There´s no why (but why don´t chickens have arms?)

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.

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?

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 gallo around causing trouble with my ladies. I explain that, just like women, chickens don´t need males to produce eggs, just to produce babies.

Yesterday morning I had a breakfast date with one of my host moms. I´ve been asking her to teach me how to make mbeju--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 Ndahei (not tasty), though he ate it and sucked his gums contentedly afterwards.

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.



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 (amusicahina--they turn music into a verb, which I find quite appropriate), but I enjoy having companions for motivation.

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 Dia del Niño (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 Señoras 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.

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.

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...

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 kamby arroz for me (a Paraguayan version of rice pudding). As it was cooking over the open fire, they taught me a song in Guarani.

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.

Recently I realized that the verb they use for ¨to turn,¨ as in to turn a certain number of years of age, is Amboty, 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.¨

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 why 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.



By the way, the two cute girls in the picture are my Paraguayan nieces!

Fuerza!

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.


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.

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.


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 reso 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 Aguela) what I could do, and, without hesitation, they put me to work clearing the table, doing dishes, reclearing the table, reclearing the table...

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, jovenes, and finally the men, who have been sitting under the shade of the mango tree, drinking caña, during this time. The Señoras 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 empanadas and selling them door-to-door (a common fund-raising strategy), and by hosting loteria night, when we play Paraguayan bingo with kernals of corn.

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 reso, 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.


Last week, my compañera, 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.

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 ¨Fuerza, Emilia, fuerza!!,¨ as I go by.

The Honeymoon is Over...

I´ve had a hot and cold romance with Paraguay. It´s home to me now, but I must come to terms with what I don´t like about Paraguay...and Paraguayans. While I´m grateful for the welcome I have received in my community, there are things I abhore. It´s mostly ignorance I´m confronted with, which is no fault of theirs, but that doesn´t make it any easier for me. I´m tired of listening to gossip--even if it´s true. Funny thing is that they tell me, no, it´s not gossip if it´s true. Still gossip, I say, and say´s who? it´s true. I know it´s gotten to me when I spend an hour with a dictionary looking up comebacks. Another thing I dislike? Child abuse. I´m just funny like that. Dislike is a mild word. I should say it sickens me to the point that I cry and want to vomit, mostly from feeling helpless. I can´t stand that physical beauty means everything. It doesn´t matter how intelligent, driven, or thoughtful someone is--just don´t get ugly. And if they think someone is ugly, they´ll make a loud point of expressing their opinion, even to that person. And I don´t understand why my Paraguayan friends don´t warn me about things--they don´t tell me about the creepy guy or the rip-off almacén. And I can´t just be friends with a man. And that I should find a husband before I´m old.


That´s the bitchfest I usually save for my fellow volunteers. But apart from all that, I´m giddily happy. Maybe it´s because this all just feels like a game. It doesn´t matter if I screw up, I can just just over. My friend compared this life to being the star of a TV sitcom. It feels like that sometimes. If people back home were watching this, it would be funny, or at the least, entertaining. I can almost hear the laughtrack in the background.

I´m in the process of building my chicken coop, so I can eat eggs...and chickens. I get another week off from teaching English. Winter break was extended because of the swine flu scare. My hands are all cracked and scratched from working in the sugarcane field and from putting the straw roof on my hen house. Sugarcane is taking everyone´s time right now. It is cut and stripped by hand, and then hauled off on oxcart and tractor to where a larger truck loads it off to a nearby factory. There it is processed into sugar and ¨black honey¨, or molasses, the byproduct of sugar, which I actually prefer. My neighbor´s just made mosta, the juice made from grinding up the sugarcane stalks. It looks like green koolaid, and is super yummy.

I felt like I was getting used to the cold, roving from house to house to get warm by the fire and drink hot mate, while we talk about how cold it is. Which is basically what we do in the summer, except we talk about how hot is is while drinking ice-cold terere. You may not think it could get cold in Paraguay; I didn´t believe it, arriving here at the start of the warm season. I have to protect my tomato starts from frost, and my ¨shower¨ consists of splashing water on my face and neck and putting a hat on. Lastnight I changed into the clothes I´m wearing today, so I wouldn´t have to change at 4am to catch the bus.


And I guess it´s about time I admit to having a Paraguayan boyfriend, though it´s still a secret in site. I´m trying (probably unsuccessfully) to keep gossip at bay. But he´s super cute and makes me smile!

Her feet have already widened at the ball of the foot, beginning to take the shape of the men who work barefoot or in flipflops all day in the field. Eventually the delicate arch will disappear altogether, an unnecessary frill in a vocation that demands all the square coverage possible to grip this earth, as if she might fall off the face of it. It strikes me as sad or nostalic, though she is smiling. I make a mental note to think about it later when I´m alone in my house. I look forward to having a good cry that will put me into a deep sleep. But later, lying in bed, I try to conjure the feeling back up, and I find I feel nothing at all.

I´m on the Bus...

Mucho mucho has happened in the past month, but michi michi has been my internet time. It´s been over six months now since I´ve lived in Arroyo Moroti, and my service is one quarter complete. That´s hard to believe. My arrival in my community coincided with the death of a woman whom I didn´t know. She died the day after I arrived. It was one of my first weeks here that I went to the ñemboehape (like a memorial service) and was forced to eat the horrible cow-organ soup. When someone dies, the family hosts a 9-day prayer vigil immediately after the death, and then again every three months for the following year. I went back for the three-month mark, and just recently completed the week of prayer for the six-month mark. After this first year, we will make chipa and celebrate the life of Sophia once a year on the anniversary of her death. It´s an interesting way to deal with grief. For the family and friends of the deceased, that first year can be incredible tough, their absence noticeable during holidays and events. Here, there are designated grieving times.

This has been especially poignant for me because I´ve grown close with Sophia´s son, whose arms she died in. He´s talked to me very rawely about missing his mom. But you move on. Everyone has known everyone else here their entire lives. People die all the time, even more are born, and everything is celebrated oñondivepa (together). With all the anniversaries, festivals, births, deaths, and holidays, it´s wonder there´s any time at all left for work or school.

I´ve continued with my English classes, and I´ve been surprized by how attentive they are. They´re probably relieved to be playing learning games, and not just copying off a board. Every class, a few kids bring me cookies or candy, and they call me Profe, which gives my ego a good tickle pickle. I always dread going to class, but I always leave in such a great mood. There´s something about pretending to be happy and energetic that tricks me into thinking I really am!



On a hygeinic note, I haven´t been showering because it´s been too cold for me to even think about getting undressed. Yet another reason for my neighbors to make fun of me. I need to suck it up if I´m going to be clean in this country. Winter has just started, too! Paraguayans are very religious about bathing daily, sometimes twice a day. I find this ironic, since they don´t brush their teeth or even wash their hands. I believe this irony is lost on them.

And on a reproductive note, my 20-year-old Paraguayan friend is pregnant, and she says I´m going to be the godmother! We´ll see though. I don´t know that my non-Catholic ways would bode well with Grandma. Still, we´ll get to have a wedding.

I realized the other day that in the nine months I´ve been in paraguay, I now speak better Guarani than Spanish, which is ridiculous, considering how many years I studied Spanish. I guess there´s nothing like immersion. Though I still understand Spanish better. All that grunting throws me off. I´ve had a theory that Guarani clicks so much more with me because it´s a feminine language. Don´t roll your eyes. Most, if not all words, as in Spanish, end in vowels--the opposite of English. I just made vowels female and consanants male, if that´s ok. And it´s femininity would make sense of a language that comes from the indegenous peoples, who live closer to the earth.

Last week, I had the flu, and, as expected, I didn´t want to see anyone, yet I wanted to be taken care of. Those are the days I stare out the cracks in my walls and wish I had a DVD player. Alas, no movies, so I went to for a walk to clear my head and try to avoid people, which was difficult, as everyone´s been working in the field for the sugarcane and yerba maté harvest. Eventually, I got to a deserted forest trail, and I found myself in the place where I had gotten lost back in December trying to find my community for the first time! I´ve looked for it before because I wanted to find the farmer who gave me directions and a ride on his tractor. I found his house, where he was drinking terere with his brother. He´s a young guy who lives by himself in his ranchito in the middle of nowhere. That´s very odd for Paraguay. I chatted with him for a bit, and a few days ago, I brought him homemade bread and left it on his door. Where my house is located has come to feel like downtown, with all the moto traffic and visitors. I need some peace and quiet--and solitude.

The other day, though, I had a visit that I didn´t mind. I was doing laundry and other ¨housewife¨ things, as they say, when two 8 and 9 year old neighbor girls came by. They actually put me in a better mood and were extremely helpful. Having grown up helping their mothers around the house, they knew exactly what to do. They were handing me things that I needed one step ahead. That´s why people have kids...



Last weekend, I organized a meeting/party with a bunch of other volunteers, and we jammed out in the park where our friends, the carpinchos, live. I´ve been really enjoying playing music lately. We all write and share our songs, and bring new dimesions to traditionals, like Amazing Grace.

On my way back from the high school last week, I met a Señora with a fantastic garden. She even had purple cabbage and dahlias, which she gave me transplants and cuttings of. Yesterday, I stopped by her house with a list of natural, homemade pesticide recipes. We identified bugs and walked around her garden some more. She confided that she keeps such a big garden, so that she can sell the surplus to her neighbors. Her husband left her when her child (now 15) was two years old. Her comments helped me reevaluate my priorities here. I may have been trained to help men in the field, but why not help women carve out a life for themselves in the garden?

I also started working in the school garden. I was given the 6th graders for an hour the other day, all 12 of them, and we we made raised beds and planted seeds. I taught them about nitrogen and carbon, nutrient loss, organic material, and companion planting. Their teacher learned, too. It was sooo much fun. Teaching is not my calling, but there are few things more refreshing and invigorating than explaining or demonstrating something new and swatching kids´faces light up and understand. That happened in the school garden.

The next day was Day of the Tree, and we had over one hundred trees donated to plant around the community. I organized planting with the kids at the school, church, and soccer field, carting trees in an old crate I attached to my bike.

And I´ve been busy with my Cooking/Nutrition class, as well. So far we´ve made homemade bread, toothpaste, and pizza. Next week, we´re making soap. What a great idea in any country to get a group of women (men, too, I guess) together to share the cost of ingredients and make things that are useful and tasty.

Yesterday was the 42nd anniversary of el 24 de Junio, my local soccer club. Most teams here (and streets, too, for that matter) are named after important historical dates, which makes things really confusing and ahrd to remember. You know, June 24th is playing July 30th, but they better watch out for the something something of August. Definately lacking in creativity. Anyhow, yesterday I was digging holes in my yard to plant my passionfruit--which I enjoyed blended, saved and dried the seed, and planted in old juice boxes--when my neighbors came over and told me to get dressed--we´re going dancing!! At 10am? Yes. I didn´t realize what an affair this was. There was a huge firepit, over which chunks of cow were roasting, there was a music tent, sound system, live polka band, and, yes, dancing! I do not get many opportunities to dance here, so I got right out on the field to strut my stuff. I was then invited by the school principal and a bunch of others to drink wizcola, so I had caña and Coke for breakfast...and lunch...and afternoon snack. Where else in the world can you party all day with all ages on a Wednesday?

Are you happy? they ask. They always ask. I can answer sincerely that I am. It mades me sad, though, to think about home, where I don´t know my neighbors. Community is so important, and I´m realizing that it´s not something that can be replicated or reproduced. It needs to evolve out of a shared lifestyle, out of needing each other. We travel so much more, works so much more, and are so much more exposed to the world outside our 5k (or mile) radius that it´s much harder for us to create that community. But it can--and will--be done!

From Carob to Cow Brains...

Some of my high schoolers got me thinking about sense of place, a topic thoroughly discussed and worn out in college--and for good reason. Our sense of place plays a big role in defining who we are the respect we show to our temporary home---mama earth. Two seventeen-year-olds told me about their idea of planting trees all along the road that leads to the stream to protect the water, and plan it so that they would all produce flowers at the same time. Thus, creating two of my favorite things: beauty and sustainability. I repeat, these are seventeen-year-olds, not talking about how far away from home they want to go or how they can´t wait to get their parents out of their hair. They recognize this place as theirs, collectively, and they want to improve it.

How do we spread that sentiment around the world? Or, for a start, where would I plant my trees, so I could watch them flower? Someday, I say, I´ll have land that I will call my home. I had thought before that Paraguayans are mostly influenced by their families--many of which live in the same house together all their lives. American young people are so dependent upon their friends. During high school, college, and beyond, our friends become our chosen family. Though family is such a greater part of life here, peers play an important role. There are some exceptionally bright students in the senior class, and I know that it´s due to them that change will occur here.

On another note, I ate cow brain the other day. Cow head, apparently, is a much anticipated delicacy in these parts. When I was visiting a family, they showed me the cow head they had rubbed with garlic, salt, and other spices, waiting for the fire to be ready. Maybe I´ve been in Paraguay too long, but it actually looked good. They showed me the hole they had dug in the yard and built a fire. The cow head is then buried with the hot coals and covered with earth to cook for four hours. It sounded so intriguing, I agreed to come back that evening. When they lifted the steaming cow head out of the ground, I almost died laughing. ¨No tongue or brain,¨ I said. (I already tried pig tongue and didn´t like the texture), so they cut off a piece the cheek for me to try. When the cow head was set on the table, it was a mad free-for-all, with 20 hands grabbing, plucking, and stuffing into slurping mouths. It was more than an activity than a meal. I took one bite of the cheek and immediately grabbed a piece of mandioca to wash down the pungent flavor. After watching my companions thoroughly enjoy themselves, I eventually got up the nerve to stick a fork into the brain cavity and grab a gooey chunk. I was told to eat it with mandioca, so as not to get the shits. And it was not bad. All the spices had soaked in, and it didn't have a strong meaty flavor. I couldn't eat very much because of the odd texture, and because of my own brain that kept reminding me tht I was eating cow brain.

And my puppy is growing, though last week I noticed he was limping. Heś a rambunctious one, and probably got in trouble with a chicken, neighbor dog, or large foot. I didn't know what to do, not wanting to take him on a 2 1/2 hour bus ride to the vet, which Ive already done. So, I walked him up to the local health center, which all my neighbors thought was hilarious. That was not help, but I scrounged some materials together, as well as some neighbor hands, and constructed a splint, so his leg would grow straight. So, I had a splinted puppy. He kept it on for a few days, and when he finally ripped it off, he was healed!

As American as my dog may be raised, he speaks Guarani. I realized this when he was barking one night, and my Paraguayan friend said, ¨Anike. Eeesh!¨ and he stopped right away. Some of my favorite Paraguayan words are the sounds they use to shoo animals. So I´ve been working on my Guarani grunt, and it works for me part of the time.

I started teaching English in the school, and I would have started my cooking/nutrition class, but it´s been raining all week, so it was cancelled. I´m getting used to not doing anything when it rains, and I´m really starting to enjoy it. This drought we had didn´t give me enough time to read and play guitar. The negative of the rain is that I don´t have stripping or complete walls on my house, so the rain comes right in. The other day it rained the hardest that it´s ever rained (they say) in thirty years, or something like that. I literally had a stream in my house. And my fridge, backpack, and other items that I put agains the walls grew mold. Those are the days I bring my puppy inside, and stay in bed, drinking maté.

Winter is approaching, though you might not know it. It´s still hot in the sun, we still wear flipflops, and there are no geese flying north (or south). But it suddenly got cold. The kind of cold that puts me to bed at 6:30, huddled in my sleeping bag, and drinking steaming maté. But it feels good, too, like fall. And fall always feels like new beginnings to me, when school starts, and the air is so fresh and biting. I actually find myself following the sun instead of the shade, something I haven´t done in the eight months I´ve been in Paraguay. Eight months. I´m sometimes amazed that I can actually communicate in a language that, just a few months ago, sounded like gobbledygook. Exactly like that.

I (and my camera) were invited to a one-year-old´s birthday party last week. We drank thick hot chocolate, like in the movie, and I watched the Paraguayan version of a piñata. All the kids hover under a big sand-filled baloon, and the mom pops it open with a knife. Then some plastic toys fall out. They love it, but only because they don´t know any better. Anyhow, at the birthday party, I overheard a Señora talking about how her husband was planting stevia. So, through her, I snagged an invitation to go work in the field with the men, something I haven´t gotten to do much of because of culturally-defined gender roles. After the party, I asked the guys, and they told me to come over at 7am the next morning to go planting. So I rolled out of bed at ten til 7, and went over to the house. Most of the guys had already left, and I soon realized that I was meant to help the Señora cook breakfast in the kitchen, so we could bring it out to the men. Of course. But I enjoyed spending an hour drinking coffee (1 part cofee...8 parts sugar...seriously) by the fire and helping to make tortillas, which I scarfed down. Absence does make the heart grow fonder. We bundled up our goodies and went back to the field, where I finally got to help.

I´ve always heard that it´s your connections that get you places, and I´ve believed it, but I´m seeing here how important connections really are. Just from running into the right people, and speaking their language, I´ve had so many offers of assistance. The other day, when I biked to my pueblo to make photocopies, word got around that I was in town, and I got a call from the the mining company who I visited on a fieldtrip with the high schoolers. They are an international company with gold stock in Canada, and I ended up spending hours at their office talking to the bossman, who speaks perfect English. Having heard about the environmental fair I was planning, they offered not only to donate 150 tree plants, but to pay for an expert to come and test ten different water sites in my district with groups of students, so it will be an educational experience. I´m psyched! And then they gave me a ride home in their fancy 4-wheel drive truck. I have friends in high places...

As for the environmental fair, I was unsure of how it would turn out, since my Paraguayan students took charge of it (as it should be). I did get to start a bucket brigade to pass tree plants, which may be one of my best contributions to Paraguay thus far. I had four of my volunteer friends come to my site to help out, and then sleep in my tiny house. We had a huge turnout, and even on the coldest night I´ve yet had in Paraguay. They made me get up and give an impromptu speech, which was fun. The next day, some of my high schoolers came to my house with bottles of wine and coke as a thank you. They know me too well. The fair definately opened eyes, and a teacher even assigned a report about how to deal with the problem of garbage. It´s a small step, but in the right direction. It also opened my eyes about how the education system works here (or doesn´t work) and how much support and guidance I need to give.

But sometimes Emilia needs Emily time. After my friends left, I spent the next couple days most working around the house and my garden. My neighbor and I went into the woods, and she helped me identify plants I wanted to use to make homemade pesticides. Bugs have been eating my greens, so I made three different stinky plant concoctions to combat them. I love making venenos caseros. It´s like I have a little apothecary, used for purposes of war. But all in the name of love, of course.

Alright, gotta go catch my bus. My English classes and cooking/nutrition class start this week, so I have some preparation to do. Until next time, keep a good song in your head...