A New Era

Lounging 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.

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.

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:

-organizing a five-day field practice for volunteers in training.

-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).





Next step: Tierra del Fuego. More on that later.

Preparing Tomorrow's Leaders (and Followers)

"We're all grand at 17."

Katherine Hepburn's character says that in Holiday, 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.

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 moto, 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.

And then youth get old...


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 chipa at the soccer game. She stopped me and explained that she had one more chipa 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 chipa. I continued my jog carrying the questionable snack, every appreciative of my unexpected encounters.

Winter Perspective

--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---

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 brasero for the first time this year. A brasero 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 mate addiction.

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 pollo al horno!



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.

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 Señoras 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.

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 terere 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.

So...I may need to take a step back from my prior planning and promote some family planning and basic hygeine. First things first.

Cheery Reflections from the Dreary City

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!).

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 Fairy Play 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 Parque del Amor, 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.



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 fiesta de San Juan, where drunken, masked men vie for chances to climb a pole to reach a cardboard box that contains money and wine.



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.



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.



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!



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.

Ode to the Herb

That herb would be my beloved yerba mate, or ka`a 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.

This entry is dedicated to you, ka`a, because it is your time to shine...harvest time!

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 futbol, declared the afternoon of the Paraguay vs. Italia game to be a national holiday, with classes cancelled and fields abandoned.

Yerba mate is harvested once a year, in the fall. As the main crops grown in my site--sugarcane and mate--are both harvested in the fall, there is a lot of work to be done and finally some profit to be had.

Yerba mate 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).


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.

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.

The perfect start and finish to your day...

See you Later in a Little Can (and other things that make no sense)

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.

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. Ña Marina greeted me with outstretched arms, into which I prompty walked into and burst into tears. She brought me into the kitchen (mi oficina, 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.

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.


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.

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).

P.S. The title of this post refers to a common phrase used when saying goodbye: Jajotopata lata`ipe. What?

A glance at the past til now...

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.

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 Señoras 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.

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 flavellas (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.

I was ready to get back to my little casita 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.

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.

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.

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.