TJD4QK8092VkJHwUORZ3lMt6WsZlmUbOKdvdP57WoGGvTnT3pVvFi6s2_FZuJEqlwlZB1R_sA4cJdUavNCvEgnuGRA-ddlA8UI4ds/s320/IMG_3798-001.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Bunny hutches</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxB-J9Wy1A0jpAOGAYxabLYH03eogUIg3VhHmoo9ziz-CiQxce5hLDjE63Td8-ZS73x16jEkrZFf4NVhublRYiLuhApS62Qt6SShKkTNRPT6DFYj65_qXyth0x1j2Sw_VjalYgz5oscR1N/s1600/IMG_3805.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><br /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxB-J9Wy1A0jpAOGAYxabLYH03eogUIg3VhHmoo9ziz-CiQxce5hLDjE63Td8-ZS73x16jEkrZFf4NVhublRYiLuhApS62Qt6SShKkTNRPT6DFYj65_qXyth0x1j2Sw_VjalYgz5oscR1N/s1600/IMG_3805.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><br /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxB-J9Wy1A0jpAOGAYxabLYH03eogUIg3VhHmoo9ziz-CiQxce5hLDjE63Td8-ZS73x16jEkrZFf4NVhublRYiLuhApS62Qt6SShKkTNRPT6DFYj65_qXyth0x1j2Sw_VjalYgz5oscR1N/s1600/IMG_3805.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><br /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxB-J9Wy1A0jpAOGAYxabLYH03eogUIg3VhHmoo9ziz-CiQxce5hLDjE63Td8-ZS73x16jEkrZFf4NVhublRYiLuhApS62Qt6SShKkTNRPT6DFYj65_qXyth0x1j2Sw_VjalYgz5oscR1N/s1600/IMG_3805.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"> </a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxB-J9Wy1A0jpAOGAYxabLYH03eogUIg3VhHmoo9ziz-CiQxce5hLDjE63Td8-ZS73x16jEkrZFf4NVhublRYiLuhApS62Qt6SShKkTNRPT6DFYj65_qXyth0x1j2Sw_VjalYgz5oscR1N/s1600/IMG_3805.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><br /></a>The first homesteaders, of course, did everything from scratch,
similarly to what we are faced with, minus all of our modern tools.
We are encumbered, instead, with county regulations and
bureaucracies. These are burdens
that are borne under the pretext of safety. Moreover, early
homesteaders were all in the same proverbial boat. All MY neighbors
have electricity, running water, and often pity, admire, or both,
that we live in a barn with our chickens. I really don't mind this
lifestyle, except when I measure myself against my friends and
neighbors, and I fall short according to some image of who I should
be/what I should have by the time I turn thirty (in less than two
months). I enjoy waking up and going to bed, more or less, with the
sun. I love that my chickens follow me around. I am very conscious
of how much water I use, and carefully pour soapy water from one dish
to the next to prevent waste. I limit the amount of food I buy and
harvest because of the minimal space in the cooler. I enjoy the slow
pace of this life, except when I need to work in town and be there at
a specific time, smelling clean, and looking presentable. Much of
this life is reminiscent of living in Paraguay. The difference is
that, in Paraguay, everyone lived in this way. Here it takes me much
longer to simply live than anyone else I know.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhO1a1Xf5N3tfhaQ_zMEVYGYsdZFqfITG2NFsI3avduAmnnoDuHmYV-ZwmwJZUHCpkyJuQ2WpZ9xNOEW7p8DjVDQlxDDsT0aKO6HWiEb0wuR97nlyGQleQmRPGPxzZ-ZX2PoCCoXXJv4RKO/s1600/IMG_3797-001.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><br /></a>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxB-J9Wy1A0jpAOGAYxabLYH03eogUIg3VhHmoo9ziz-CiQxce5hLDjE63Td8-ZS73x16jEkrZFf4NVhublRYiLuhApS62Qt6SShKkTNRPT6DFYj65_qXyth0x1j2Sw_VjalYgz5oscR1N/s1600/IMG_3805.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="362" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxB-J9Wy1A0jpAOGAYxabLYH03eogUIg3VhHmoo9ziz-CiQxce5hLDjE63Td8-ZS73x16jEkrZFf4NVhublRYiLuhApS62Qt6SShKkTNRPT6DFYj65_qXyth0x1j2Sw_VjalYgz5oscR1N/s400/IMG_3805.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
* * * *<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
At a beekeeping conference a few weeks ago I was talking to the
owner of an agriculture supply store. He was telling me how his son,
an engineering student, is creating a chicken coop with a timed
device to feed, water, and close the coop at night. I was excited
about the idea, since I have had to shorten my nights out and forgo
weekend trips, due to the responsibility of caring for animals. The
old-timer farmer who was also sitting at the table chastised me for
being a “bad farmer.” I was hurt and defensive about his
comment. I never claimed to be a farmer, but his words stuck with
me. I <i>should</i> be home every night, tucking my animals to bed,
but the reality is that I am still caught in a few different worlds .
Is it possible to be a part-time farmer or part-time homesteader? I
knew that the gift of having land would mean relinquishing some of my
previous activities. My time and financial commitments have to be
here. I made that choice. But that doesn't mean I do not feel called
to go out late with my friends or go to festivals and forget about
everything else for a while. So, perhaps I am a bad farmer, but I'm not sure how
much I'm willing to give up to be a good one.</div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8JYvsGFyMh9oaQM-v0Aa2NwSmnS_3HDgxoujY0Z5ZDWiiuIsgzc_Nh5lhZ_Q5R5da10Eixb-5z6cHMoyzObT6SbN9t2uRmoalbZTDxixOxpquP83IeUrhgNQeAouXqpZr6X1Km5kTbpzR/s1600/IMG_3797-001.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8JYvsGFyMh9oaQM-v0Aa2NwSmnS_3HDgxoujY0Z5ZDWiiuIsgzc_Nh5lhZ_Q5R5da10Eixb-5z6cHMoyzObT6SbN9t2uRmoalbZTDxixOxpquP83IeUrhgNQeAouXqpZr6X1Km5kTbpzR/s400/IMG_3797-001.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Coop by Emily & Ryan</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
* * * *<br />
<br />
<br />
I think that life could be divided according to our relationship
to things: times of acquisition and times of letting go. With the
exception of a few minor phases of purchasing and salvaging during college or while
living in Paraguay, most of my adult life I have been constantly
getting rid of things to make room for what I need, or at least with
what I can easily move. Never before have I been in a position to
just acquire stuff. I am still using the same doddering, garage sale
kitchen supplies from college, I own no furniture, and, besides the
few boxes in storage, I have been able to carry what I own in the
back of my truck, letting go of and acquiring new items here and
there. Now I find myself hording irrigation line, old beekeeping
equipment, unwanted sinks, and scraps of wood, just because they
might have a use sometime.<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDfj4t65o8toEmm36gLVbRttzGdJr8yFhbDcnDF9QyaRD7OawdJC8hbETtrNzgde8VruFyi1W3lgTSyJ_EsVcoA01MVntvA7WGlokoorrxINVszypyoh5WrdDGEKjv_BlJMnpwN-Q_5-8X/s1600/IMG_3675.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="272" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDfj4t65o8toEmm36gLVbRttzGdJr8yFhbDcnDF9QyaRD7OawdJC8hbETtrNzgde8VruFyi1W3lgTSyJ_EsVcoA01MVntvA7WGlokoorrxINVszypyoh5WrdDGEKjv_BlJMnpwN-Q_5-8X/s400/IMG_3675.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Our backyard jungle.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
Many of the items we have been collecting recently are coming from
our neighbors who have sold their farm and are getting rid of two
massive barns full of almost twenty years worth of country living. Our neighbors, in general, have been extremely...well,
neighborly, offering ripe pears, showers, and outlets to plug in our
phones. Many of our neighbors come walking through our property,
since we are butted up against hundreds of acres of forest, and there
is a trail that can be accessed from our place. At first I was a
little put off by having people just show up and walk by the barn.
There was a part of me that felt possessive of my space and my
privacy. Then I took a step back and realized that those were not my
feelings, but feelings I thought I should have. Actually, I
realized, now that I know my neighbors, I love that I have something
to offer them. It feels like community.
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEmtlmc0fBbGno7OVM4sAI5121e-3bUeGmgWO0Cwjxln8Img80iuos9TaunX0OnL9QPydnYxy1lFM1OwvgCZpLkbsA4xk8fiWTdaXAlyTYE8Ixpach5-Dm-Ri-zksQBDEiMeAUaCJ39-6B/s1600/IMG_3680.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEmtlmc0fBbGno7OVM4sAI5121e-3bUeGmgWO0Cwjxln8Img80iuos9TaunX0OnL9QPydnYxy1lFM1OwvgCZpLkbsA4xk8fiWTdaXAlyTYE8Ixpach5-Dm-Ri-zksQBDEiMeAUaCJ39-6B/s640/IMG_3680.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Southern View</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
Living in community is a blessing and a curse. Mostly it has been
one blessing after another; we have been able to borrow tools, labor,
and generally clean others' unwanted items. We have, however, been
getting lots of unsolicited advice from our community, which, while
sometimes helpful, also instills a strange resentment. We were
talking to some friends, both psychologists, about it a few weeks
ago, and they immediately understood what we were talking about.
Having moved onto a sailboat for the first time, learned to sail, and
then traveled around the glove, they encountered many people in the
maritime world who each knew a different “right” way of doing
anything. They call this catch-22 the “cost of collaboration.”
It feels inherently good to work with others, to problem-solve as a
whole, and become strong, as diverse minds and bodies can. But it
comes at a cost: loss of autonomy. Getting too many perspectives
makes it hard to see the right choice. It is also plain annoying to
have so many people in our business. Ultimately I know that I am
blessed to live in a community where so many people want to see me
succeed enough to offer advice. Collaboration is a beautiful thing.
A trying, nail-biting thing that, of course, will make me a richer
person...I hope, one day.
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyElgZibjohcwQ1xmf8GJrPpJcFqPb0K12LCib7G2ui7w8Xxys6FJw4222Ka2FALpIhtOB0WeonPmwst2T62vdRJgup_49EJgYgAaaShcl_NBRBDbKMfK_nv26W87k-ENPVmOa1CK1YxOc/s1600/IMG_3829.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="207" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyElgZibjohcwQ1xmf8GJrPpJcFqPb0K12LCib7G2ui7w8Xxys6FJw4222Ka2FALpIhtOB0WeonPmwst2T62vdRJgup_49EJgYgAaaShcl_NBRBDbKMfK_nv26W87k-ENPVmOa1CK1YxOc/s320/IMG_3829.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Planning</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoyXBHXmW6_p07f1lXZ0e-DkQ8lyxlReotsJJuJ4GSm_S8pdpM74K2-hXZr5gY6FncS4ZLn13X5F0IrD4O1DQWtP1XrRKl0uWd_Bd69sTozXpSXnN4wPkrCPf_af9rv6F_j02H5f-5MKl0/s1600/IMG_3731-001.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="202" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoyXBHXmW6_p07f1lXZ0e-DkQ8lyxlReotsJJuJ4GSm_S8pdpM74K2-hXZr5gY6FncS4ZLn13X5F0IrD4O1DQWtP1XrRKl0uWd_Bd69sTozXpSXnN4wPkrCPf_af9rv6F_j02H5f-5MKl0/s320/IMG_3731-001.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Doing</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Again, bringing things back to living in Paraguay, one aspect of
life down there which frustrated me most was my lack of privacy.
Neighbors were always over to borrow something, offer something,
check up on me. There was no escape, and I resented Paraguayans for
wanting to hang out with me, for wanting my help, and for needing
theirs. I did need their help. They all needed each other in a very
unpretentious, straightforward way. That's where I realized what
community really means. It was not about the “intention” people
heave,but about allowing themselves (by choice or not) to rely on
each other, without condoning dependence upon others. While my lack
of privacy drove me crazy, from it blossomed the sense of community
that became my fondest memories.
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEga_iJhMaG8cUryyOeBulXGyFn2vd9fK46tDPVad0szxvKXd4nnJWrxlImoWJoTXtG2gCJsg2950HdMwaIpJiSUn3UBU6UL3nB7ok6s1lm-KJpntzrSZ-WybOGcCNbNn_p6XXp7GXhJgtI0/s1600/IMG_3894.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEga_iJhMaG8cUryyOeBulXGyFn2vd9fK46tDPVad0szxvKXd4nnJWrxlImoWJoTXtG2gCJsg2950HdMwaIpJiSUn3UBU6UL3nB7ok6s1lm-KJpntzrSZ-WybOGcCNbNn_p6XXp7GXhJgtI0/s320/IMG_3894.JPG" width="252" /></a><br />
<br />
* * * *<br />
<br />
This is just another homesteading blog, written by another
wanderer, searching for some peace and meaning in this life. There
are many others doing the same or similarly. The vast amount of
literary works popping up all over about getting back to the land are
increasing. The public is taking note. I do not claim to be doing
something new, only something that feels right. The more convenient
our lives become, the further we get from discerning what makes us
truly happy from what we think will make us happy in the distant
future if we only just get that job, or buy that thing, or live in
that house. <i>Viveka</i> is the Sanskrit word for “discernment.”
In yogic philosophy we are taught to discern between the real
(unchanging) and the unreal (changing) in order to stay on our paths.
It is a constant practice to find the parts of me that are
unchanging, that cultivate contentment. Electricity and running
water will come, and I will appreciate their convenience. I will also
know that I do not need them, because sitting in the dark, drinking
mate with my love is the closest thing to real I have.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px;">With my Paraguayan hoe.<br /></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Volunteer sunflower.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Barn</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">View from commode.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Commode</td></tr>
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<br />*emily*http://www.blogger.com/profile/09550257610066609831noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8668982956919055318.post-20752742838682124012013-02-24T17:33:00.000-08:002013-02-24T17:33:35.214-08:00Oh, Holy WatersHealth fads come and go, but one wellness tradition that I am grateful has endured since ancient civilizations is good old-fashioned hot water. One of our last stops in Ecuador was Banos de Aguas Santos. This Holy Water Bath town sits peacefully in the shadow of the “Black Giant,” Ecuador's largest active volcano, Tungurahua.
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Banos has been a holy Catholic site and is presided over by a mountaintop statue of the Virgin of the Holy Waters. Banos is blessed by huge, green hills, usually cased in fog, cascading falls, and... hydro-thermal hot springs. Public pools were first established in 1928, though Ecuadorians have been flocking to these holy waters before then to alleviate pains and cure diseases.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Virgin of the Sacred Waters' view of Banos</td></tr>
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In following the theme of health and relaxation, spas and health centers have popped up on every block. Our hostel even had their own steam room and <i>Banos de Cajon</i> (Box Baths), my new favorite thing. The steam boxes are made of wood with a simple bench inside and a spout that spews vapor through fresh eucalyptus leaves.<br />
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One sits in the box and is enclosed entirely except for the head. The intensity of the steam can be adjusted by a lever on the inside of the box.
Ryan and I experienced the boxes three mornings in a row, with the assistance of a friendly bathing attendant...<br />
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He would close us into the box for five-minute sessions, interspersed with a lymph-stimulating cold towel slapping technique, a cold plunge with intestinal massage, and, finally, a rather painful hose down. The process is said to alleviate body pains, reduce blood pressure, control weight, reduce stress, increase blood circulation, remove toxins, and provide overall rejuvenation.
While it was not the most relaxing forty minutes I have ever spent, I did indeed feel rejuvenated, albeit slightly disappointed that I lost much of my hard-earned tan from all the exfoliation. Moral of the story: sacred, steamy waters live on in our generations-long search for vitality!<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">View from the <i>Cajon</i></td></tr>
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<br />*emily*http://www.blogger.com/profile/09550257610066609831noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8668982956919055318.post-20281458670445157642013-02-01T10:32:00.001-08:002013-02-01T10:32:41.490-08:00Festival de Alasitas<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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After a few days of catching our breath (literally) in La Paz, Bolivia, we made our way to Copacabana, a 12,533-foot-high town on the southern shore of Lake Titicaca. At nearly two-and-a-half miles above sea level, we found ourselves wearing out our alpaca sweaters, yet lathering sunblock on our exposed hands and faces, as the sun marks its territory on all uncovered skin.
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Copacabana has for centuries, and continues to be, the spot for religious pilgrimage and parties. We encountered some of both during the <i>Festival de Alasitas</i>. This is a festival of abundance, fertility, happiness, and prosperity. Ironically, <i>Alasitas </i>is an indigenous <i>Aymara </i>word meaning "buy me," which actually makes sense when you understand the custom.
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On January 24th, the streets of Copacabana are laden with vendors selling miniature items: mini money, mini houses, mini cars, etc. The traditions is to buy for yourself or a loved one whatever it is you would like to manifest in life. As part of the celebration, vendors also sell miniature cakes and breads.
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I was surprised to see an abundance of mini plastic poultry (there didn't seem to be a shortage of the real thing), until I found out that chickens, roosters, and chicks are used to represent relationships, family, and children. Who knew?
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The festival is presided over by Ekeko, the Aymara god of abundance himself, or at least his doll-sized representation, a chubby little cigar-chewing figurine. After people have chosen their items, which include mini diplomas and divorce certificates, they have them blessed by one of the many <i>Yatiris </i>(priest/medicine man)lined up in the middle of the market who passes them over a smoking pot of <i>palo santo</i>.
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This day is also a popular time to climb the old stone steps and pray for good fortune at the stations of the cross, which lead to the summit of Cerro Calvario, overlooking the lake. The climb is about 150 meters up from the town, which is serious business at altitude.
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As we watched the sun set behind the mountains towards Peru, abundance was definitely in the air.
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*emily*http://www.blogger.com/profile/09550257610066609831noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8668982956919055318.post-55132010193135119402013-01-24T15:46:00.000-08:002013-01-24T15:46:04.718-08:00Return to Big Sky CountryI got up at 6am this morning and stepped out of the cave of a bedroom in my Paraguayan mom, Marina's, house in time to see the rising sun burning red through the trees. Marina's husband, Concepcion, was just finishing breakfast and on his way out to the field. Marina, my sister, Daisi, and I sat just outside the kitchen and proceeded to drink mate for the next hour and a half, while dogs, chickens, and piglets scurried around us. We chat about everything—relationships, religion, beekeeping, why the sky is bigger here. Then they are off in a flurry of activity, kicking up dust as they sweep the yard, picking up the dozens of fallen mangoes, feeding the animals, washing clothes and dishes, carrying small children to and fro. It feels good to be back.
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<blockquote><i>“He was still too young to know that the heart's memory eliminates the bad and magnifies the good, and that thanks to this artifice we manage to endure the burden of the past. But when he stood at the railing of the ship and saw the white promontory of the colonial district again, the motionless buzzards on the roofs, the washing of the poor hung out to dry on the balconies, only then did he understand to what extent he had been an easy victim to the charitable deceptions of nostalgia.”</i>
--Gabriel Garcia Marquez (<i>Love in the Time of Cholera</i>)
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Ryan and I left Florida January 6th, both sick and sleep deprived. As the city lights of Asuncion grew bigger and rose up to meet the plane as we made our final decent into Paraguay I felt exhausted, but exhilarated with thoughts of my first arrival here four years prior and all that was to lay ahead. Just another victim of nostalgia.
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As the plane taxied into the gate, no time was wasted as passengers lined up in the aisles and then proceeded to file out, feigning (or not) oblivion as I attempted to stand up. Then everyone hovered around the tiny baggage carousel so closely that we had to crane our necks from the back to watch for our bags and then watch people try to maneuver their luggage through the stagnant travelers. How did I forgot the lack of, what I call common, courtesy that gnawed at me for two years?
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We exited the airport around midnight into the oppressive city heat and proceeded to take an overpriced cab to our hotel. To recuperate, we splurged on an air-conditioned room in a nice hotel I used to stay in on visits to the Peace Corps office. We visited the office, the downtown area, and then we couch-surfed with a Paraguayan for a night before leaving the city.
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The first day or so in Paraguay was filled with doubts about my purpose here. Why did I return to this hot, dusty place with gigantic, biting bugs, and a marked lack of customer service and pedestrian rights. Still, it felt somewhat gratifying to embrace the heat and re-explore my old stomping grounds. Arroyo Moroti, however, was where I wanted to be. On day three we made the journey into the <i>yerba mate</i> capital.
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After two years, things look pretty much the same. Trees and children have gotten taller. There are also more <i>motos </i>and cars. When I first got here four years ago it was a rare thing to see a car drive down these red, sandy roads. I know it is unfair of me to want Paraguay to remain frozen in time, while people here are working hard to improve their lives with first-world machines.
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It is debatable whether or not cell phones, tractors, and motorcycles are improvements. For some, they are conveniences that have allowed more work to be done with less effort, granted access to education, and created positive change in general. For others, these conveniences are merely distractions and money pits.
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The other day I asked Daisi about going to swim in the Tebicuary, like I used to do almost every day in the hot season. She said they don't go in that water anymore, as it is contaminated with mercury from the nearby mines. The district of Paso Yobai has been mined for gold for years, and the mining operations continue to expand, most of them illegally.
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There is a Canadian company here that has been “searching” for gold for the past ten years. They are required to follow environmental precautions and to leave a percentage of their profit in the community for infrastructure. No improvement have yet been made.
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The bigger problem, however, lies with all the illegal mines, operating haphazardly all over this area. There has been awareness of contamination of streams, but because of the wealth it has brought to the area, it does not look like the mining will slow anytime soon. Even the mayor owns a mine. As usual the vast majority of the citizens here do not see a single Guarani of the profit, and any protests are quickly quelled. It scares me to think what will happen here in ten years, if mercury continues to leach into the streams, and subsequently into the soil, and the crops. Who is to be held accountable when no one takes responsibility?
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<blockquote><i>“...he allowed himself to be swayed by his conviction that human beings are not born once and for all on the day their mothers give birth to them, but that life obliges them over and over again to give birth to themselves.”
</i>
--Gabriel Garcia Marquez (again)
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Being back in Arroyo Moroti and witnessing how little had changed, I was confronted with the same frustration with and admiration for Paraguayans that I felt years ago. I am frustrated by their complacency—their lack of motivation to create positive change, to stand up for themselves. On the other hand, I admire their contentment—with what they have, to do the same thing everyday, to be able to lay in a hammock and simply stare at the sky for an hour. Paraguay taught me to sit for long amounts of time, but I am the first to admit I still have a long way to go in the contentment department. I feel reaffirmed that we still have much to teach each other.
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One more thing I am grateful has not changed: the sky. Before we arrived, I told Ryan that the Paraguayan sky is bigger than ours, and that is still the case. It is not a matter of more open space, or less structures blocking the view, because even in downtown Asuncion the sky seems to rise high, above the buildings, higher than it realistically should.
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The sky is even more impressive here in Arroyo Moroti, with all kinds of clouds jutting up above the sugarcane fields, catching fire in pinks and purples as the sun dips below the Ybytyruzu Mountains. As Ryan pointed out, it's not just that you can see more sky, but that you can see further into the atmosphere than you can back home. I will always return to this big sky country.
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One week in my old site turned out to be just the right amount of time. I ate enough <i>sopa </i>and overdone <i>asado </i>to keep my gums sore for days. I drank wine and coke with friends and family. I got some wind in my hair with my <i>moto </i>transport. I compared battle wounds with the new Peace Corps volunteers in the area. I also got to share with Ryan what was such a big part of my life.
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When I lived here, Paraguay forced me to confront my own opinions about poverty, wealth, happiness, and my place in relation to those around me. It put the idea of living in community in perspective and granted me the opportunity to create meaningful relationships with people in a tiny village in the middle of a little-known landlocked country in the heart of South America. Next stop: Buenos Aires...
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*emily*http://www.blogger.com/profile/09550257610066609831noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8668982956919055318.post-74582061192092495192013-01-23T13:09:00.000-08:002013-01-24T15:26:22.762-08:00 A Re-IntroductionAfter a lengthy hiatus from sharing my thoughts via words on a tiny strand of this great worldwide web, I return bearing new thoughts (and some old ones, too), with a brand new title and different topics than my previous “Adventures in Peace” blog. I feel inclined to articulate the intent of this shift. I call myself a homesteader, which is ironic because the longest I have ever stayed in one house was the two years I spent in Paraguay. In my defense of the word “homesteader,” I have long been a believer that home is where the heart is, and I have successfully created homes in various parts of the world, and while on the go. Home is in the community I create. Home is, dare I say, a state of mind. Nonetheless, I have steadily been manifesting and working towards the fruition of a stable home and land of my own, a place in which to put my hands into the earth, invest my time and energy, and then actually witness the fruits of my labor for years to come, not just for one farm season. I am happy to say that this vision of land and home is finally becoming reality!
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I acknowledge that travel has helped to form the woman I have become, and that it will always be a part of my life. But for the next few years I foresee my time and resources going towards a more settled existence. This feels like a natural progression, especially while in the midst of traveling—schlepping packs and riding dirty, bathroom-less buses on curvy roads. I am evolving! This trip serves as a tribute to my former life, an introduction for Ryan, my love, to the beauty and mayhem of life south of the equator, and a not-so-final hurrah before we put our backpacks in our yet-to-be-built closet, and become a little less nomadic and lot more settled homesteaders.
*emily*http://www.blogger.com/profile/09550257610066609831noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8668982956919055318.post-38963075182004934482011-03-27T04:17:00.000-07:002011-04-06T11:45:48.394-07:00Accepting the Abundance (Hare Hare Lakshmi!)<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXDFx3WOBOXzS7GjPhtsVRIb6fN_bwAuBi1hYK2Sz04_P7p32a3FlqCLza5bUPy2Xc8gSdh03psRDaZgmXyOrLjBWkZOLQBFxWFH4J6ev4xFoiRR4bh4j2fa5a0UPEKkyiTb-dtMWfEVM6/s1600/lakshmi-769689.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 261px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXDFx3WOBOXzS7GjPhtsVRIb6fN_bwAuBi1hYK2Sz04_P7p32a3FlqCLza5bUPy2Xc8gSdh03psRDaZgmXyOrLjBWkZOLQBFxWFH4J6ev4xFoiRR4bh4j2fa5a0UPEKkyiTb-dtMWfEVM6/s400/lakshmi-769689.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5592543447005281762" /></a><br /><br />Trust in the abundance. That has been my theme over the past two months--a pertinent one, as I leave my life and love in Paraguay, and continue into the unknown. Brazil, yes, is mostly uncharted territory, but I also include the US in the "unknown." After two and a half years, after all the changes I have gone through, I would be surprized if "home" didn´t feel a little foreign. In preparation for that I continue to call upon Lasksmi, the beautiful goddess of abundance (as well as wealth and beauty), to whom I was attracted at the early age of seven, with her long, flowing hair, draping <em>sari</em>, and her graceful stance, blooming out of a lotus flower. Growing up, my mom kept a picture of her on her bedroom alter, but it is only recently that I have come to appreciate her powers, and not just her looks. <br /><br />I left Paraguay on a bus with a backpack full of my belongings and the heavy burden of a broken heart. I arrived in Florianopolis, Brazil two days before the start of my yoga teacher training: <a href="http://www.findbalance.net/vinyasa-yoga-teacher-training-enchanted-mountain-brasil/"></a>. I spent those two beautiful days on a tropical island shrowded in my own grief and utter confusing about my path, feeling vulnerable, and questioning my choices and my future. Luckily I was couchsurfing <a href="www.couchsurfing.org"></a> with my very hospitable new friend, Diego, who helped me to appreciate the kindness and generosity of total strangers. Abundance.<br /><br />On February 6th I started my one-month-long intensive to become a GreenPath-FindBalance-Vinyasa teacher. With 28 fellow students from around the world and three gifted teachers (from San Francisco, Switzerland, and Brazil), I called Enchanted Mountain home, a beautiful jungle retreat center, overlooking the ocean, with a waterfall, natural swimming pools, and all the delicious, vegetarian food I could ask for. My body went through some serious cleansing after my meat-and-grease-heavy Paraguayan diet. <br /><br />We became a family during the course. It was an intense process, at times, but a healing one. It was also a lesson in abundance--to give all I can in this moment, whether that means putting my honest strength into <em>chaturanga </em>and trusting that I will have more for what comes next, or allowing myself to give love without feeling like it´s something I need to hold onto. On the contrary, by opening my heart, it only becomes more satiated. <br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwVdy1TZhsvKDlHN31aXjopP2vVMb6HH1yh2tnPD0N5i021BWAPQ9nzIteX8L7nHWE2jj9EkIAbgnO6V29tH2nz80_hyphenhyphenei_QHFAJtGzFM_UrJnB3ZNt7sXsZPncyB3qYOZ1mlgx5wC0VVE/s1600/yoga.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwVdy1TZhsvKDlHN31aXjopP2vVMb6HH1yh2tnPD0N5i021BWAPQ9nzIteX8L7nHWE2jj9EkIAbgnO6V29tH2nz80_hyphenhyphenei_QHFAJtGzFM_UrJnB3ZNt7sXsZPncyB3qYOZ1mlgx5wC0VVE/s400/yoga.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5590685336119218866" /></a><br /><br />Upon graduation, I rented a house during Carnaval in the beautiful seaside village of Praia da Rosa with eight other yogi friends, and my girl, Betsy, who came down from the States. We maintained our yogic balance, while still showing Brazil how we can get down. And we can. After Carnaval, Betsy, Ali, and I headed north, back to stay with my couchsurfing friends for a few days, and then onward to Ilha do Mel (Honey Island). Our plans went slightly awry with the crazy amounts of rain that hit Paradise, washing out entire highways, but we managed to continue north in search of the sun. We landed on Ilha Grande (Big Island), a mostly-preserved chunk of jungle with some of the most beautiful beaches in the world, inhabited by monkeys, armadillos, iguanas, snakes, and birds (and that´s just what I <em>saw</em>!). <br /><br />Betsy, Ali, and I went our separate ways; I, northward to Rio, where I couchsurfed with a friend I met in Rio last year during Carnaval. He took me to a beautiful beach with an amazing view of the city. I left after a few days, and on Ian´s suggestion, headed to the tiny village of Caraiva, in the state of Bahia. From Rio I took three buses, a ferry, and a rowboat to get here, but (or perhaps because of this) it was well worth it. Hugging the sea on one side of the village and a river on the other, this was the perfect place to relax with a cold <em>coco verde </em>and watch 360-degree sunsets. <br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAdDiuzN262RQcNO4LjCzsFIuQ__YlITQsVlTKGw1I6Bi7pZqPNvn2IIsMoj_JV9fth7vPuy50M-y7TT6WTS_0qqAh1ZJ0rng9SEXWNHLur4TxlvHnI1K_cay90R6wxC37EquqNMkuWtNT/s1600/em.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAdDiuzN262RQcNO4LjCzsFIuQ__YlITQsVlTKGw1I6Bi7pZqPNvn2IIsMoj_JV9fth7vPuy50M-y7TT6WTS_0qqAh1ZJ0rng9SEXWNHLur4TxlvHnI1K_cay90R6wxC37EquqNMkuWtNT/s400/em.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5590685330902793682" /></a><br />I continue northward, stopping off to visit a friend I studied yoga with, and then onto Colombia to be reunited with my beloved sister after over a year!*emily*http://www.blogger.com/profile/09550257610066609831noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8668982956919055318.post-35058477695953037242011-02-14T16:19:00.000-08:002011-02-15T16:32:07.983-08:00Return to my Old Home<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyprsbyGRXmLyr8wa32-7wFlI-b88tzroQbJay2SZWPlmYlvg1JToDzhZUJVwKztx9ezHXv2ushedq5rYVQcVsnMs7ItOX7IuiMZgB7Sgi10b6c58u5H8w5iA8rd3lgF6xVyl8c4RcbtXb/s1600/IMG_7678.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 225px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyprsbyGRXmLyr8wa32-7wFlI-b88tzroQbJay2SZWPlmYlvg1JToDzhZUJVwKztx9ezHXv2ushedq5rYVQcVsnMs7ItOX7IuiMZgB7Sgi10b6c58u5H8w5iA8rd3lgF6xVyl8c4RcbtXb/s400/IMG_7678.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5574076701299668434" /></a><br />After Bolivia my travels took me back through Paraguay to visit volunteer friends and reconnect with my community. I had been a bit nervous about returning, wondering what my place would be in Arroyo Moroti after leaving two months beforehand. My work there is done, and there is another volunteer in my place now. <br /><br />At the end of November I had two <em>despedidas </em>(going-away parties). One was sponsored by my farmers´committee, who killed a pig and chickens and gifted me and personalized leather <em>terere </em>set. My next despedida involved the whole community, or at least the people I knew. MOre grilled meat, more <em>sopa</em>, more dancing, and a drunken fist fight. Both of these parties were touching, but my last dinner with my favorite host family was the most emotional. My host mother, Marina, who has been a bottomless pit of support for me over the past two years, took me in her arms and told me how proud of me she was, and that I have become their daughter, sister, and friend; that I am always welcome in their family. We were all crying, even my 13-year-old host brother, Gustavo, and my shy dad. <br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgyinaxfvb41ADKWRye4F0objebBOM9n7OBfINC3Rzx_S7LGBA5AkWArm3YMnE0I2gdzTdcWVYNwjfCEep_FkjrlRzr7ZjiAICG5bPjI7OFoPmDGUXHTJ85Guf77LSSxNTKj4IGcAdCaWR/s1600/IMG_7656.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 225px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgyinaxfvb41ADKWRye4F0objebBOM9n7OBfINC3Rzx_S7LGBA5AkWArm3YMnE0I2gdzTdcWVYNwjfCEep_FkjrlRzr7ZjiAICG5bPjI7OFoPmDGUXHTJ85Guf77LSSxNTKj4IGcAdCaWR/s400/IMG_7656.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5574076911330358450" /></a><br /><br />I cried again as I watched the sun rise on the bus to the city, and many times after that. It was not only the sadness of leaving people who have become dear to me, but leaving a life that I have been blessed to experience and will probably never have again. Being a visitor to Arroyo Moroti is a definate plan, but I hold no false hopes that everything will be the same. <br /><br />With these thoughts, I arrived back to Arroyo Moroti, on <em>moto</em>, and I felt completely welcomed and loved. I ate lunch at a different house everyday, a <em>campo fiesta </em>was thrown in my honor, and I felt free to enjoy the priveleges of living in Paraguay without the responsibility that came with working there. After a week, it was hard to leave a second time, as well, but now I know how easy it is to return.<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgl1IjJa-L2-qPiCWJvxQ45EGAeNq0s-pNrChTTcBsI-3KowjxjNb_uDCS6dVDCcKlhlQC4o5fl2QZMvP5X_Ja0hyphenhyphenoQYqtoY4KeywLv25gGLjRv8RxvDHb9oSUpSUv_ia6ZJRDZHa1RuwP7/s1600/IMG_7684.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 225px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgl1IjJa-L2-qPiCWJvxQ45EGAeNq0s-pNrChTTcBsI-3KowjxjNb_uDCS6dVDCcKlhlQC4o5fl2QZMvP5X_Ja0hyphenhyphenoQYqtoY4KeywLv25gGLjRv8RxvDHb9oSUpSUv_ia6ZJRDZHa1RuwP7/s400/IMG_7684.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5574077352938261346" /></a><br /><br />My next adventures take me into the enchanted mountains of Brazil, where I am currently studying yoga. More on that later...*emily*http://www.blogger.com/profile/09550257610066609831noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8668982956919055318.post-24545068706317726312011-02-09T16:42:00.000-08:002011-02-11T09:43:05.559-08:00Our Just Deserts<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJumGWrjiMy1pH4L9jDSFebmgWmhCfuQnaOJNykllRqBoAMtBaINGZthDFM_PQqyXpnrHck-F5sXylosWlWLD0bFOq51_VYnj2C5Sw6ACghakQ2zUzIjjxGJyn2mNgLMlhahQyfL4rjL-P/s1600/sm+sandboarding.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJumGWrjiMy1pH4L9jDSFebmgWmhCfuQnaOJNykllRqBoAMtBaINGZthDFM_PQqyXpnrHck-F5sXylosWlWLD0bFOq51_VYnj2C5Sw6ACghakQ2zUzIjjxGJyn2mNgLMlhahQyfL4rjL-P/s400/sm+sandboarding.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5572487714691367282" /></a><br />The desert wants to keep me, and I haven´t yet decided if it´s out of love or hatred--towards me, that is. My nostrils burn from the high, dry air, and everything is covered in a fine coat of desert dust.<br /><br />The first desert adventure began as Jason and I were heading north from Chile to El Bolson, a little micro-climate hippy community just south of Bariloche, Argentina. The bus treks up Route 40, which is nothing more than gravel streching through an endless desert, east of the Andes. The trip was supposed to take 25 hours, already a harrying journey on a crammed bus on bumpy roads. Halfway into the trip the bus broke down and after hours of poking, prodding, and crawling under the bus, it was deemed unfixable. As we were in the middle of the desert with no cell service (less water or food), we had to wait until someone passed us to send a message along for them to send a rescue bus...and hope that the message was transferred. We finally got word that one was on the way and would arrive in about ten hours. So we waited. <br /><br />We scooped sludgy water from a questionable pit 3km down the road, and dug through my pack for the iodine tablets. The hot sun slipped below the brown horizon and left us in a bitterly cold night, and still no bus in site. We spent the night on the bus, and 24 hours later, a bus finally showed. Apparently the rescue bus had broken down, as well, and this was the third try. We arrived at our destination one hour before 2011.<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhe_VGnV66VgqOzlK_ojkXmcfKr2UZKsUWkDIyRUZr4j7VGeP4ovlGoa9S4PBeaOmsWpHFSOoSIS-_eDlJVWxx3A6L_GXT1aOkC3SRReVcg5awweTXVhfn4Upf7bnDhrnd7sh-jAqE83SOL/s1600/quebrada+del+diablo.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhe_VGnV66VgqOzlK_ojkXmcfKr2UZKsUWkDIyRUZr4j7VGeP4ovlGoa9S4PBeaOmsWpHFSOoSIS-_eDlJVWxx3A6L_GXT1aOkC3SRReVcg5awweTXVhfn4Upf7bnDhrnd7sh-jAqE83SOL/s400/quebrada+del+diablo.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5572488424348955298" /></a><br /><br />The desert tried to take us again at <em>Quebrada del Diablo</em>, a `mountain-biker´s paradise´ outside of San Pedro de Atacama, in northern Chile. We rented bikes, lathered on sunblock, and headed out to crumbly grey rocks below a blue, cloudless sky. After crossing a river up to my shins, the sandy trail narrowed into a crude labrynth of compressed sand and clay (which is only held together because it never rains) with outcroppings, sharp corners, and a few places where we had to lift the bikes up to continue. At one point, a smaller trail led off to the right, and I parked my bike and followed it on foot. Soon the trail forked. It forked again. And again and again with no end in site. That was when I first felt the presence of this canyon´s namesake (i.e. devil). So I turned around, and we continued on our collective four wheels. <br /><br />Two-and-a-half hours into the journey, my bike chain broke, and after multiple failed attempts at reconnecting it, we decided that one of us had to go on ahead for help. The map clearly markes this as a loop, but the trail was getting more sketchy, with more forks and less clarity. Plus, the sun was hot, and our water bottles were not getting any fuller. Jason started walking my bike back the way we came, and I sped ahead on his bike as fast as I could, considering my options, knowing no car or even a horse could make it through here. Images of Ralph Fiennes in `The English Patient` kept creeping into my head, him stumbling down dunes in a desheveled turban, crazed from dehydration. Perhaps it was these fantasies, but I arrived surprizingly quickly to the river, where about ten people were hanging out in the water. Jason arrived shortly after, and we got a ride back into town with a local family, disaster averted. <br /><br />It has not rained in San Pedro de Atacama since 2000. It used to rain in this desert oasis more like seven days a year, but now water is scarce. The riverbed is a pile of dusty rocks, and from the top of the lookout I climbed (where the indigenous peoples held a fortress and managed to stave off for the Spaniards for a good number of years), I could see a swath of green snaking through the valley and widening at the town--the oasis, the product of a one-meter-wide canal coming from the river. <br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhv7ZTDtZj8b6D0PjhlAPoLMGuGvDy0wPFyVeStpMYWZoboEuxLYFKyF4MxRPEV6DJMfHegBBtgYHqzqCxIHFb-J5cjzkvTSk5TjKPWJ-Q_7e_hDeoP07rhsO_HWuh27T2U_JMWgCkC8bQo/s1600/valle-de-la-luna-urubutres1.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhv7ZTDtZj8b6D0PjhlAPoLMGuGvDy0wPFyVeStpMYWZoboEuxLYFKyF4MxRPEV6DJMfHegBBtgYHqzqCxIHFb-J5cjzkvTSk5TjKPWJ-Q_7e_hDeoP07rhsO_HWuh27T2U_JMWgCkC8bQo/s400/valle-de-la-luna-urubutres1.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5572488569064229426" /></a><br /><br />Back when it used to rain, farmers were allotted an hour each day to irrigate their corn and wheat. Now there is no wheat and little corn. Food is expensive, as you might imagine, but locals love this place and are proud of their roots, and tourists flock here from all over the world. Rightfully so. There is a lot to do here, just walking and biking distance from this tiny pueblo. We managed to go sandboarding (think snowboarding, but on sand dunes), watched the sun set over <em>Valle de la Luna </em>(so called because of the formations in the rock which resemble the surface of the moon), walked through ancient ruins, and watched stars through telescopes in the middle of the dark desert, where I bathed in starlight that had been travelling since the time of Colombus to get to me.*emily*http://www.blogger.com/profile/09550257610066609831noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8668982956919055318.post-33512018860378682172010-12-26T10:49:00.000-08:002010-12-26T13:27:09.530-08:00The Beginning of a Long Series of Fortuitous SuccessesThe End of the World is far, far away. And it is cold, even during this supposed summer. Tierra del Fuego (Land of Fire) was so named because of the explorer, Magellan, who sailed on over from Portugal in 1520 and saw the campfires of the Yaghan native people (now pretty much extinct) dotting the coastline. It is a beautiful, yet testing region. The climate, which is described as ´inhospitable´, is unpredictable, with biting winds that suddenly surrender to warmth of the sun, only to disappear again around the next corner. <br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4NciZIDnL0FN_NevK0OUBQNYKOE04L_tlNTJcaZTzsrVY8YCYGHSjoj-C3gj0FLASrwL1-ybKnZBO2uIxEEB6RxGWIRDcW1EEUGcSEmky-oSgkm2VD3mtnSEYTXE3sAP2_pt50hAf2cOK/s1600/IMG_7019.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 225px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4NciZIDnL0FN_NevK0OUBQNYKOE04L_tlNTJcaZTzsrVY8YCYGHSjoj-C3gj0FLASrwL1-ybKnZBO2uIxEEB6RxGWIRDcW1EEUGcSEmky-oSgkm2VD3mtnSEYTXE3sAP2_pt50hAf2cOK/s400/IMG_7019.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5555103521257744306" /></a><br />My brotherman, Jason, and I landed in Ushuaia, the world´s southern-most city, on December 14th and headed straight for el Parque Nacional de Tierra del Fuego. After some initial hurdles (i.e. arriving to the airport two days early), as soon as we found our first campsite (see photo), things seemed to be looking up. We were greeted by a pair of native geese (they stay with the same mate for life) and a bunch of wild bunnies, and we set up the tent next to winding river carrying glacial melt. It took a while just to decide which way to face the tent, as there are no shortage of beautiful views in all directions.<br /><br />That first night, exhausted from the trip from Buenos Aires, we sat in the tent, sheltered from the unrelenting cold and wind, waiting for some sign of bedtime, only to realize it was already 9pm, and we still had to cook dinner. We went to sleep an hour later with no sign of approaching darkness. This is, afterall, the bottom of the world in summertime. Another night we dined with a view of the harbor at 11pm, watching the glowing pinks and purples of an eternal sunset. <br /><br />After a few days of hiking around the park, we caught a bus heading north. The road hugs the Atlantic coastline, and we left the lush, jagged hills for a more arid landscape teeming with guanacos (like llamas), and crossed over into Chile´s Patagonia. Patagonia lives up to its reputation of having some of the most beautiful scenery in the world. We stayed two nights in the small town of Puerto Natales to stock up on supplies for a week-long backpacking trip in the national park of Torres del Paine. <br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbUtTQO24MKfqH-Niqz0eWAOdAX9KFEL_9CVxP19YhNszRO27FgW7QsvcPqpCHz7JQWXnS6nOgaRhKixoJ0zA90J6oNMF4CYkiOojIbtwQ5bZatG_tum8vKxXk_KkwCTi9AZ_pXzqvLXqR/s1600/IMG_7075.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 225px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbUtTQO24MKfqH-Niqz0eWAOdAX9KFEL_9CVxP19YhNszRO27FgW7QsvcPqpCHz7JQWXnS6nOgaRhKixoJ0zA90J6oNMF4CYkiOojIbtwQ5bZatG_tum8vKxXk_KkwCTi9AZ_pXzqvLXqR/s400/IMG_7075.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5555104058958970226" /></a><br />The first day we walked 20km to the first campsite, a meadow covered in daisies and nestled up against snow-littered mountains. But even these huge mountains were no respite from the fickle winds. The weather in general here is unpredictable, to say the least. Locals laugh when asked about the forecast. They look up at the sky and say something like, ¨Well, it´s raining now.¨ Now is all we can really know. <br /><br />Our route was a circuit that guided us over ridges and through valleys, circling huge enormous granite towers, which are the park´s centerpiece. Walking towards them in the sun that first day, they looked majestic and grand—the Emerald City tured brown. But the winds change around every ridge. One minute it´s hot and sunny, and the next the rain spits and the wind threatens to blow you off the trail and down the ravine into the iceberg-ridden lake below. When the fog lifts enough to see the towers, they look evil an morbid, resembling the residence of the Wicked Witch of the West. <br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtLYyEz74OJUdvrG9u5usVsw8zuexyXX-hFkbfs1Z_xvvQjVdpVnA7bpB73_kpc98Ge7YQpIsQgZbvj-Pa0xMxFWtjK93z967Qn0EIzjkLHHI5svAaSgWdrw5lubmkZmYapSZcw8z0rA5N/s1600/IMG_7144.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 225px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtLYyEz74OJUdvrG9u5usVsw8zuexyXX-hFkbfs1Z_xvvQjVdpVnA7bpB73_kpc98Ge7YQpIsQgZbvj-Pa0xMxFWtjK93z967Qn0EIzjkLHHI5svAaSgWdrw5lubmkZmYapSZcw8z0rA5N/s400/IMG_7144.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5555105135798890962" /></a><br />The winds started up the first night, pushing the tent down on top of us. I lay in my sleeping bag, not sleeping, listening to the wildness outside,and finally getting up the nerve to go pee. The nearly-full moon was behind a cloud, but still lighting up the sky and making the daisies glow earily. <br /><br />The next morning we packed up our bags in the rain and walked 19km in a continuous downpour. When we finally arrived and set up the tent, I found that ´waterproof´ does not really exist, and that everything—icluding the tent and my sleeping—was soaked. Very luckily, at that location there happened to be a <span style="font-style:italic;">refugio</span>, a little cabin with a woodstove and bunkbeds for a fee. After chatting with a Spanish woman who was victim to the same, wet fate, I decided to stay in the cabin that night, instead of toughing it out in the tent, like Jason. I sat around the woodstove with fellow hikers from the US, England, New Zealand, Spain, Italy, and Chile. We formed a good little group, leapfrogging each other on the trail the entire week. <br /><br />I received a wonderful gift of two garbage bags, in which I placed all my belongings before putting them inside my pack. We headed out anew that Solstice morning, with mostly-clear skies and the longest day of the year (and probably my life) ahead of us. When we climbed above the treeline, the wind was unbelievable; Jason guessed it was blowing about 80mph. I would steady myself and my pack against it, and then all of a sudden it would gust up and literally knock me down. During these gusts all I could do was surrender to it and remain on the ground long enough to catch my breath. <br /><br />The next few days took us trudging up steep, snowy slopes and crossing a peak to finally give us a view of Glacier Grey, an enormous mass of ice that, during this warmer season, drops house-size chunks of itself into the crystal, blue lake below. We trudged through the mud, frolicked through fields of wildflowers, and hopped on rocks across frigid streams. At one of our last campsites we looked up from setting up the tent to see an avalanche screaming down the mountain on the other side of the river from us. Glaciers and avalanches exist on the news or in National Geographic; I never imagined I would actually see (and hear) them. <br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOr_VWVgzdrNWcLdz1YO5HOkcUFFhznWOPvQUR5ygP7ycD58PTmaUZft4ZViHR3Bvq1hb8XJobqero1-HkAif-rPG9D4iRGnl-kgHqIUxj446kZbtxH7tboAtnd2Qb_YU71gzE34KH5N1o/s1600/IMG_7122.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 225px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOr_VWVgzdrNWcLdz1YO5HOkcUFFhznWOPvQUR5ygP7ycD58PTmaUZft4ZViHR3Bvq1hb8XJobqero1-HkAif-rPG9D4iRGnl-kgHqIUxj446kZbtxH7tboAtnd2Qb_YU71gzE34KH5N1o/s400/IMG_7122.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5555104729862413250" /></a><br />We spent Christmas Eve huddled inside the tent, feasting on instant mashed potatoes and Ramen noodles, and decided that we deserved a real Christmas meal. So, despite aching muscles and blistered feet (my toes and heals were covered in duct tape), we woke up early, completed the park circuit, and caught a bus back into civilization for some well-deserved skyping, ice-cream, wine, salmon, and dancing (in that order). <br /><br />We just dropped off 7 kilos of dirty laundry at the laundromat in preparation for the continued journey north. Tuesday we head to the Fitz Roy Mountains in the southern Andes for some day hikes. To the North!*emily*http://www.blogger.com/profile/09550257610066609831noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8668982956919055318.post-32177546690573028512010-12-10T10:23:00.000-08:002010-12-26T05:09:15.690-08:00A New EraLounging poolside with a view of the Sierra Mountains rising up 60 degrees around me and Mendoza's finely-tended grapes are pushing Paraguay further and further away. This is a rare vacation in which my mind is empty of responsibility. <br /><br />This is truly the beginning of a brand-new era. I finally have the outer tranquility to rewind back to my time in Paraguay and replay the last few months there. I feel like I was an outsider watching myself take part in this life, while I merely commented on the outcomes. Between finishing up my projects in site, passing on my knowledge to fresh-off-the-plane volunteers, and finding as many excuses as possible to celebrate, I found little will to record or share. <br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6Re7tdK9ivJbjwF7Him5Cx4eOoV4j_ALAiaOZlECqmL-liVhmqKUcOql-UwEi3XXnjA827dO9cQhF8HUc8N5eaT-PqCC0Bq1WSyK_yespGvm0ikh9GNg6g9KUHhGuX8nWTnaJzvM4_YRa/s1600/IMG_6864.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 225px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6Re7tdK9ivJbjwF7Him5Cx4eOoV4j_ALAiaOZlECqmL-liVhmqKUcOql-UwEi3XXnjA827dO9cQhF8HUc8N5eaT-PqCC0Bq1WSyK_yespGvm0ikh9GNg6g9KUHhGuX8nWTnaJzvM4_YRa/s400/IMG_6864.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5549132007714589298" /></a><br />That has been a theme in Paraguay. An avid journaler for most of my life, my little moleskin notebook sat on my shelf, collecting red dirt and spiderwebs. I've been too busy living, taking advantage of the time I had left in my community. A few highlights:<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgP0IizBQuqJLYxlO4nw7zXcccEfYObTTfwvqnxYFgTklOG7NsYD1Wtis9AvyV1oCE5dPCfd45bkePZnygBP4ifqMa4ezAn-N9ZshoDCca41yXaUFujEnqVEwIOviP0AuRPlFdKz0On2sP6/s1600/IMG_6835.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 225px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgP0IizBQuqJLYxlO4nw7zXcccEfYObTTfwvqnxYFgTklOG7NsYD1Wtis9AvyV1oCE5dPCfd45bkePZnygBP4ifqMa4ezAn-N9ZshoDCca41yXaUFujEnqVEwIOviP0AuRPlFdKz0On2sP6/s400/IMG_6835.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5549131641405735666" /></a><br />-organizing a five-day field practice for volunteers in training. <br /><br />-thanksgiving with jason's bunny (i.e. mustard-crusted rabbit in white wine sauce, stuffed squash, and peach pie. This really deserves an entire entry).<br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQSs_PvYeYXXYgSZWgAXCW7qqaraytjcSd6wvhxrqGjcaRYTos3OghuB-_V9oLQGLstazttATSkaZ4AVxaE7OWnXAJtWV8eT6pfVbz6G2JT7oQR2c5d59N1Z7C44Tho1dtJhgYn-SlAOFp/s1600/IMG_6896.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 225px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQSs_PvYeYXXYgSZWgAXCW7qqaraytjcSd6wvhxrqGjcaRYTos3OghuB-_V9oLQGLstazttATSkaZ4AVxaE7OWnXAJtWV8eT6pfVbz6G2JT7oQR2c5d59N1Z7C44Tho1dtJhgYn-SlAOFp/s400/IMG_6896.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5549132413669522434" /></a><br /><br />Next step: Tierra del Fuego. More on that later.*emily*http://www.blogger.com/profile/09550257610066609831noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8668982956919055318.post-82060898210742577942010-10-07T16:51:00.000-07:002010-10-08T08:25:12.835-07:00Preparing Tomorrow's Leaders (and Followers)<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0tc9jfllNLS2lpbg_nithlCxNvNmHlcN6q_ULiJHONapxZxZJT4jMrd1TP6euJ_ret09NhVMKICSQ3NbqsaPDjVswDZRfU6MnyIX1dJlbJyPbHfN7C0TRnqRGVCWYCUH09pKGrPl0wNAe/s1600/Hepburn,%2520Katharine%2520(Holiday)_01.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0tc9jfllNLS2lpbg_nithlCxNvNmHlcN6q_ULiJHONapxZxZJT4jMrd1TP6euJ_ret09NhVMKICSQ3NbqsaPDjVswDZRfU6MnyIX1dJlbJyPbHfN7C0TRnqRGVCWYCUH09pKGrPl0wNAe/s400/Hepburn,%2520Katharine%2520(Holiday)_01.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5525459139064427394" /></a><br />"We're all grand at 17."<br /><br />Katherine Hepburn's character says that in <span style="font-style:italic;">Holiday</span>, and it is what comes to mind when I think or hear about the vitality of you youth. I don't look back at that age necessarily fondly, and I would never will myself that age again. Every year continues to improve, and I only...mostly look forward to ageing. But there is something special, something vital, powerful, and dangerous about that age. At seventeen, we wrap ourselves in a cloak of invincibility, which is surprizingly-easily pierced by daggers of vulnerability. But we are willing to fight for what's right, what's wrong; to just do something to prove this world we live in is real and that we have some influence in it. <br /><br />To that end, it has been both the most challenging and the most rewarding to work with this age group. Watching this vitality and energy with no outlet led me to organize a career fair at my local high school. A few weeks after a 16-year-old student died while racing his <span style="font-style:italic;">moto,</span> the event took place, in attendance, my local students and the neighboring high school's students. Representatives from a nearby university came to explain programs of study and to give aptitude tests to the seniors. For the rest, I organized round-robin sessions, in which I quickly taught the local teachers how to lead. Activities included writing and sharing personal goals, mentors, and influences, making collages, reading an inspirational story, and playing team-building games. And, miraculously (because it rains at every event I plan), the rain held off until we were leaving. I know that for most students, the career fair was nothing more than a change of pace for the day, but I hope that it inspired a few to look further. <br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">And then youth get old...</span><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5CytULCX_gYtCYNmnociVj2HcFKrLYd8rL3oCq8fHuUCKmcvQezJMfSKqJLLeqNJEDxHqtM_1HC594jIv_sSdSw1rzx7NreOSaVwnAOr-euay7ppR-7SDm0y8RVlpZR6a_rBsGJO9p_e-/s1600/IMG_6631.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 225px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5CytULCX_gYtCYNmnociVj2HcFKrLYd8rL3oCq8fHuUCKmcvQezJMfSKqJLLeqNJEDxHqtM_1HC594jIv_sSdSw1rzx7NreOSaVwnAOr-euay7ppR-7SDm0y8RVlpZR6a_rBsGJO9p_e-/s400/IMG_6631.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5525693347817054482" /></a><br /><br />I cannot say that I am not shocked and confused beyond belief that so many Paraguayans live for so long. One of my host dads turns 100 in March, and he is still very much alive, and I just went to a 97-year-old birthday party. The other day, I went for a jog, and ten minutes in, I crossed paths with an 88-year-old woman on her way home from selling <span style="font-style:italic;">chipa</span> at the soccer game. She stopped me and explained that she had one more <span style="font-style:italic;">chipa</span> left in her basket and wanted to give it to me. She proceeded to dig through her basket, where she found her dentures, and then, further down, the remaining <span style="font-style:italic;">chipa.</span> I continued my jog carrying the questionable snack, every appreciative of my unexpected encounters.<br /> <br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKgSueof6N8LzDrIkD4YFyI5FVHe3NsHMuJ19yojSyZkPLJXqFtMYhEjttinUNHq9KNSrxI6AoAPWalnBBMcDwnwzRlTj5fghNkDosOKblEYKVXOR8tWYd7jlfH6vsvQ0zUnIE1wjFU8cn/s1600/IMG_6679.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 225px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKgSueof6N8LzDrIkD4YFyI5FVHe3NsHMuJ19yojSyZkPLJXqFtMYhEjttinUNHq9KNSrxI6AoAPWalnBBMcDwnwzRlTj5fghNkDosOKblEYKVXOR8tWYd7jlfH6vsvQ0zUnIE1wjFU8cn/s400/IMG_6679.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5525693340021909026" /></a> <em></em>*emily*http://www.blogger.com/profile/09550257610066609831noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8668982956919055318.post-67156213640067692362010-07-21T09:54:00.000-07:002010-07-21T14:59:47.457-07:00Winter Perspective<em>--<em></em>the following photographs were taken my my ninth-grade photography students, three of which were chosen for the national exhibit in Asuncion! The blond girl in the photo is from the family I mention in the entry---</em><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivsgoZluj9ygfU3f5lTZOgP0niv1LbQKkoTklMNx5P0blf0oKlKpWPHLtYzCALJ_w1aGQxLYxfeTp9J25y78eYdhA8yIbgj4p-DrvOynm7SPhJ1zttg3MbpGOiJQHYENfvSkKH1AJb6nTX/s1600/306_3861.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivsgoZluj9ygfU3f5lTZOgP0niv1LbQKkoTklMNx5P0blf0oKlKpWPHLtYzCALJ_w1aGQxLYxfeTp9J25y78eYdhA8yIbgj4p-DrvOynm7SPhJ1zttg3MbpGOiJQHYENfvSkKH1AJb6nTX/s400/306_3861.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5496405849677549874" /></a><br /><br />The cold is here. I cover my tomato and strawberry plants at night, protection against that a frost that could wipe out months of labor and delicous potential in a single nippy night. The combination of cold and rain prompted me to break out my <em>brasero</em> for the first time this year. A <em>brasero </em>is a little metal bin used for burning charcoal (made locally with a dwindling supply of trees). In the winter it is used as a central source of heat and cooking utility. It assists my bread dough to rise, dries my socks, and keeps a steady supply of hot water to feed my bottomless thermos and <em>mate </em>addiction.<br /><br />I have also learned to slaughter chickens, and am proud to have been a part of the entire process from raising the chicks, twisting their necks, cleaning out the organs, and feasting on tasty <em>pollo al horno</em>! <br /> <br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigfI2-ncI00l4bC-4DBZgajzP3_Lf-Ld8paB9rc0BYU8d3qMV-EgoyOQoFC423XN8uDUA1rOofrGY5MkpNcLRRX30O8DBZIZsKIRFgWT7-XBYTfW8wE6noUEOwfapFF850S7gVClbMkwpa/s1600/306_3907.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigfI2-ncI00l4bC-4DBZgajzP3_Lf-Ld8paB9rc0BYU8d3qMV-EgoyOQoFC423XN8uDUA1rOofrGY5MkpNcLRRX30O8DBZIZsKIRFgWT7-XBYTfW8wE6noUEOwfapFF850S7gVClbMkwpa/s400/306_3907.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5496406597554046114" /></a><br /><br />I was planning to go to an agriculture workshop to talk about green manures, but a rain day was in order instead. Before I left for Peru, I had been feeling generally frustrated with life here and somewhat useless professionally. I have come back from vacation with a renewled energy for my work--and urgency, as well, knowing that I only have four-and-a-half months left here. I feel like I have a responsibility to expound all the knowledge I can before I leave, but after almost two years in Paraguay I have a more realistic sense of what is possible, practical, and within my limits of sanity. For example, instead of promoting green manures in general--covercrops which suppress weeds, aerate soil, fix nitrogen, prevent erosion, attract beneficial insects, and some of which can be used for animal and human consumption--I need to provide a breakdown of exactly how they will be incorporated into existing crops. One would thing I would have figured this out earlier, but I´ve been getting my own education about Paraguayan crops, and timing is everything. <br /><br />Yet reality tends to put things in perspective. As I said, I came back with a gung-ho attitude about promoting more sustainable agricultural techniques, and the same day I started planning presentations, I got word that a 35-year-old woman in my community had just given birth to her 19th child (three have died), and both she and her husband (whom is opposed to birth control) are in the hospital in Villarrica, leaving fifteen children to fend for themselves at home. I went with a few <em>Señoras </em>to their secluded home to see how they were holding up. When I arrived the kids were piled around the cooking fire on the ground, eating beans out of three plates and a few plastic lids. Despite the cold, they were all either in flipflops or barefoot and no underwear. It´s nearly impossible to guess their ages due to mal-nourishment. One boy just turned fifteen, but I had assumed he was about eight years old. They all have a serious lice infestation, and half of them have sores on their scalps, which I believe are caused by a worm that burrows there, and is easily transmitable. We washed their hair one by one in a tub of warm water, and treated their scalp sores with alcohol. I have never seen anything like it.<br /><br />The next day I made a double batch of banana bread, and I put together a bag os soaps, crakyons, toys, socks, and warm clothes that I scrouned from around my house, and I made the trip back. I am not usually a fan of donations, which are generally unsunstainable, but I´m also a member of that community and can´t ignore the needs of those right in front of me. Barefoot and covered in snot, the six or seven smallest ones came running out to meet me and all vied for one of my hands. I treated their scalps again, and we played soccer. I drank <em>terere </em>with their dad, whom had just returned after two weeks in the hospital. Because of the high-risk pregnancy, they had to do an early C-section, from which the mom and her new daughter are still recovering. I was friendly and cautious with the father, because I knew he was proud about accepting outside help, though I wanted to slap him into reality. <br /><br />So...I may need to take a step back from my prior planning and promote some family planning and basic hygeine. First things first.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg840DH_tA-laBGtvQSej5QuWFSR-LvXAOG-ZGUMmwQh8HvIfG_xG5tXzapMjuNkleoqSrf-dzkSQi0i1P2xP0vHEdDhPYu5a0QYg5izcTwPvFIYQr50pQ-KIfqDWJckWOg2UR4oS1GBKbV/s1600/100_5093.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg840DH_tA-laBGtvQSej5QuWFSR-LvXAOG-ZGUMmwQh8HvIfG_xG5tXzapMjuNkleoqSrf-dzkSQi0i1P2xP0vHEdDhPYu5a0QYg5izcTwPvFIYQr50pQ-KIfqDWJckWOg2UR4oS1GBKbV/s400/100_5093.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5496407781118724946" /></a>*emily*http://www.blogger.com/profile/09550257610066609831noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8668982956919055318.post-59927270526195283472010-07-04T10:31:00.000-07:002010-07-04T11:32:36.067-07:00Cheery Reflections from the Dreary City<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWcXN-UHTjBvY6u9YoPv_bYJqCam4lZy33HxNZUe2rTQ3RTiBABjmPID8YHFUkx-U6aI98efA96BWFdNCS4evKHVxJan_kCQRdvehivxcmKlFLb1tEV9fIjg0Gq_8d9Zw3w4cOTPy3gPW2/s1600/lima_citypoem_1m_photo_simpliciter.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWcXN-UHTjBvY6u9YoPv_bYJqCam4lZy33HxNZUe2rTQ3RTiBABjmPID8YHFUkx-U6aI98efA96BWFdNCS4evKHVxJan_kCQRdvehivxcmKlFLb1tEV9fIjg0Gq_8d9Zw3w4cOTPy3gPW2/s400/lima_citypoem_1m_photo_simpliciter.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5490120419632497090" /></a><br /><br />If Lima, Peru is good for something, it gives me a moment to reflect and record the events of the past couple weeks. Because there is nothing else to do here. The city is draped in a heavy cloak of fog and the occassional mist. It´s not the sort of fog that added beauty and enigma to Machu Picchu, but the kind of grey oppression that makes you want to sit in a cafe, listening to ´90s mucic by the Smashing Pumpkinds, Nirvana, and Weezer, while sucking down Americanos and apple pie (I can´t get this stuff in Paraguay!). <br /><br />It being Sunday, I can´t even fulfill my idea of shopping, or at least trying on the latest Peruvian fashions for kicks, because everything is closed. I did discover the ¨Atlantic City¨ of Lima. The doorman looked me up and down from my hairwrap, fanny pack, down to my dirty converse, but welcomed me anyway. I´ll have to rely on my farm to make my first million because <em>Fairy Play </em>slot machines will not. Fummu, Nischaya, Allegra, and Zuzu were only too happy to spend their last remaining hours in South America at the airport, and left me lastnight to search for the key to unlock the hidden charms of Lima. I think the treasure may be this cafe...and the <em>Parque del Amor</em>, covered in colorful tiles and romantic quotes. I´m sure I´m not doing the city justice, but it just doesn´t hold that instantaneous, heart-melting, breath-taking--literally--charm of Cusco and the Sacred Valley. <br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2DvpwCNVSN8_xzyGi91CszwMTP5kUoGkAZFXqPtILBvm_KqkK5sVk2LNlaWLe2yHPWKanGT6NhyphenhyphenWFWdhnBE-2mh9atRbpLLki7sF6TQUSrbWgMDL2iUcN4KUAszxwIOl1wvIl-dRKWq39/s1600/IMG_5665.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 225px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2DvpwCNVSN8_xzyGi91CszwMTP5kUoGkAZFXqPtILBvm_KqkK5sVk2LNlaWLe2yHPWKanGT6NhyphenhyphenWFWdhnBE-2mh9atRbpLLki7sF6TQUSrbWgMDL2iUcN4KUAszxwIOl1wvIl-dRKWq39/s400/IMG_5665.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5490105516358488466" /></a><br /><br />Two weeks ago Jorge and I went to Puerto de Iguazu, Argentina to meet up with my dad and company, and to explore together that dizzying monstrosity of water on the triple border of Paraguay, Argentina, and Brazil. We then went back to my community, where I put the four of them up in my house, and they discovered the joys and sorrows of barefoot soccer, cow slaughter, bucket baths (or not), and the <em>fiesta de San Juan</em>, where drunken, masked men vie for chances to climb a pole to reach a cardboard box that contains money and wine. <br /> <br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjRBdQYXYyJ3oEsKmVzpuyln9b5WM4Uy41G2se64Ev6YHZze0w29RhQi46jrKAAo1_CDYof-NR8lG-Hl_A8xNgbuWLGx71pt3D8M1IWQE5sSTf8zEG_PyZoObF6zLoW_V2kaXWOdxmHx7R/s1600/IMG_5802.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 225px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjRBdQYXYyJ3oEsKmVzpuyln9b5WM4Uy41G2se64Ev6YHZze0w29RhQi46jrKAAo1_CDYof-NR8lG-Hl_A8xNgbuWLGx71pt3D8M1IWQE5sSTf8zEG_PyZoObF6zLoW_V2kaXWOdxmHx7R/s400/IMG_5802.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5490106660592810898" /></a><br /><br />The past week and a half has been spent exploring some of Peru´s many magical nooks and crannies. The ruins here are not just old rocks, but seemingly-living reminders of a lost race: the Inca. It´s refreshing to see the Peruvian people embrace their ancestral heritage, keeping alive traditional dress and ceremonies, instead of hiding and denying them shamefully, as is the practice in Paraguay. <br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZVHFJszNb1sgHCowLhV32pAMj63weg8hbVFDUe-0KJ_b_5u2RG0DfvhMdhujuK3hHm9zpj5jYJOPv95KkV1ed0OIiHRDqKX5hDxR_5RYAPIOhHpXmfHBWHSgSzvE3tcLSrhNez7zSfwni/s1600/IMG_5826.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 225px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZVHFJszNb1sgHCowLhV32pAMj63weg8hbVFDUe-0KJ_b_5u2RG0DfvhMdhujuK3hHm9zpj5jYJOPv95KkV1ed0OIiHRDqKX5hDxR_5RYAPIOhHpXmfHBWHSgSzvE3tcLSrhNez7zSfwni/s400/IMG_5826.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5490107640034169426" /></a><br /><br />From the market of Pisac, to the salt mines of Salinas, the terraced circles of Moray, and the steep horseback ride to Pumamarca, the Sacred Valley won my heart and my promise to return. My most memorable night was on the full lmoon in the village of Ollantaytambo, when a few of us, led by a new, local friend, jumped over a stream and crossed fields to sneak into the ruins overlooking the town. These still surprizngly-intact ruins include temples and a fortress, and was one of the few places where the Inca won a major battle against the Spanish. <br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9e8kNb5TLNCK07m5INmsaUMfx1Vi3zW687MyEdIdhEcHPpyg1HiNPJrOyiHfTrA9R1_YiZLXYWvFhGjHIDHGbVaLEww3szQXP0J3ESt1rWJ-4_-pWUR-HOrZOtaFUFt1ysbH9VpT8cdZc/s1600/IMG_5859.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 225px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9e8kNb5TLNCK07m5INmsaUMfx1Vi3zW687MyEdIdhEcHPpyg1HiNPJrOyiHfTrA9R1_YiZLXYWvFhGjHIDHGbVaLEww3szQXP0J3ESt1rWJ-4_-pWUR-HOrZOtaFUFt1ysbH9VpT8cdZc/s400/IMG_5859.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5490108456699965298" /></a><br /><br />Machu Picchu was, of course, incredible, especially the one-thousand-foot ascent to Wayna Picchu, which looks out through the clouds over the ancient city of Machu Picchu, and then around the mountain to the Temple of the Moon, where priestesses protected a sacred cave. My legs were sore for days afterwards, greatly eased by a yoga class in Cusco--my first class in almost two years! <br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNW5ZOyWWc-QPb550cVRdJuf4wcejDxc0OcaxdPf_RcHn2UMPocJ4RtmsuR_mxvzDS05r3Ha-zpWWzsom5ZM3LyZFab0oJRxqbjRVqb_M1NHmcgA0mdqNo_lBqzxvPYKZbfynzeWxAmRPF/s1600/IMG_5917.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 225px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNW5ZOyWWc-QPb550cVRdJuf4wcejDxc0OcaxdPf_RcHn2UMPocJ4RtmsuR_mxvzDS05r3Ha-zpWWzsom5ZM3LyZFab0oJRxqbjRVqb_M1NHmcgA0mdqNo_lBqzxvPYKZbfynzeWxAmRPF/s400/IMG_5917.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5490109794964026546" /></a><br /><br />Now I´m spending my Independence Day alone, but surrounded by other travellers--Brazillians, Spaniards, and English---all on their way somewhere else. After reading about the American Revolution in Howard Zinn´s ¨A People´s History of the United States of America,¨ the 4th of July means much less. Zinn convinces us that the grand majority of the early settlers didn´t care much whether they were oppressed by the English or by the wealthy 5% of the new Americans, which included the founding fathers. Free or not, they were hungry, poor, and maltreated. However, I do miss me some good, American fireworks.*emily*http://www.blogger.com/profile/09550257610066609831noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8668982956919055318.post-61752081722342195812010-06-16T11:15:00.000-07:002010-06-16T11:47:10.160-07:00Ode to the Herb<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3kwtZ0oRS5sSL1bXjCrK8KgF_TdP11AxRpRTI9X6f4w7vpCzpTTG_98k1qYUSPtN-3JmHgJOMpmFBvlEreSxIo0X7nZg_XCk9iThsIme0BKnII2aU1hve54Xv_EUU8j1DLbBKLj4JYd8t/s1600/IMG_5604.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 225px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3kwtZ0oRS5sSL1bXjCrK8KgF_TdP11AxRpRTI9X6f4w7vpCzpTTG_98k1qYUSPtN-3JmHgJOMpmFBvlEreSxIo0X7nZg_XCk9iThsIme0BKnII2aU1hve54Xv_EUU8j1DLbBKLj4JYd8t/s400/IMG_5604.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5483443425892791938" /></a><br />That herb would be my beloved <span style="font-style:italic;">yerba mate</span>, or <span style="font-style:italic;">ka`a</span> en Guarani. That smoky, bitter leaf wakes me up in the morning, tucks me in at night, keeps me warm when it´s cold, and cool when it´s hot. A relative of the holly, jam-packed with antioixidant, vitamins, and life-loving properties, it is probably one of the things I like best about Paraguay. <br /><br />This entry is dedicated to you, ka`a, because it is your time to shine...harvest time!<br /><br />Woke up early on Monday to get out to the field and harvest as much as possible before the World Cup game started. Paraguay, being addicted to <span style="font-style:italic;">futbol</span>, declared the afternoon of the Paraguay vs. Italia game to be a national holiday, with classes cancelled and fields abandoned. <br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Yerba mate</span> is harvested once a year, in the fall. As the main crops grown in my site--sugarcane and <span style="font-style:italic;">mate</span>--are both harvested in the fall, there is a lot of work to be done and finally some profit to be had. <br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Yerba mate</span> is a sturdy-looking shrub, and could pass for an ornamental tree. It is planted once, and then harvested year after year for decades. Using our hands and a small machete, we pry the smaller branches and twigs off the main plant, leaving a few leaves and stalks to help manage regrowth. The shrub itself is a slow grower, but the leaves reproduce surprizingly quickly. The cut branches are then twisted and snapped into smaller pieces with mostly raw, emerald-stained hands and piled onto tarps. These tarps are then bundled, precariously piled onto trucks, and hauled to a processing facility about 8k away, and sold for 700guaranies/kilo (about about 7 cents a pound). <br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_bwEAUDwI3_BK4XhAG7wYNzLudUjv3RUBguJZBmb1InnCxFDcejsB89yk1vwHbVNY_DyPtkJRRKuBerNnrGWl7x5X1NWg3JhUcGz4tok3UQ9yqNrJmu5JfUxHzFMO3gV_AqpYKBrOFroO/s1600/mate2.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 225px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_bwEAUDwI3_BK4XhAG7wYNzLudUjv3RUBguJZBmb1InnCxFDcejsB89yk1vwHbVNY_DyPtkJRRKuBerNnrGWl7x5X1NWg3JhUcGz4tok3UQ9yqNrJmu5JfUxHzFMO3gV_AqpYKBrOFroO/s400/mate2.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5483444619442073202" /></a><br /><br />I guess it´s not that surpizing that, though that mate is sold in the States for a whopping $9/lb, the farmers responsible receive so little. In the factory, the herb is dehydrated, dried/smoked, ground, and then left to age for at least six months. <br /><br />In Paraguay, there are a wide variety of yerbas sold everywhere from the supermarket, gas station, and my neighbor´s house. It is then served in a guampa, sipped through a bombilla, and shared with family and friends. <br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhC2FxW_KCA0GaMSMyWc1YkUdf5w2HEgpfdDqqY72aGgA6yRAuKShq2pzkKAikbws0O-EoBYe04hjg6Wtm1NNfAJxqrgh3onyYJxyi5KKJ05_nGhc-2yds2XgVSwMwkyRXhkqPJxTmm3MQ_/s1600/mate.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 266px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhC2FxW_KCA0GaMSMyWc1YkUdf5w2HEgpfdDqqY72aGgA6yRAuKShq2pzkKAikbws0O-EoBYe04hjg6Wtm1NNfAJxqrgh3onyYJxyi5KKJ05_nGhc-2yds2XgVSwMwkyRXhkqPJxTmm3MQ_/s400/mate.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5483444325696383666" /></a><br />The perfect start and finish to your day...*emily*http://www.blogger.com/profile/09550257610066609831noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8668982956919055318.post-27361960764121662652010-06-16T10:17:00.000-07:002010-06-16T11:13:37.200-07:00See you Later in a Little Can (and other things that make no sense)<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiR4Zx3qZ1KafAYeWC0xYyYzm4KfLI0UKyM7phZixEUIn0Wzp4zB6rt9qgcxYa7KpsQo1J3XJpn0_38VtYgIzDg39RedyD5bZDayDDJfSwhVj50YR-ykeAcxYLg0qf9E0ViPegZgWsmVNeR/s1600/IMG_5308.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 225px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiR4Zx3qZ1KafAYeWC0xYyYzm4KfLI0UKyM7phZixEUIn0Wzp4zB6rt9qgcxYa7KpsQo1J3XJpn0_38VtYgIzDg39RedyD5bZDayDDJfSwhVj50YR-ykeAcxYLg0qf9E0ViPegZgWsmVNeR/s400/IMG_5308.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5483434272162594386" /></a><br />There has been a shift lately. Perhaps it has to do with the change in weather---the layering against the cold, the longer nights, going to bed at 7pm, and sleeping twelve hours. I´ve been getting frustrated more easily, and I find myself generally hiding from people in my community, which is not easy to do. <br /><br />I´ve been feeling purposeless lately,and the only reason people want me around is to take pictures and bring them things from the city. I´ve been very welcomed here, but I´ve also been used. Last week I finally broke down. I went to the high school to plan the photo exhibition with the ninth graders, to whom I taught a photography class, and as usual, it was a struggle to get anything decided or organized. My patience spent, I left and walked my bike (the pedal fell off...again) to my favorite host mom´s house. <span style="font-style:italic;">Ña </span>Marina greeted me with outstretched arms, into which I prompty walked into and burst into tears. She brought me into the kitchen (<span style="font-style:italic;">mi oficina</span>, she calls it), and I told her all my frustrations, which seemed miniscule in my ears when telling a Paraguayan, for some reason. At one point, her husband called her away to ask what the problem was, and that he would take care of it whatever or whomever it was. Marina proceeded to pick fresh mint to make a nerve-soothing tea, and commanded me to sit and not go anywhere. So I sat and drank my tea, while she cooked lunch and we chatted about Paraguayans. <br /><br />She told me for the first time how she raised her first three children as a single mother, still working in the fields and selling her crops, on top of her household and motherhood duties. She has raised five intelligen children, is an active grandmother, and an integral part of the church commission, farmers´committee, and PTA, all with a sixth-grade education. And she still finds time to mollify frazzled Americans. I have never heard a harsh word escape her mouth. The other week, I heard her yell across the field to her granddaughter, who was trying to pick high-up fruit with a bamboo pole, not to spank the orange tree. That tree feeds us, she said. Why would you hit it? This surprized me, living in a place yet untouched by the environmental movement. <br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8kWmLYR27sBTzMbRel33QIkl9B-u9f8u09hHMnOzr1dBiie9ZTM645ko0E4xONcqM2zrTS2qiYPBcLub4stC_d1KN46zpz6_CwYbjsFrzmPy3R7jo-hSbmEYoDf1gOVaDnTuEMSFgYtad/s1600/IMG_5276.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 225px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8kWmLYR27sBTzMbRel33QIkl9B-u9f8u09hHMnOzr1dBiie9ZTM645ko0E4xONcqM2zrTS2qiYPBcLub4stC_d1KN46zpz6_CwYbjsFrzmPy3R7jo-hSbmEYoDf1gOVaDnTuEMSFgYtad/s400/IMG_5276.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5483435449317346786" /></a><br /><br />I don´t know how she manages to maintain such high spirits in the presense of so much ugliness, esecially when the victims of this ugliness make it so difficult to help them. Donations of bread and eggs, and even matresses bought for children with literally dozens of brothers and sisters are sold for pennies by alcoholic parents. One more strike against donations. As I struggle to find my own productivity here, I am constantly caught between feelig inspired by the possibility of positive change and utter resentment towards the people whose lives I want to improve. <br /><br />First, do no harm. That´s the Hippocratic Oath, but it has been routinely applied to development work, as well as for medicine. The idea is that outsiders who enter a community wanting to help, may actually hinder. It is intimidating to think that by wanting to be of service, I could actually be making things worse. Indeed, good intentions do not necessarily egual positive outcomes. What´s the point of teaching people to grow and cook vegetables if they won´t eat them? Why hoe all day in the field if they´re just going to burn the crop residuals anyway, leaving the soil scorched and naked to the elements? I am here for the people, yes, but I´m also here for the environment. I distinguish these two cases here because ecocentrism has yet to reach Paraguay--the idea that protecting the environment directly benefits us, as humans, is a concept that seems to be only superficially understood (ie. no trees=no firewood=no lunch).<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikBY2giFfycVVMD1woXEVD75-EAM0hS5Ac5YNxV1FGJKFHWFHO3voWNLBOnIxRkjyVpqqBDv6TXwGXkQXpjXpcFAubjAIbKSOVlyVc5wX0FbF6ttxpGD9aGWnbAutmlF8IOSgOTw7LwBjI/s1600/IMG_5310.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 225px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikBY2giFfycVVMD1woXEVD75-EAM0hS5Ac5YNxV1FGJKFHWFHO3voWNLBOnIxRkjyVpqqBDv6TXwGXkQXpjXpcFAubjAIbKSOVlyVc5wX0FbF6ttxpGD9aGWnbAutmlF8IOSgOTw7LwBjI/s400/IMG_5310.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5483434993492049010" /></a><br />P.S. The title of this post refers to a common phrase used when saying goodbye: <span style="font-style:italic;">Jajotopata lata`ipe. </span> What?*emily*http://www.blogger.com/profile/09550257610066609831noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8668982956919055318.post-13889600949788854362010-04-12T09:16:00.000-07:002010-04-12T10:05:33.745-07:00A glance at the past til now...<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-mm60Jia6Ihj8dVve7nVrraysSCiYdmQoQmopxQS03_2ozv2-4UWXFx86h4-GYyLFNLfPzXpkFqsUvL5QzKu8HMYcP9JfNYKH6fz_6ImxGqaRNVPyPDKS5A8QvHrA02WErwRWw2YPwyHd/s1600/em2.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 130px; height: 73px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-mm60Jia6Ihj8dVve7nVrraysSCiYdmQoQmopxQS03_2ozv2-4UWXFx86h4-GYyLFNLfPzXpkFqsUvL5QzKu8HMYcP9JfNYKH6fz_6ImxGqaRNVPyPDKS5A8QvHrA02WErwRWw2YPwyHd/s320/em2.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5459297356190193954" /></a><br /><br />How does the earth turn so quicly? The summer has come and swiftly gone in a whirlwind of family visits, vacation, and attempting to stay cool, leaving little energy for cyber communication. After a year and a half, this place has become something that resembles home enough that I don't crave the internet connections I used to so look forward to. <br /><br />After Chrismas and New Years in Uruguay, Hannah came back to my site with me, where we played in the river, went fishing with bamboo poles Huck Finn style,shucked and ate many many peanuts, and led an environmental summercamp. She got to see the way I live, including getting bored to tears by the bingo games the <span style="font-style:italic;">Señoras</span> love so much. It was refreshing to have someone to share in the hilarious misery of it all, and to laugh with over a cold beer that I wouldn't have the guts to buy by myself. <br /><br />We then continued our sister adventure in Brazil, where we had rented a one-bedroom apartment in Rio de Janiero for nine days with seven other volunteers. The limited space was made up for by a fabulous rooftop terrace,complete with grill, pool,and pool table. We were located in Copacabana, one block away from the Copacabana beach and walking distance from the famous Ipanema beach, where we could watch the sun set over the fantastical cliffs that surround that majestic city. Rio is unlikek any place I`ve every been. The sheer drama of its geography is jaw dropping. The view from the top of Sugarloaf makes me imagine what it must have been like to first come across that land, uninhabited, to stumble upon it by land or sea for the first time. Itś like Neverland, with lagoons and inlets, but now with lights covering all, and the <span style="font-style:italic;">flavellas</span> (shantytowns) climbing hodgepodge up the sides of the steep hills. Acai is the life food and large asses reign supreme. Kids play soccer on white sands and the ocean washes away lastnightś sins. Carnaval, of course, attracts herds of people from all over to celebrate the worldś most famous party. <br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg64zK71r9i3pHx1wJiv_RGGjdscm1gpwzacLsfY9ySQ2x2f0_hhtm_FHLd0GBZqnySWbygm785eD-KtOpdGcu8sJN_l3CdFdmHrTRr2qafR_wLZHaj09nkS71zNRp60oKbqWZ_e1MPM-mB/s1600/emjpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 73px; height: 130px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg64zK71r9i3pHx1wJiv_RGGjdscm1gpwzacLsfY9ySQ2x2f0_hhtm_FHLd0GBZqnySWbygm785eD-KtOpdGcu8sJN_l3CdFdmHrTRr2qafR_wLZHaj09nkS71zNRp60oKbqWZ_e1MPM-mB/s320/emjpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5459297232106376386" /></a><br />I was ready to get back to my little <span style="font-style:italic;">casita</span> after 10 days. It felt good to get back to my routine of washing clothes, working bees, and having little plan for the day but to see what happens next. It wasn't long, however, before it was time to go again, this time to meet up with Mom and Bobo in Argentina. We met at the bus terminal in Cordoba, after a year and a half with no parents. We rented a car and headed north a couple hours to the magical little town of Capilla del Monte, where we celebrated the fall equionox with a healing sound bowl ceremony. We continued north, stopping at a town with thermal hotsprings, and then Cafayate (Mendoza's cute cousin) to taste wine. We left there with a case of organic wine and a block of goat cheese to keep us happy on the 23-hour bus ride to Iguazu Falls. We spent one night in Ciudad del Este, where we met up with my sweetie, Jorge, and then continued on to my site. <br /><br />The two of them accompanied me on the sweaty journey to the high school for my photography class, and Bobo became famous for fixing the one computer in my community (no internet, of course). Mom, as you can imagine, became famous for being herself. On Boboś last night we had a chicken BBZ with a few of my Paraguayan friends and family. Mom stayed on for the rest of Semana Santa, doing useful things like de-iceing my fridge, deep-cleaning my wardrobe, and hand-washing my clothes. I also took advantage of having a mom to cook for me, and we feasted on chicken soup, macaroni and cheese, and the traditional Easter breakfast of creamed egg on toast. There were lots of community activities that week--prayer gatherings, decorating, and making a "Judas" scarecrow, complete with firecrackers, to be burned at the stake on Easter morning before mass. That Sunday we woke up at 4:30am to join the candlelit singing procession, making its way through the community and finally stopping at the church. That afternoon was the soccer tournament. Fall came all at once, the south wind gusting up and blowing antarctic air through the cracks in my walls. <br /><br />Mom left on Monday, and things are back to normal, or as normal as can be expected. Life back home in the States continues with weddings and babies and changes. I sometimes think about the things I'm missing on long walks back home. There are barefoot footprings all over the sandy road that takes me back to my house, and I cramble them with my own shoed prints, weighted down by a body covered in and a backpack full of supplies I am taught to need. I have my waterbottle, as always, my hat and sunglasses, and my muisc, which helps me along the hour-and-a-half trek from the next communityi. I have my beegear, covered in soot and honey, a plastic bag full of honey still on the comb and crawling with drunk bees; cinnamon roles, the product of my cooking class, fresh out of the brick oven and keeping warm in my dirty shirt. <br /><br />I wonder which are the moments I will carry with me when I go. Memories are surprizingly fickle and random. The moments that stand out most are those that seem inconsequential, and the so-called "memorable" ones melt away until I can recall only that the event took place. The actual scenes are hazy and unstill. Will I remember pressing up close to Jorge's back as we run away from the sunrise and the wind bites at our fingertips and noses? Or will I only recall that he took me the 45 minutes to put me on the bus to Asuncion? Will I remember the weight of my 2 and 4-year-old nieces on each of my knees and the blueness of the sky as we crouched in the field of manioc and I sang to them, trying to drown out the sound of their father and uncle fighting back at the house? There is so much beauty and hurt, too heavy to carry.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiClNSrlX04H1e0yQD_21RUCxoepWW12Z25YYdRdeaD_WENF5qh31FuD6J9PMqj8GTFtVnexF5WjubvIVcKzodMkcr15vUg5IDu9W86s-Eo5zmJgbH08VSHVhVG5gdmxsPYCXYq53Az8Faw/s1600/em3.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 130px; height: 72px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiClNSrlX04H1e0yQD_21RUCxoepWW12Z25YYdRdeaD_WENF5qh31FuD6J9PMqj8GTFtVnexF5WjubvIVcKzodMkcr15vUg5IDu9W86s-Eo5zmJgbH08VSHVhVG5gdmxsPYCXYq53Az8Faw/s320/em3.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5459298107947952658" /></a>*emily*http://www.blogger.com/profile/09550257610066609831noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8668982956919055318.post-46184283393059656422010-02-06T17:09:00.000-08:002010-02-06T17:35:16.800-08:00Teach a Man to Fish...<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3WfZYHGXj8WBHk6CH5F0DDciZWUHGiCn_vETnXbsQ9KzO3LxmDrDSRnaviNSvqfLxZV3bOA1265agsPhTdikbn5e-bx-V2XF1ep8OxKVO-rxIhZRlYszUru-27BhLvmWa1dKQFqggudkW/s1600-h/DSCN6745.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3WfZYHGXj8WBHk6CH5F0DDciZWUHGiCn_vETnXbsQ9KzO3LxmDrDSRnaviNSvqfLxZV3bOA1265agsPhTdikbn5e-bx-V2XF1ep8OxKVO-rxIhZRlYszUru-27BhLvmWa1dKQFqggudkW/s320/DSCN6745.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5435308831489996962" /></a><br />I´ve been living in my community, trying to promote sustainable agriculture (or at least pass the days), for fourteen months. I have hoed fields, taught classes, organized events, endured endless questions, and have made a general ass of myself (purposefully and unintentionally). After all this, however, I only just a few days ago was able to successfully explain what it really is I´m supposed to be doing here. I was sitting around one evening with my host family, a few members of my farmers´ committee, and six construction workers who had been hired by the Ministry of Agriculture to build a business-scale henhouse in my community. I had brought my guitar over, and we were taking turns singing songs in English and Guarani. The workers, who are not from my community, were curious about what I was doing there. I gave them the classic ¨teach a man to fish¨ explanation of community development. If you don´t know it, it basically says that you can either give a man a fish, so he won´t be hungry that day, or you can teach him to fish, thereby giving him the power to provide for himself. I am attempting to do the latter. As I explained it, I saw the members of my community, with whom I´ve been working for over a year, nod their heads in sudden comprehension of my job. I couldn´t believe I hadn´t explained it that way before.*emily*http://www.blogger.com/profile/09550257610066609831noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8668982956919055318.post-49400512897979423192010-01-14T02:59:00.000-08:002010-01-16T14:50:26.379-08:00Summer sweat is sweet<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7gK7YFJRfJg7fPnwHzn_LrgwwvtiTLNEeNs3LIwpgiomINMAQ3q9JHsmunn_ZPmCOC_9mUYOH5gDVi_vGiYRwotcpjlGHuhtQjgxeGe1c7fdQGNc5CHZn_5sIs0O0dQ6YM3sRWiyZTe3M/s1600-h/IMG_4791.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 180px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7gK7YFJRfJg7fPnwHzn_LrgwwvtiTLNEeNs3LIwpgiomINMAQ3q9JHsmunn_ZPmCOC_9mUYOH5gDVi_vGiYRwotcpjlGHuhtQjgxeGe1c7fdQGNc5CHZn_5sIs0O0dQ6YM3sRWiyZTe3M/s320/IMG_4791.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5427472176276730482" /></a><br /><br />I am already back in Asuncion again for my mid-service check up and to pick up my sister!! The past week I have spent in site has not been enough time to sufficiently catch up after two weeks of vacation in Uruguay. For more on that, check out Hannahś blog at http://www.bananafishtails.blogspot.com/. She covers it eloquently, so I am going to skip over those two weeks.<br /><br />I had been a little nervous about going back to site, just because two weeks is the longest amount of time I have spent away, and I was dreading the readjustment and having to answer the same questions over and over again. While waiting for my local bus, I took out my iPod to listen to while I wrote at a little <span style="font-style:italic;">empanada</span> stand. I quickly put it away, thought, so that I could, instead, listen to the sounds of Paraguay, the sounds I have been deprived of--for better or worse--these past few weeks. A few clouds rolled in with a breeze, so it was not unbearably hot, like it had threatened to be in the morning. Some teenage boys were listening to reggaeton on their cell phones.<br /><br />I caught an earlier bus, so I could stop by the municipality and drop off a letter soliciting funds for the summer camp I'm planning. It's actually starting in just over a week, so I have some preparation to do before then. I'll also have Hannah and some other volunteers there to help out, and this week I'm doing a mini training for some of the local teenage girls I'm friends with, so that they can facilitate activities, as well. I think I'm starting to gain a little more control over my attitude. No matter how stressed or hot or annoyed I am, if I greet people with a smile and a giggle in my voice, things go a lot better, and I'm much more likely to get what I want. This seems like an obvious statement, but it can be hard to put into practice. Also, things are so corrupt in the political system here that I'll get what I ask for if they like me, and I will be completely ignored if they don't. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOzsW97A6MbpCIHNKkVHpUdW0K3zRmZ2Kj3f3SDQR27F6yxKGSzFkWCUnhWLLN1ZHIt8h5ZJ5sq8rFEDU0n48YHf-qD-k-z5PhZoFw6yKTaisI5R0ixNT2u36WV7Tz_NsEhzM-NsUA1bjV/s1600-h/IMG_4625.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 180px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOzsW97A6MbpCIHNKkVHpUdW0K3zRmZ2Kj3f3SDQR27F6yxKGSzFkWCUnhWLLN1ZHIt8h5ZJ5sq8rFEDU0n48YHf-qD-k-z5PhZoFw6yKTaisI5R0ixNT2u36WV7Tz_NsEhzM-NsUA1bjV/s320/IMG_4625.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5427471553872784594" /></a><br /><br />When I arrived back in site, watermelon season was in full swing, so I've been feasting everyday, multiple times a day. A tidbit about watermelon is that Paraguayans cut it lengthwise and Americans cut it the other direction. The rule is that you can eat watermelon or you can drink terere. Not both. The real danger, however, is in mixing watermelon with grapes or grape products, like wine. They say that if you put grapes on watermelon, the latter will either disintegrate or explode, but I have yet to test this theory. Cantaloupe, however, is liberally mixed with wine. They make a delicious cantaloupe-wine smoothie, which we take down to the river in big thermoses. <br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjd8aoeBXJ8ySvYahNvMK0Fn_6SG3i_1e_xCr_GOgf4kBqJOpcAA4c8g2AzcpVvWMdQlyiS1F5pJ_9fibI4VWHB4uman5TZX3myw_qIdT6AabHZcZ-YaGm9rdBrdpFgnLOjVuuL3_3Xeoa_/s1600-h/IMG_4784.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 180px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjd8aoeBXJ8ySvYahNvMK0Fn_6SG3i_1e_xCr_GOgf4kBqJOpcAA4c8g2AzcpVvWMdQlyiS1F5pJ_9fibI4VWHB4uman5TZX3myw_qIdT6AabHZcZ-YaGm9rdBrdpFgnLOjVuuL3_3Xeoa_/s320/IMG_4784.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5427472180692831298" /></a><br />After vacation, my sleep pattern was thrown off, so I wasn't getting up until the ungodly hour of 9am, about the time people start coming BACK from the field, since it's too hot to work. Even waking up at 5:30am is considered getting a late start on the day. Jorge and I have been hoeing our cornfield, which we are cultivating to feed our future pigs. Hopefully we'll have little piglets running around soon!<br /><br />On my second day back in my community, Jorge's family was slaughtering a pig to sell the meat, and they invited me over to partake in the activities and feasting. When I showed up, the head was already pegged to a gree, the organs laying in a tub, and the fat sizzling over an open fire. <em>Chicharon </em>are chunks of fried pig fat, and it is mouth-wateringly delicious. I knew I had become a part of the family when I was given the task of cleaning out the intestines and stomach. My 17-year-old friend, Griselda, and I carried the tub and a knife down to the stream, where we slit holes in the soft membranes and literally scooped and squirted shit out. And pig shit stinks. I almost vomited when I also removed 8" long parasitic worms, as well. Welcome back.<br /><br />Now Hannah and I are in Villarrica, and heading to my home tomorrow!*emily*http://www.blogger.com/profile/09550257610066609831noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8668982956919055318.post-25627750447227935162009-12-11T07:24:00.002-08:002009-12-11T08:26:22.796-08:00One Year Down<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYLFv01AKk6dwLNWRQogO8gVL5Uj1g_0xPSBJNeiApW6wXAlmbr-Nkyj9_85eniRXlMMmipHHPNvxz47UChC8vH1PMdaT_XvYOqggsA3Sd9w-sttzNbLXHrHyx-GoRft9PxwgnVNwqHXyr/s1600-h/IMG_4345.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 180px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYLFv01AKk6dwLNWRQogO8gVL5Uj1g_0xPSBJNeiApW6wXAlmbr-Nkyj9_85eniRXlMMmipHHPNvxz47UChC8vH1PMdaT_XvYOqggsA3Sd9w-sttzNbLXHrHyx-GoRft9PxwgnVNwqHXyr/s320/IMG_4345.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5414010893598078882" /></a><br />Two months have passed, taking with them any remaining cool summer breezes. The last days of classes are over, and the summer corn is already knee-high and begging for our hoes to unburden them of the ever-present weeds. Weeds grow incredibly quickly here. The days of following the shade have returned, and as I sit drinking endless pitchers of <em>terere </em>on a humid day, sweat collects and drips off my nose and into the corners of my mouth. Free sauna. I finally succumbed and bought a fan, which is helpful not only for the heat, but for fending of night bugs when I don't feel like being trapped in my mosquito net. Wow. I just made it sound awful here. Really it's not that bad. I actually love this time of year because it's time to relax and prepare for holiday festivities. The elementary school had their final presentation, and tomorrow night I'm going to the high school graduation. It's going to be a formal event, and each graduate has a certain number of invitees, and a <em>padrino </em>to send her off, kind of like a wedding. It sounds more like a prom to me. <br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhy3C5P7wiglTcIc6LrRyoc0FKSv8qBqu0i4xvJdi-0aLte8PkR23wBLNKy_ncSLXoKkc5AhVXybbjXRKlL_tAJXwgJQI8FXS9knD4zpsUeaAJ28cKdZCoOo5-8xWKKc3zfdWP8ce-AbDh3/s1600-h/IMG_4343.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 180px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhy3C5P7wiglTcIc6LrRyoc0FKSv8qBqu0i4xvJdi-0aLte8PkR23wBLNKy_ncSLXoKkc5AhVXybbjXRKlL_tAJXwgJQI8FXS9knD4zpsUeaAJ28cKdZCoOo5-8xWKKc3zfdWP8ce-AbDh3/s320/IMG_4343.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5414010902665897650" /></a><br /><br />Today is my one-year anniversary of living in Arroyo Moroti. Once again it is marked by the one-year <em>reso </em>,or memorial, for Jorge's mother, who died two days after I arrived. I'm helping Jorge's family with a pig project. We've been planning the pig pen, and spent other day cutting the grass with a long machete (you have to squat low and use your abs) in preparation to plant corn and beans for feed. The idea is that with proper preparation, we can raise a pig for slaughter and sale in six months, and then I can use the pig pen to raise my own pig to eat for my departure party next year. Many Paraguayans don't feed their pigs sufficiently or provide with adequate accomodations, and so they end up waiting months and months past when they should be profitably slaughtered. <br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmw1Ut1vsG7TU2LRNUPkvBKyCe_2kmTUTtyZ3tfuGppHHczGn6OabMQGhaD_P9wpM-jCMp8kf8hxoGgfZrYIX3GT8pEop-Ie_tzU4taMlDHU-DIj33E0ZPfoCpXLZEawRinDlZ3rIITXnJ/s1600-h/IMG_4336.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 180px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmw1Ut1vsG7TU2LRNUPkvBKyCe_2kmTUTtyZ3tfuGppHHczGn6OabMQGhaD_P9wpM-jCMp8kf8hxoGgfZrYIX3GT8pEop-Ie_tzU4taMlDHU-DIj33E0ZPfoCpXLZEawRinDlZ3rIITXnJ/s320/IMG_4336.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5414007999886822290" /></a><br /><br />Now that Jorge is not playing soccer in the neighboring state, we've grown closer. A month or two ago he (finally) told me his story, about before his mom died, about how, despite being really intelligent, didn't make it past sixth grade because his alcoholic father took him to the field to work. I cried when he told me. I know it's a common story for poor people all over the world. Many poor families in Paraguay will send their kids to school to learn basic reading and math skills, and then they'll spend the rest of their days working as their parents have. I have my qualms with public education, but to hear that someone I love was denied the opportunities that come with receiving an education, hurts. He is blessed with amazing soccer skills, but to increase his chances of being discovered by a scout, he would have to move to Asuncion to practice with a more professional team, and pay for his living expenses while doing so. <br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisijgI94LULHw-r3xY_BfkurKWfa7XBxuqNTCtziY10WZSLOib3YO5qHTHpzrtL2tULbbRx_3aTXIXMcTFzYvzIee4EHQiM2s9YjyKq7IWIl4VOl7cj-qWVrsQguF4Fz3OXRzJQA3VmoWN/s1600-h/IMG_4340.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 180px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisijgI94LULHw-r3xY_BfkurKWfa7XBxuqNTCtziY10WZSLOib3YO5qHTHpzrtL2tULbbRx_3aTXIXMcTFzYvzIee4EHQiM2s9YjyKq7IWIl4VOl7cj-qWVrsQguF4Fz3OXRzJQA3VmoWN/s320/IMG_4340.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5414008005647040850" /></a><br /><br />I'm in Asuncion now, seeing off my friends who have finished their two years and are on their way home or travels. And speaking of travels, in a week and a half, I will be in Uruguay on vacation! A bunch of my friends and I have rented beach cabins for Christmas, and Hannah is flying in to meet up with us and come back to site with me. So, as usual, there is much to look forward to and much to love right now...*emily*http://www.blogger.com/profile/09550257610066609831noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8668982956919055318.post-70015529268258876622009-10-27T17:19:00.000-07:002009-11-06T07:37:47.180-08:00Lightning Strikes Again<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTdoRG0q2Ztv2oXPIpcp2NuzsN7LiR-6qJ1ZxL7L_6jzgYRaZfSx2Mb6QayLOEicfVF6k5ALaWjkgTp3H4b7Vm3xKhQS2NCLsiAEOrGqsdlApjQfum21fUFL5eTcbS5k79E-OXwIgKpBZo/s1600-h/ag+cap,+paola+bday,+a%C3%B1ito+072.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 180px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTdoRG0q2Ztv2oXPIpcp2NuzsN7LiR-6qJ1ZxL7L_6jzgYRaZfSx2Mb6QayLOEicfVF6k5ALaWjkgTp3H4b7Vm3xKhQS2NCLsiAEOrGqsdlApjQfum21fUFL5eTcbS5k79E-OXwIgKpBZo/s320/ag+cap,+paola+bday,+a%C3%B1ito+072.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5397446417871791826" /></a><br />As I mentioned previously, I had been hoping that my agriculture workshop would help to remind the community of what I´m here for and help to present myself as someone who knows about teh field, and not just some girl who cooks and works in the garden. I am by no mean demeaning these activities, but I also want to do the job I´ve been trained to do, which is a challenge as a female volunteer. It seems to be working. The conversations continue. I just talked to a farmer about ¨curvas de nivel,¨ a technique I´ve been itching to try that involved planting in lines that curve to the slope of the hill to prevent erosion and loss of nutrients. <br /><br />I´ve become accustomed to visiting certain families that I know, but it feels good to branch out and have new people be interested in working with me, and because of the knowledge I have to offer and not just because I´m a weird enigma or because they think I´m going to give them money. Paraguayans assume that I´m the rich American, but I had to borrow money from my host dad this week. First, my stove ran out of propane, and I realized that I didn´t have the funds to refill it. So I´ve been dropping in on families during feeding time, which is more than satisfactory. Then my fridge broke. I was freaking out to a neighbor about not having ice and my food going bad, and an hour later, when I got back from hoeing in the field, two guys showed up on <em>moto </em>to fix my fridge. I was happy for the quick response, but it sent me running around looking for someone to lend me 200,000Gs ($40). So now I can´t cook, but I do have ice, and, at this time of year, that´s way more important. It is a luxury, though, to have that. Jorge´s family has no electricity or running water. <br /><br />As I was also saying before, I finally have the energy to communicate with home. In fact, I missed my bus for teh sake of computer communication. I took a later bus that drops me off at a crossroads in the middle of sugarcane fields 10k from my house. When I left my house at 4:30am the sky was clear, and I felt comfortable in a skirt and sandals. When I began my walk, however, it was raining with a chilly wind blowing in from the south. I had to take my shoes off to get better traction in the mud. I´m usually able to hitchhike on that road, but with the combination of bad weather and a broken bridge, it was deserted. I started singing to distract myself from the groceries in my backpack weighing me down as the puddles in the road turned into full-fledged streams. I enjoy the rain, but I started thinking about the 20-year-old kid in my community who was struck my lightning two weeks ago. He was walking back from the field with a hoe on his shoulder, alongside his wife and parents-in-law, when lightning struck him dead on the spot. Lightning strikes are common here, at least more common than back home. A few days ago, my friend, Steve, was struck by lightning while sitting on his porch! Luckily he´s okay, but has a burn on his back from it. <br /><br />When I reached the broken bridge, it really was broken, with most of the boards missing. A temporary path of plywood laid between the banks kept me on my way. Two hours later, I arrived at my house to find a huge piece of the tree beside my house on the ground, right beside--and luckily not on top of--my house. I quickly realized the irony of this, as it was he same kind of tree whose blossoms I had picked to make a boquet the other day. I was on a run, and all of the sudden, caught a whiff of lilacs. The scent immediately brought me back home, and I tried to make out where the smell was coming from. Unsure, I picked a few branches from a large tree, dripping white blossoms. I don´t think that was the lilac smell, but if I was ever in doubt, I now have a bouquet to fill my entire house and then some.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsJdXEUb_wPsv-0HrICyNG_WpQy9iUzLOAuTrGPidLt0MlqPj_wicj9Ex7h68rD0FwDToyhM54FDfIhzkGi0N9PL5kWhvAUM4IIbeHvq3nyv3iTvz3zAl4LJ1AbTcnjQafLETB6gMSxLZU/s1600-h/beeinaugeracion,+bday+033.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 225px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsJdXEUb_wPsv-0HrICyNG_WpQy9iUzLOAuTrGPidLt0MlqPj_wicj9Ex7h68rD0FwDToyhM54FDfIhzkGi0N9PL5kWhvAUM4IIbeHvq3nyv3iTvz3zAl4LJ1AbTcnjQafLETB6gMSxLZU/s400/beeinaugeracion,+bday+033.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5401013279727410850" /></a><br /><br />During Thursday´s cooking class, we made <em>media lunas </em>(criossants). At the end of the class, we discussed what we would make the following week, and they came to the decision that we would just celebrate my birthday that day, and everyone would bring something to share and be ready for a reggaeton dance-off. I´ve come to love that group of women. They range in age from teens to 50s, and I´ve enjoyed the female compañionship and mothering. I´ve had mostly male friends since I´ve been in PC, but I grew up in a community of girls and women, and I hadn´t realized how beneficial it´s been for me to have these women in my life. I feel honored that they want to take the time to celebrate my life.*emily*http://www.blogger.com/profile/09550257610066609831noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8668982956919055318.post-52171424829894031312009-10-21T07:56:00.000-07:002009-10-27T07:10:12.061-07:00Make it Rain<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNojIfml7vV38n531ddg6uLiD5kLZj7XEfzeNulNnlm8uKb-Cwa3WQlmiG6-_WY7gPtrEru9uyDjk4isGPSWP2zODjhA5W7RFy2zGRRCzJ16kseXBmHpqBf_8P32K6h6Fvt9dDVG0FJFFL/s1600-h/ag+cap,+paola+bday,+a%C3%B1ito+041.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 180px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNojIfml7vV38n531ddg6uLiD5kLZj7XEfzeNulNnlm8uKb-Cwa3WQlmiG6-_WY7gPtrEru9uyDjk4isGPSWP2zODjhA5W7RFy2zGRRCzJ16kseXBmHpqBf_8P32K6h6Fvt9dDVG0FJFFL/s320/ag+cap,+paola+bday,+a%C3%B1ito+041.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5395073038986115202" /></a><br />I realize that I´ve been slacking on my updates (bad), but I´ve had a lot of work to do in my community (good). I´ve been planning, organizing, and orchestrating an agriculture workshop on Soil Recuperation techniques. The weeks prior were spent inviting participants (on bike, uphill both ways, and, yes, it´s hot again), and confirming and reconfirming with invited guests and specialists. It all went down Friday, so now I finally have the energy to communicate with the outside world. As I mentioned, things have been busy and frustrating, and, of course, as seems to be the trend with events that I organize, it rained the day of the workshop. More significantly, it poured the day before, complete with peachpit-sized hail, so the roads were in a terrible, muddy condition and bridges washed out. I invited five of my volunteer friends to come and assist with the workshop, but the bus didn´t leave my community, so they had to take a different bus to the next town over and walk (and ox-cart ride) the 9k to my house. <br /><br />The first night that everyone was there, we played soccer with the neighborhood kids in my yard--Paraguay versus the US. Those little rugrats won. Two of my friends are 6´4´´ and one is 6´2´´, so it was amusing to watch the interactions. We all crammed in my house, which fits one, and worked on our presentations for the following day. That morning I had been given the keys to the church, so my friend, Romelia (pictured with me) and I could straigten up. I´m continually surprized by the trust people place in me. I´m given church keys, school keys, and cash donations without question. <br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOrlpZRmwoaiK1Gv8HfOps-O03j8YahCVcnwPeW8GuBXIjmKrLm0W98R51R1wfzcsIJqG2BsITJgUNYIDwZ9M5YQl8c9S9GIVv_l3FmOC7i4vHSpVNq5i9RsnLVEK4a_myQlWZVx5Nl-e7/s1600-h/ag+cap,+paola+bday,+a%C3%B1ito+031.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 180px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOrlpZRmwoaiK1Gv8HfOps-O03j8YahCVcnwPeW8GuBXIjmKrLm0W98R51R1wfzcsIJqG2BsITJgUNYIDwZ9M5YQl8c9S9GIVv_l3FmOC7i4vHSpVNq5i9RsnLVEK4a_myQlWZVx5Nl-e7/s320/ag+cap,+paola+bday,+a%C3%B1ito+031.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5395073031904711922" /></a><br />Of course, that responsibility also means I´m expected to take on extra burdens, and I need to learn to say ¨no¨when it´s too much. The problem is that I thrive on taking on responsibility, and I feel confident in my abilities to complete things successfully. But then, the unexpected interferes; it rains, for people are not as reliable as I think, or my email is compromised...I want to be able to trust people as much as they trust me. For the most part, though, I have to say, people general pleasantly surprize me. Still, sometimes I´m pushed to my limit. Because I was coordinating with a number ocf specialists and visitors for my workshop, I was continuously confirming and reconfirming with them because I have come to realize that Paraguayans will lie to my face and would rather tell me what I want to hear and save what they think I don´t want to hear until the last possible minute, or when I´m going to figure it out anyway. It´s not that they´re mean or spiteful people. They´re just used to reading between the lines and communicating something berbally while part of them is communicating the opposite. I just have trouble seeing the lines. <br /><br />Like conversations people have around me, I think I understand because I do comprehend the words. But often the words have double or triple meanings, so that I think they´re talking about going fishing, but really they´re discussing my love life, shamelessly, right in front of me. There are not that many words in this language, compared to our vocabulary in English, but they make up for that in many subtle, and not-so-subtle, nuances. <br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEix8x6vwUnkAING_-XtRjGvyO3XM3anyjAzzYtmtlbUl8Ide_QS8uY92k7271szfj4EK01VVOgKykcr258HXokMLVy6XrZPbv6k0QM5GjMAy1TccBe1SMeUNGudSPg2wE4gsQlutYirhgDu/s1600-h/ag+cap,+paola+bday,+a%C3%B1ito+018.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 180px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEix8x6vwUnkAING_-XtRjGvyO3XM3anyjAzzYtmtlbUl8Ide_QS8uY92k7271szfj4EK01VVOgKykcr258HXokMLVy6XrZPbv6k0QM5GjMAy1TccBe1SMeUNGudSPg2wE4gsQlutYirhgDu/s320/ag+cap,+paola+bday,+a%C3%B1ito+018.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5395073035407872050" /></a><br /><br />It rained the moring of the workshop, and most of the <em>técnicos </em>and my Peace Corps boss showed up late because of the road conditions. The fancy people showed up with mud on their pants, including the Secretary of Agriculture, and other important people he invited. But at least they came, and so did the <em>empanadas</em>. And, surprizingly, for the bad weather, so did thirty participants. There would ahve been a lot more from surrounding communities, but I was satisfied with than number, knowing that Paraguayans tend to do nothing withen it rains. <br /><br />I had my friends and the Paraguayan specialists each cover a topic under the subject of soil recuperation, and present on it for 10-15 muntues. I had a topic as well, but my biggest role, I quickly realized, was that of MC. It´s always been frightening for me to present in fron of a large group in my own language, but it was empowering to be in front a of a group speaking Guarani. <br /><br />After the workshop, we had a raffle with tools for prizes that I received in various donations. Then we went to my house, where a couple <em>Señoras </em>from my <em>comité </em>had been cooking lunch all morning, and we feasted in my yard. Then I passed out certificates to everyone, including the <em>técnicos</em>, who crowded around me like little kid. They go nuts over these little papers. I´ve heard that instead of the stress we place upon resumes when visiting potential employers, they bring in these certificates and make it rain all over their could-be boss. <br /><br />Finally, everyone went home, and I breathed a sigh of relief that the biggest thing I´ve done in my community--and might ever do---was done. That night, my friends and I made a bonfire and had a BBQ for some of my Paraguayan friends and family, serenading them with live American music. <br /><br />I had been hoping that this ag workshop would help to advertize my presense in the community as someone who knows about agriculture. And it may be working. I´ve already been having new conversations with people. The other morning I went to a family´s house to make compost tea for their watermelon crop. That same afternoon, a man asked me how he could naturally control the bugs attacking his tomatoes. And another couple wants my advice and agroforestry systems. It´s nice to have people asking my advice about agriculture and not just resorting to chemical pesticides and fertilizers. I think the word is getting around about how dangerous it is to use that stuff, especially the way many do here, without proper equipment and protection. Two kids in the very small high school have terminal cancer, and I can´t help but thing these cases are related to ag chemicals. <br /><br />And I don´t think I mentioned that I had a visit from a future volunteer, Amanda, who is going through training right now. I got to show off my community and my command of the language and customs after a year of living here. I remember being in her position last year and visiting a current volunteer. I remember being so exhausted and happy to just watch movies on her portable DVD player and not living with Paraguayans for a few days. On Amanda´s first night, my neighbor´s soccer team won the game (and a pig), and the guys invited us over the the pig roast and wine. It was good visit, and she got to witness what I love about Paraguay, and what drives me crazy. Sometimes that´s a fine line...*emily*http://www.blogger.com/profile/09550257610066609831noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8668982956919055318.post-72636722651649298862009-08-28T05:07:00.000-07:002009-08-28T12:27:07.488-07:00There´s no why (but why don´t chickens have arms?)<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqt2oMWvzJaymdUPyjxurI7QwSDX_GhooOel59B9YLf5g_7CxAFCkTt7wdiMcpt5dMme8br5m5wcmg-lWfkMGxeFk831mg87L46WJjeNhTVh0cYjnXDqQ-vbzqOzW2YMew-nnKyiQx5fPh/s1600-h/agosto-ravioli+and+j+028.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 180px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqt2oMWvzJaymdUPyjxurI7QwSDX_GhooOel59B9YLf5g_7CxAFCkTt7wdiMcpt5dMme8br5m5wcmg-lWfkMGxeFk831mg87L46WJjeNhTVh0cYjnXDqQ-vbzqOzW2YMew-nnKyiQx5fPh/s320/agosto-ravioli+and+j+028.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5374986003805172770" /></a><br /><br />Sometimes I lay in bed early in the morning, listening to the sounds of Arroyo Moroti waking up. The roosters, the chickens pecking at the crumbs I´ve thrown out the window and swept out the door, moms yelling at their kids in Guarani as they get ready for school or the field. These sounds are familiar to me now, comforting even, especially when I think about when i first arrived in Paraguay--how these sounds were foreign and strange, and I would wake up feeling lonely and unsure. I know that I will miss these sounds when I leave. <br /><br />And I love that there is no shame in public nose-picking! One thing (of many) that still gets me, though is watching chickens run. I always feel like they should have arms, that they´re somehow propelled forward, but things would be a lot easier if hthey had arms to swing and create equilibrium and momentum. But who am I to judge?<br /><br />I was gifted another hen yesterday, so now I have a brood of two in my little bamboo henhouse. I´m keeping them closed in there for a little while until they know their new home. How are you going to eat eggs without a rooster?, they ask. Because, I´ve told them, don´t want a noisy <span style="font-style:italic;">gallo </span>around causing trouble with my ladies. I explain that, just like women, chickens don´t need males to produce eggs, just to produce babies. <br /><br />Yesterday morning I had a breakfast date with one of my host moms. I´ve been asking her to teach me how to make <span style="font-style:italic;">mbeju</span>--a typical Paraguayan pancake made out of fresh corn flour, cassava flour, salt (of course), cheese, and some sort of oil (though pig fat is the most delicious)--because she makes the best I´ve had. Her 98-year-old husband claimed that mine was <span style="font-style:italic;">Ndahei </span>(not tasty), though he ate it and sucked his gums contentedly afterwards. <br /><br />I met with the agriculture comittee in the afternoon, and i explained the capacitation I´m planning, hopefully, with the financial support of local government and NG organizations. I´m planning a 1/2-day workshop on soil recuperation and crop diversification with the presenging assistance of soem fellow crop, ag-forestry, and beekeeping volunteers. Following that, there will be an excursion to a nearby ag-forestry institute, where they can see first-hand all the practices and principles I´ll be teaching. I feel like it´s time for me to do some of the work I´ve been trained to do and for what the community requested a volunteer. Each site placement is different, and I´ve figured out that my community is impressed and influenced by things like formal workshops, complete with fancy invitations and certificates. And if that´s what it takes to improve soil fertility, so be it.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_d4kYjM2X5dOqgqjthOGuL0mVrrNzTwXO6RLRtt70mKLvlNhAf-lzb1Ly7FYXge0YrJC75Tl_OrQCM1HNSLI07DWFsxpL6DB1JBe0d-SbomiyCnyDxMwqnFhXXGVQYRzaaWWsr-LIwTzI/s1600-h/agosto-ravioli+and+j+034.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 180px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_d4kYjM2X5dOqgqjthOGuL0mVrrNzTwXO6RLRtt70mKLvlNhAf-lzb1Ly7FYXge0YrJC75Tl_OrQCM1HNSLI07DWFsxpL6DB1JBe0d-SbomiyCnyDxMwqnFhXXGVQYRzaaWWsr-LIwTzI/s320/agosto-ravioli+and+j+034.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5374985995317405410" /></a><br /><br />After the meeting, I went for a run, joined by my quickly-growing puppy, Shambo, who´s now five months old. I passed Jorge´s house, where I was joined by his barefoot 8-year-old sister and 12-year-old brother, and two dogs. They followed me the entire half-hour (about 5k). I listen to music while I run (<span style="font-style:italic;">amusicahina</span>--they turn music into a verb, which I find quite appropriate), but I enjoy having companions for motivation.<br /><br />Is it ironic for a childless woman to be giving parenting classes to women with 8+ children, or is it rather appropriate? Spurred my by encounters with child abuse and with the encouragement of some fo the female leaders (the loud onces, gossipy ones, the ones with influential husbands, or who are active in the church...), I prepared a presentation with a neighboring volunteer for <span style="font-style:italic;">Dia del Niño</span> (Day of the Child). We wanted the day to be all about the kids, so we organized games, I brought my kite, hula hoop, and waterbaloons, and the <span style="font-style:italic;">Señoras </span>prepared chocolate milk and cookies. There must have been about 70 kids there, and while the teenage girls managed the masses outside, we gave a presentation to the mamas in the church. We went over children´s rights and divided them into groups, giving each group a hypothetical situation of a misbehaving child, and had them come up with possible solutions that did not result in violence. The whole thing went really well, and I got the kids excited for World Hoop Day. I´m organizing a festival on September 9th for the kids to make their own hula-hoops. <br /><br />It´s both invigorating and exhausting to work with large groups of children, but my day was far from over. I spent the next few hours helping my agriculture committee create a document about its history, vision, and project proposals to solicit to the governor the following morning. It´s been so long since I´ve written a paper like that, so it was enjoyable, expect that, being the grammar freak that I am, it was hard to do so in Spanish. <br /><br />As soon as I was done, my neighbors had a wine waiting for me and were ready to pull a steaming cow head out of a hole in the ground, where it had been cooking the past few hours. This being my second time having cow head for dinner, I had fun with it. I also knew to bypass the tongue and cheeks (no pun intended), and go straight for the creamy, garlic-infused brains, spread like cream cheese on cassava root. It´s supposed to make me smarter...<br /><br />I´ve taught a few garden classes to the sixth graders. They´re a really good group, and they invited me to school last week, so they could cook <span style="font-style:italic;">kamby arroz</span> for me (a Paraguayan version of rice pudding). As it was cooking over the open fire, they taught me a song in Guarani. <br /><br />I´ve been attending the girls´ barefoot soccer practices, and on Saturday, I went to the field to watch them play. First were the boys teams--the 9yr olds, then the 10yr olds, and so on. Finally all the girls aged 11-17 got to play. It was frustrating to see how little attention is given to the girls´team in comparison to the boys. The girls play two 10-minute halves (as opposed to 20-minute halves), and I waatached them scrambling aroundthe boys team just coming off the field to borrow cleats. But it´s a start. As much as Paraguay is developing and very much in a state of flux (everyone over the age of 16 has lived under a dictatorship), they are trapped between this new life brought to them on TV, via cell phone, and on quick, efficient motos, and the very traditional, Catholic, chauvenistic life. <br /><br />Recently I realized that the verb they use for ¨to turn,¨ as in to turn a certain number of years of age, is <span style="font-style:italic;">Amboty</span>, the word for ¨to close.¨ So they´re asking, how many years will you close? It makes sense to me, as do some of the other words they use, which, when directly translated into English, sound strange. Such as, when the sun sets, it ¨enters,¨ and when it rises, it ¨leaves,¨ as if the sun lives in the unknown place out there and visits us for a while during the day. Or ¨you´re welcome,¨ is really ¨there´s no why.¨<br /><br />The thought patterns are different here, too. Sometimes people think I don´t understand what they´re saying. It´s not the words that I don´t understand (well, sometimes it is), but it´s the <span style="font-style:italic;">why </span>I don´t understand. There are some things, however, that keep us on the same page. I was sitting around shelling peanuts with some friends the other day, and Romina noticed that I could change my quickdry pants into shorts. ¨So when it´s hot, you can just unzip them,¨ she commented. In Guarani, hot and horny are used interchangeably, so I said, ¨When I´m horny, I take it all off.¨ They all laughed at my cleverness. They think I´m funny, but it´s not so much that I´m funny as much as I just like words. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhl9lOPdRYqzNrZuZmZ2vHQxupus4MsDesDddiTtRBQ0KJqMYWvnbXGIXScor4AYaz_PzY7sIpZCnzxop1ZCH2X5kaElv8WLbF7SV-PXcdqqwK5BoDrVxpN6mMRBMfTkDKo_8nYUpwcNDhG/s1600-h/agosto-ravioli+and+j+008.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 180px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhl9lOPdRYqzNrZuZmZ2vHQxupus4MsDesDddiTtRBQ0KJqMYWvnbXGIXScor4AYaz_PzY7sIpZCnzxop1ZCH2X5kaElv8WLbF7SV-PXcdqqwK5BoDrVxpN6mMRBMfTkDKo_8nYUpwcNDhG/s320/agosto-ravioli+and+j+008.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5374985985795449906" /></a><br /><br />By the way, the two cute girls in the picture are my Paraguayan nieces!*emily*http://www.blogger.com/profile/09550257610066609831noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8668982956919055318.post-30921397173619913202009-08-14T16:22:00.000-07:002009-08-14T17:07:30.473-07:00Fuerza!<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7qTY8OOO4Ek7E2v9z-xpqtZfL5kxI8nKlOB0UTkfK6toLtTjDz3kz9DQQqtHc-KYdjMl5rEq8NHSpvUpjt90oGgm076S7jQ7bZgwazx0DXJkSZdsley3r1lM36CdeXq-hrKVu0ZnGY756/s1600-h/agosto09+031.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 180px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7qTY8OOO4Ek7E2v9z-xpqtZfL5kxI8nKlOB0UTkfK6toLtTjDz3kz9DQQqtHc-KYdjMl5rEq8NHSpvUpjt90oGgm076S7jQ7bZgwazx0DXJkSZdsley3r1lM36CdeXq-hrKVu0ZnGY756/s320/agosto09+031.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5369973900208448002" /></a><br /><br /><br />I was talking to my volunteer friend the other day about how different my friendships with Paraguayans are. I feel like I have people in my community that I consider my friends, but it is not the kind of relationship I have with my American friends, who understand my culture and (yes) my socio-economic background. It´s not that they are fake friendships with Paraguayans. I laugh all the time in my community, and I miss being there when I´m away for a few days. Yet, I cannot share myself completely with them, as I crave to do in my close relationships. I think it´s doing wonders for my communications skills, and I don´t just mean linguistically. Because of the language and culture barriers, I am forced into being extremely clear and direct in my wording, which I´m realizing I would not necessarily be in my own language. We tend to skirt around issues, say ¨you know¨ when we really don´t, and misinterpret tones and gestures. It´s harder to pretend in a different language. <br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfhO9zZsnjD7i8wkwGZ5YZKF4aBaAtNAgD2RoljEvPfWdoIN4phZ66oDZ0IInbcpod22v6kIArtZ5P_z015GXRqrNO98WjsbNVL9uMwPzk_CUbat2u-ZBqgviLtmR0unXF2RfzTBAqurej/s1600-h/agosto09+028.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 180px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfhO9zZsnjD7i8wkwGZ5YZKF4aBaAtNAgD2RoljEvPfWdoIN4phZ66oDZ0IInbcpod22v6kIArtZ5P_z015GXRqrNO98WjsbNVL9uMwPzk_CUbat2u-ZBqgviLtmR0unXF2RfzTBAqurej/s320/agosto09+028.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5369973893110979298" /></a> <br /><br />There´s been another death. Eight months after my boyfriend, Jorge´s, mother died, his uncle was found dead in the river. He apparantly fell in while drunk, and wasn´t found until three weeks later. This meant another week of prayer vigil, another cow and many chickens slaughtered. I have so much admiration for the grandma, who´s lost two children, and is still such a positive, hard-working woman. <br /><br />Speaking of rivers, we got a bunch of rain earlier, which washed away bridges, and sent the bus driver all over treacherous ground. We had to take the bus over tiny, wooden bridges it scares me to ride my bike over. <br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIYV4dqTqSyvP1H0CMjhaS1f-JqTdjY4wiL_onNfEMY0bKsVvZEzBMsfxaoGdyigwnRwYCG-w6bCKRKaUwWm2n-51_YO38XsyH9gI-P9jT5HTVwiaopPY-7dzBMEt7wYro3FxVCy-hVzZB/s1600-h/Arroyo+Morot%C3%AD+Vih+y+Sida+y+AH1N1+charlas+003.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 239px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIYV4dqTqSyvP1H0CMjhaS1f-JqTdjY4wiL_onNfEMY0bKsVvZEzBMsfxaoGdyigwnRwYCG-w6bCKRKaUwWm2n-51_YO38XsyH9gI-P9jT5HTVwiaopPY-7dzBMEt7wYro3FxVCy-hVzZB/s320/Arroyo+Morot%C3%AD+Vih+y+Sida+y+AH1N1+charlas+003.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5369973877666174690" /></a><br /><br />I can tell the progress I´ve made in my comunity because they finally let me work! During the final day of the week of prayer vigil, the family is responsible for hosting a lunch for all the friends and family--or the whole community. I remember the first <span style="font-style:italic;">reso </span>I went to in December, sitting around, akwardly watchign people stare at each other. This time, I asked my 16-year-old friend, Griselda, and her grandmother (whom I only know as <span style="font-style:italic;">Aguela</span>) what I could do, and, without hesitation, they put me to work clearing the table, doing dishes, reclearing the table, reclearing the table...<br /><br />In order to feed everyone, three tables are pushed together, and about fifteen people at a time stand around eating out of dishes borrowed from neighbors. First, the children eat, then women, <span style="font-style:italic;">jovenes</span>, and finally the men, who have been sitting under the shade of the mango tree, drinking <span style="font-style:italic;">caña</span>, during this time. The <span style="font-style:italic;">Señoras </span>prepare the food by building a fire in a large ditch, over which are placed large pots of pasta and grills of sizzling beef and chicken. It´s expensive to host this kind of event, but the community chipped in what they could, making <span style="font-style:italic;">empanadas </span>and selling them door-to-door (a common fund-raising strategy), and by hosting <span style="font-style:italic;">loteria </span>night, when we play Paraguayan bingo with kernals of corn. <br /><br />Aside from teaching English and gardening classes, I´ve started going to the girls´soccer practice, so I´ve been getting to know the kids of the community. At the <span style="font-style:italic;">reso</span>, a few of them asked me to play, and five minutes later, I was leading forty children in blob tag, hide-and-seek, and duck...duck...chicken (I couldn´t remember the word for ¨goose¨). It´s started getting hot again, so I was sweating by the time I walked back to my house to prepare for my cooking class. We´ve been switching up every other week, making something edible and something hygeinic. This week we made fabric softener, and next week: ravioli. <br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGl2j0l5-59lz2BUvDutHMzFbKSY2pfQQe9ZetAtTEs5kqY7ff7r4Dcu5uWwqpSwgKRudGUcr8S9pnx_dUNzPtL-548Dpst7gINkG9ck2ScfwAKLODpYiRh1nUqGK6yDgjOY6sLWlYU3pv/s1600-h/agosto09+026.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 180px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGl2j0l5-59lz2BUvDutHMzFbKSY2pfQQe9ZetAtTEs5kqY7ff7r4Dcu5uWwqpSwgKRudGUcr8S9pnx_dUNzPtL-548Dpst7gINkG9ck2ScfwAKLODpYiRh1nUqGK6yDgjOY6sLWlYU3pv/s320/agosto09+026.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5369973887410647826" /></a><br /><br />Last week, my <span style="font-style:italic;">compañera</span>, a health volunteer, came out to help with give presentations on HIV/AIDS. We spent the morning at the high school, and then gave a more informal presentation to my womens´group, where I was asked to explain exactly what is oral sex...I had not prepared for that, but I think they understood. I did manage to get the point across, though, of the importance of having the respect for your body to get check ups, which are free now for women in Paraguay. Cervical/uterine cancers are one of the leading causes of death for woman here, so there´s been a push to educate and offer opportunities of prevention. It´s still a challenge, though, for women living in the middle of nowwhere. And most of them probably don´t want to know if they have something. <br /><br />Two weeks ago, there was a race in Asuncion that I entered on a whim, not being a runner at all. I ran the whole 10k, and got hooked. So I started running in my community, with the motivation of my students, who run with me sometimes, or at least yell ¨<span style="font-style:italic;">Fuerza, Emilia, fuerza!!</span>,¨ as I go by.*emily*http://www.blogger.com/profile/09550257610066609831noreply@blogger.com1