Chickens Snore, Too

My infatuation with my community, with the people, and with Paraguay, this week has given way to frustration. There´s no particular reason, or perhaps it is spurred on by my stomach hurting the past few days, though I recognize that I have not gotten a cold since I´ve been in Paraguay. I went to a neighboring almacen the other day to get some poha ñana (medicanal herbs). Just ask your local Señora! Everything this week has made me angrier faster--my house taking forever to build, the lack of work eithic of my socios, the constant questions, the lack of privacy. Granted, the family I´ve been staying with is really chill and even admires my independence. I may have set the precedent by staying out late the first night I moved there. I texted them to say I was at a birthday party and I´d be home later. They put a chair in front of the unlocked door, so I could get into the house. I feel like I´m in high school, and I´ve been granted later curfew.

In training, they warned us about the emotional rollercoaster. And it´s true. It´s been great to live with families that past couple months, but I´ve been feeling really ready to live on my own. There´s always something with my house. First I was told they had all the materials, then there´s no cement for the floor, then there´s not enough wood for the walls. Now they say Ikatu, it could be done on Monday. I hope so. The past two days have looked much more promising, though. The walls are up! I realize that they are building me a house for free and letting me live in it rent free, but it´s still frustrating that nothing is for sure, and I´m being constantly lied to. Many Paraguayans have no qualms with straight-up lying to my face if they think it´s what I want to hear. It drives me crazy. I just keep plying the workers with more nails, beer, banana bread, and promises of an inaugural feast.

I find myself getting used to daily life in my community. It feels almost normal, and sometimes I even forget I´m a foreigner, but there are always moments that bring me back to reality. The other day, I caught a ride on the carreta (ox and cart) with Kai Felipe, who was going to help me haul the branches I had cut the previous week to build my shade structure in my garden. (Vegetables won´t survive without shade here.) We stopped along the way to pick up an armoire and a bed frame to take down the road to a neighbor´s house. I got off to help unload the furnature, and while others carried the armoire, I was left standing in the middle of the dusty road holden a now-broken bed frame. A moto wizzed by me, and with the sun still beating down, it began to rain. Sometimes I laugh outloud, and the locals don´t know what´s so funny because I can´t quite explain how odd and amazing life here is.

There´s a chicken who snores outside my window. There´s one tree that seems to be the roosting favorite of the many chickens (and roosters) who live here. Sometimes I have to fall asleep to music just to drown out the whiny sound. At least it´s better than the roosters. If any one of the roosters within cockadoodling distance feels the need to let the world know he´s protecting his flock, he´ll set off a chain off alarms up and down the hillside. It reminds me of the dogs in 101 Dalmations, who pass along the message of the stolen puppies from the city to the country.

On a different animal note, I like to write in my journal at night, but it´s difficult for all the bugs attracted to my headlamp. I mean, HUGE bugs, and dragonflies, too. The other night, I saw a lightning bag for what it really is, without the light. I have such a romantic image of lightning bugs, but really they´re just ugly-looking beetles.

I started digging a trash pit in the backyard, and I´ve been helped my three young children, whose work was appreciated. We rotated two shovels between us, and it´s hot, hard work. What makes it harder is that there are no full-size shovels in this country. They are all the size of edging shovels. I had a little conversation with my neighbor about why I don´t want to burn my trash. I´d rather not put it in the earth either, but it´s the lesser evil. A while ago, I was talking to a farmer about his field practices, such as use of green manures and cover crops. He told me, ya, I use my trash as fertilizer and ground cover; I just throw it in my field. Except for the plastic--I burn that in the kitchen fire. I didn´t even know where to start. Starting the fire with plastic bags (which are plentiful here) is common practice.

But things are looking up. A neighbor invited me over the other night for wine and fish soup, which was delicious, though full of bones. Rather recently, a fish seller has been coming around on his moto once a week. The fish comes from a local river and is a refreshing change from the gross meat. I don´t even eat the meat anymore. I just can´t do it.

Yesterday, I hoed up a good chunk of my garden and planted some corn. It´s a local variety that´s used for animal feed. I´m hoping to get some chickens soon, and I want to have a way to feed them without relying on store-bought feed. When it gets a bit cooler, I´ll plant some peanuts and mandioca, as well. Lastnight, I went to bed, picturing my litte corn plants germinating up through the red dirt. And today I´m in the city to celebrate Carnaval!

A Roof Over My Head

Yesterday morning I learned how to peal the mandi´o, a task every girl knows how to do soon after she can walk and hold a knife. My host parents went into the city, leaving my seventeen-year-old host brother and the nine-year-old girl who lives with them (her mother works in Spain) in charge of household tasks, like taking care of the Americana. I´m not sure if I´ve yet desribed mandi´o, the stable crop of Paraguay, what humans and animals alike survive on. It is to Paraguay what the potato is (or was) to Ireland. It grows underground, much like a potato, can be left in the ground for two years, and doesn´t take many nutrients from the soil. Granted, it doesn´t supply many nutrients to the consumer either; just calories. No meal is complete without it. Suprizingly thought, as much as Paraguayans love their salt and sugar, mandi´o is served sans condiment. It´s tasty, though. It´s starchier than a potato and gives us that full full feeling that is so loved here, and is what I´ve sadly become accustomed to.

Anyhow, yesterday morning, the nine-year-old, Lorena, taught me how to take a knife to the big, brown root, liberally cutting off the ends and bad parts, which are fed to the pigs, and then peeling the touch skin. Instead of cutting towards myself, however, I took a different approach, cutting away from my body. I found a new way of doing a very Paraguayan task, which is kind of what´s it´s all about--my job, I mean.

And, hurray, my house has been started!! When I arrived on Monday, five guys were standing around where my house was supposed to be, talking about who knows how to build a house. I thought you guys knew how to build houses? We just don´t know the process is all, they reply. Luckily, the guy who does know showed up. To give them credit, I was impressed by how quickly they were able to put up the frame and roof in one day, though, granted, my house is pretty small. About an hour into building, half of it just fell down, and we all laughed and put it up again, hopefully stronger. Kai Felipe, the man with the plan, is seventy-something-years-old and always works with a cigarette dangling from his mouth. He was working on the roof frame, when the makeshift ladder he was standing on fell out from under him. He was left hanging onto the roof frame, from where he safely landed on the ground. It was a Three Stooges moment.

While we were on a terere break, the guys asked me if I was going to kill them some chickens as reward for their labor. I promised them that when my house was done, I would have a party and kill a few chickens. In the meantime, I bought a couple bottles of local wine, which we polished off at the end of the day.

I realized the other day that the way in which people go about accomplishing tasks here is different. It´s a communal way of thinking in which people work together to do almost everything, where relationships must be formed before the job is started. I had heard all this during training--the difference between the American, individualist way of thinking, and the developing world´s common-good way of thinking. Instead of spending their time on earning money for themselves (there´s no $ to earn anyway) they form commitees and groups to build another room on the school, start a health center, or get the local government to pay for a tractor to come and fix the roads. I don´t think things work this way because they do not desire personal gain, but they grow up depending upon each other as a community. Focus must be placed upon what the community as a whole needs.

La vida has been busy lately, without much time to spend on a computer. I had my site presentation last week, when my boss from Peace Corps comes to my village to officially present me to the community and explain why I´m here. I was surpized by the turnout--twenty-something of my neighbors came. After the presentation, I got a ride back into Asunción for the weekend. There were some meetings I had to attend, and it was the first time I got to meet up with my training group. And it was superbowl weekend, not that I´ve ever been excited about football, but the American in me was looking for some tradition. We lounged by the pool all weekend, took hot showers, and slept in AC. I almost forgot I was in Paraguay...and it was great. I was sitting on the bus in the Asunción terminal, waiting to leave the city, when my friend called me from the pool at the US Embassy. I made a quick decision, grabbed my stuff and got off the bus just before it left. And that pool was worth it.

On another note, and one I never thought I would say, Paraguayan food and music have actually been growing on me. The cheesy pop songs blasted on the radio are not just the same three songs over and over again, which I had previously thought, but a few different onces that I´m only just being able to recognize as distinctive. And all the same food I´ve been eating, I actually start to look forward to. Though it´s usually the same three ingredients that take on slightly different forms, but are all drenched in oil, I´m starting to appreciate it, and I´m even using my mandioca to slurp up extra grease. God, that sounds gross. I´m always amazed by how many old people there are here.

I would have thought that high cholesterol and diabetes would have put more of a hurting on these people, but maybe the daily exercize counteracts it. Soda, however, is probably a fairly recent addition to the diet. They down it like water here--babies are given soda in their bottles. In fact, water is rarely drinken, besides in terere. They make fun of me for always carrying my water bottle around. Drinking water, Chaco sandles, backpacks, and flossing distinguish me as an American.

I had not planned to come into the city, but I had been out of site at a meeting, and it poured all day, making it impossible to get back to site, so here I am. I coming to love that rainy days mean the world shuts down. Though, back home, that would mean nothing would happen eight months out of the year. Now it´s back to site to form a beekeeping group.

All the World´s a Farm...

...The men and women merely farmers, trying to eke out a happy existence by taming our surroundings to meet our needs. I live in a place where chickens are allowed to lay their eggs on the bed--the bed usually reserved for humans. Where, to get to the bathroom, I have to walk between two male turkeys, splaying their tail feathers, vying for the attention of the single, uninterested female. And where the family pig is slaughtered and then feasted upon because it ate a chicken, and that will simply not do. And while the pig intestines (yum) chill in the fridge, I take an old feed sack and walk around collecting cow shit to fertilize my garden. The cows follow me around, thinking that I´m carrying food. Food for the soil!

I got some seeds in the ground in my garden, and I have bruises all over my wrists from some heated volleyball games. Until next time.

I Like to Swim When I´m horny, and other linguistical mishapsI

I have to comment on sweat. I now know sweat like I´ve never known before. It just drips and drips, it forms beads on nose and tickles as it drips down my neck and the backs of my knees, it soaks my clothes, and tastes rather salty. I am pressured to stop working and terere with every bucket of water I haul, whenever I borrow a tool, or go to cut more bamboo, but I like the rhythm of working in the garden.

I also love the spontneity of being here, and I need to get used to things taking a lot longer to get done. My house, for instance. It´s fun to be open to whatever comes along. I stop by one house to help harvest mandioca and then terere. I stop at another house, where I am given fresh bread right out of the oven, which I wash down with fresh pineapple juice. And then off to another house for popcorn and sweet mate. Paraguayans like to feed me.

I awoke the other morning to an uncharacteristically cool morning. Instead of the sun forcing its way through my window, I opened my eyes easily, feeling peacefully refreshed at 6am. There is finally rain! And it even rains in my room. I woke up in the middle of the night and placed cups in the five or six different spots around the room that were leaking, including on my bed. I´m now realizing that just a few months ago, that probably would have pissed me off. There was a tormenta the evening before, which came quickly, blowing in dark clouds, thunder, lightning, and hail, leaving me stranded at Obehenia´s house. She fed me soy pudding and fresh corn tortillas, so things could be worse. Obhenia runs my local store out of the window of her house, and whenever I go over to buy something, she´s always inviting me over and pressuring me to live with her. I´ve gotten a couple of more offers from people to live with them, and it´s good to know that there are people willing to take me in, though I´m hoping that my own house will be ready before that need happen.

I´m starting to pick up on people´s characters a little more than I was previously able to, as my language improves. Obhenia, for instance, likes to play with words. She´ll just start spouting out words that sound alike--I think that´s alliteration? It´s something I can see my grandpa appreciating, and it reminds me of how Mom will start singing a song that contains a word someone happened to say. Mamasha, one of my host moms, opened up to me about some strained relationships in the community. I will make one generalized statement: Paraguayans love to gossip, especially the señoras.

As for "work," if you can call it that, I´ve gone beekeeping a couple times, and, I tell you, there´s nothing like honey straight from the hive. Once we harvested the combs, we "milked" in with our hands into a screen to filter out the bits of wax and bee wings. That´s my favorite job. The other day, I went to a meeting with my Comité de Agricultores, and there was an expert visiting from Asunción to give a talk about crédito and a survey about people´s land and farm practices, and I was his designated helper. I didn´t realize how many people can´t read or write, let alone have farm plans. Not only did I have help fill out the forms, but I also had to translate some of the questions from Castellano to Guarani. I´m glad I have a decent grasp of Spanish. The other day, I needed to go to a meeting in another community, so I called my bus driver, Andrés, on his cell to ask him if he was going that way. He said he would wait and see how the road looked. He took me as for as the bus could travel on the seriously rough road and then refused to take payment, saying otro día.

The men in the Comité decided to have a work party in my garden on Saturday, so I was able to accomplish a lot that day. My fence is complete, the entire plot is hoed, a shade structure is in place, and I even managed to plan half the garden with green manures. And, que suerte!, the next day it rained, so I should have some germination soon.

I moved houses, yet again, the other day. I have three new sisters who are early twenties and really sweet. They´re also pretty progressive, wanting to complete their educations before they even think about marriage, boldly ignoring comments from the community about how they´re becoming old maids at 22. I´m happy to have some intelligent young women to hang out with. Many people don´t know what to make of me. This time in my life--25, single, on my own--just doesn´t exist here. Children live with their parents until they´re married, when they move in (usually) with the husband´s family. Many of my friends married at 18 the guy they had been dating since age 15 (when Paraguayan girls are allowed to start dating), and start popping out babies, many of whom are raised by the more capable grandparents.

I´ve been enjoying my new family. We sit and chat under the mango trees for hours, trading stories and shelling beans. And the Señora is a great cook. Lastnight, she made me something that resembled macaroni and cheese, or the closest thing I´ve seen yet. It was a rainy night, so perfect for homemade mac and cheese, it threatened to bring tears to my eyes.

And have I explained yet how Paraguay resembles Sunday morning at a festival? We all wake up early with the sun and with the commotion that comes from living in community. If the ground´s not too wet, I´ll do yoga with an audience of chickens and neighbors, or I´ll just sit with my family, still sleepy-faced, drinking hot mate and trying not to burn my tongue. I love Sunday morning at a summer festival, just sitting around with griends, sharing stories about the previous night, with nothing to do but enjoy each other´s company. There´s nothing to be stressed about--just another day of fun. Not that everything is here is fun or easy--hardly, but there is a different mentality here, where the majority of the time is spent just sitting around (it is summer, I guess). Work is merely a break from rest.

Whenever I write in my journal, people are so interested. Many do not have the pleasure of reading and writing, a skill I take for granted. Even people that go to school can´t read or write very well. Part of the problem is a lack of resources. I found Shel Silverstein´s "The Giving Tree" in Spanish in the Peace Corps library and brought it to site with me, and they love it. There are so many projects I could do here, but something I feel passionate about is introducing some creativity, which, I believe, will breed critical-thinking skills and help people help themselves. It´s such a simple idea, and I´m seeing first hand what happens to a community with no access to art or music or even an understanding of other cultures. I have to explain, for example, that Africa is not a country and that Germany is separated from the United States, not by a river, but by a very large ocean. I know a couple jovenes who have notebooks filled with poems and songs they´ve made up, but they have no outlet to express them. I keep thinking about how amazing it would be to put on a theatre production and have the kids sing, dance, act, and prepare the set. This place would explode.

Hunting the Elusive Carpincho

And by hunting, I mean simply seeking them out to admire their sedentary ways and pet their brissly fur. Lastnight after playing on the swings and teetertotters with small children after midnight, we went to a nearby park to search for the R.O.U.S. The carpincho is the largest rodent in the world, related to the guinea pig and the chinchilla. They are the sweetest little webbed-footed vegetarians around, and let me sit and pet them for a while.

Now I´m getting some last internet time in before I head back to site on my local bus. My bus driver´s name is Andres, and he lives just down the road from me. Sometimes he takes my bags for me and puts them on the dashboard, so I don´t have to deal with them while I´m trying to keep my balance on the packed bus. Whenever I ride my bus it feels like I´m on a fieldtrip. Everyone knows each other, kids are shuffled from lap to lap, and I drink terere with whomever offers and talk to the Senoras about how hot it is. And it is hot.

When Life Gives You Corn, Make Chipa Guasu

Life in the campo continues. The past few weeks have been full of merrymaking, what with Christmas and then New Years and all the young folk visiting from Buenas Aires, where many folks my age go to find a paying job.

New Years was similar to Christmas in that we made more clerico and chipa guasu and sat around drinking until the grilled meat was ready around 11pm. Everyone stays en casa for midnight and then they go the party. There was a party going on at the soccer field in the next community over, which would have taken me about 2 hours to walk. Luckily, I was able to flag down a truck, and the driver happened to be the brother of someone I know. I spent all night dancing to the same Paraguayan songs I hear 5x a day on the radio, with some much-appreciated techno mixed in, and then watched the sun come up from behind the mountains on the first day of this 2009. I got a ride back to my family´s house, where I passed out for a few hours before going to the swimming hole. Later that day, I packed up my bags and moved to my third family.

Life has been a series of ups and downs, but the past few days in site, I´ve definately felt an up and up. I may still be living out of a bag, men still grab tools out of my hands, and I´m still eating animal parts I´d rather not, but I´m happy. I´ve started to form relationships with a few people in my site, and I just love the people. I love that I can´t walk down the street without stopping to chat with everyone and being invited to numerous meals and terere sessions.

The other day, a few neighbors came by, and we drank terere in the spot where my house will someday, hopefully, be. They seem to think that it will take a week to throw up my house. I´m a little skeptical, as I have the shining examples of Paraguayan work ethic right in front of me, but I´m just going to let go and let...God?

Speaking of God, my new host brother (who, on a side note, is extremely attractive) is studying to be a minister, so we´ve had some good religion conversations. I´m not sure if I´m getting my points across, but at least we´ve gained some common ground. My new host dad is quite a firecracker. He´s turning 98 this March, but he´s still going strong. On my first morning at my new home, we were sipping hot (scald your tongue hot) mate together, and he was telling me about how old he was. I told him Al Pelo! , which is Guarani for Right on! and gave him the thumbs up. He looks at me and says, ¨nope, not anymore,¨ and I realize he´s telling me that he can´t get it up anymore. ¨Though maybe once a week,¨he says. The next day, he asked me if I knew how to ¨peal the mandioca,¨ another sexual reference. He´s pretty awesome.

On Monday, I made my first trip into Asuncion, where I slept in an air conditioned room, swam in a pool and...took a bath! I also had some business in the city, researching in the library and buying a bee veil. I met some other PC volunteers who also happened to be in town, so I had a great little vacation. On a sad note, my friend, Christina, who is the only other female in my group, is going back to the States this week. She´s going back to get married, and I´m happy for her, but bummed to be losing the limited female companionship I have here.

Now I´m off to cheers her with some cold beers.