Merry Campo Christmas

Just a quick post to wish everyone a Merry Christmas. I will be in site tomorrow, doing whatever it is that Ngobes do for Christmas, which from what I´ve gathered, is nothing they don´t do every other day. I will be spreading some cheer by bringing back some chicken tonight for the occasion, and if only as a gift to myself, some cabbage, cucumber, and tomato for a traditional Panamanian salad. As goals 2 and 3 of the three-goal Peace Corps plan are cultural exchange, staying in site is a good thing for me to be doing, and it seems my community appreciates that I´ll be there.

For New Year´s however, I am taking a couple of days off and heading to Bocas
Island with some other volunteers for some R and R.

I´m missing you all, and I hope the holidays find you healthy and happy!

Paz,
Catherine

Pic from Navidad two years ago with the Basham Brothers:

From WinterTime 07-08

Recipe Contest!!

So, my darling readers , I need your help. Soon I´ll be moving into my own house, and that means cooking for myself. LET FREEDOM RING. It´s been a long, sometimes painful few months eating other people´s food. (Did you read the Ngobe Cookbook?) But on the eve of my culinary independence, I must confess some trepidation. In the U.S., I am no master cook, but I can navigate the basics. Here, I am presented with the challenge of no fridge or oven and markets that stock only the essentials (though Almirante does have some legumbreros that have a good fly-free selection of produce). Anyway, I need your help brainstorming recipes, and I am sensing my adult readers in particular can help. Here are some guidelines for the contest:

1) No meat. No, I didn´t go vegetarian, but I might as well have. On the rare occasion that I buy meat, I´ll know how to cook it.
2) Nothing refrigerated. But powdered milk is a good friend of mine, and remember eggs don´t really need to be in the fridge.
3) Suggested ingredients:
-Beans, beans beans. Lentils and Red Kidneys are my favorite.
- Pasta or rice.
- Simple veggies- onions, peppers, celeries, carrots, garlic, things that can sit on my shelf for a few days. Extra points if you use yucca.
- I have access to most common spices in the Changuinola supermarket. Favorites: chili, curry, basil, salt, pepper etc. Basics are best.
4) I will be cooking on a two-burner range with an attached gas tank. Plan accordingly.
5) Keep it simple, this is Peace Corps not Food and Wine magazine. These do not have to be culinary masterpieces. A one- dish stir-fry or good pasta sauce is more than enough.

Please submit all recipes to me by email at cvbasham@gmail.com by January 20. Don´t be shy! The best recipe will be delicious, simple, and reasonable to make for one person. Winner(s) will receive something special and Panamanian (artisan jewelery, a chakara bag, open for suggestion), which can be sent to the States and mailed accordingly in March when my brothers visit. I am serious about this. Think of something or just Google. I don´t have the time and anyway, there is no such thing as an original recipe (except maybe for Bush´s baked beans.)

Best of luck and if I receive no entries, I will assume you all want me to starve to death.

Volunteer Vignettes

The following incident took place on 12.14.09.

What had been going on in my stomach was not normal. After calling the PC doctor (who is awesome, by the way), and relaying to her a particularly off-putting symptom, she ordered me to the clinc in Changuinola for a poop test.

I loaded my backpack, and began an agonizing descent to the road, where I caught a bus and arrived in Changuinola by noontime. After taking a shower at the regional leader´s house, I walked to the lab like an inmate down death row. I wondered where this process would rank on the list of medical indignities I have suffered in Panama (oh yes, there are others).

The lab is tucked in the bottom floor an impossible-looking three-story building and lacks any kind of signage. It is embarassed about what happens there too, further evidenced by the pink blush of its paint. And I am still unsure whether the building itself is crooked, or that it faces the street at such an abrupt angle that it accidentally gives off a distinctly Alice-in-Wonderland impression.

I entered and sheepishly explained to the desk attendant in hushed Spanish why I came. He presented me with a laughably small vessel for deposit. It had the diameter of a film canister and the depth of a thimble. Seriously?

Before I could think abou the how, he instructed me to leave, do the you know, and come back.

¨No hay un baño aqui?¨ There´s no bathroom here? I must have looked desperate.

¨Aqui no hay agua,¨ There´s no water here, he said unapologetically.

Really? Really? I´d heard about the water going out in Changuinola on the radio, but a medical laboratory without water? How can that be? I didn´t want to know. I shuffled back to the regional leader´s house, did the unmentionable, and went back to the lab. He told me I had an hour to wait, so I went to the Internet to distract myself from the plight of the poor soul whose job it is to look at people´s excrement under a microscope in a waterless lab.

When I returned for the results, a mother was in line in front of me with her daughter. The little girl wore a lovely dress, surely donned for her big trip to the city. They still do that in Panama. The desk attendant slid a piece of paper across to the mother and said ¨Ella tiene amebas.¨She has amoebas. He saw me, fetched an identical piece of paper, slide it across the same counter and said, ¨Tiene amebas.¨You have amoebas. Though disturbing, this diagnosis came as a relief. There is medicine for amoebas, and soon I would feel better.

As I left, I wondered how many times a day that man tells someone they have parasites, and if maybe, all day, he just says ¨Tiene amebas,¨ reciting the same script like a broken record. His announcement was so mechanical, identical in tone and structure to that which he delivered to the girl´s mother. Does he just stand there, all day, in that improbable fuschia eye sore and tell one person after another that one-celled protazoa or whatever have invaded their sysems?

How enchanting.

-----------------------

I am all better now thankyouforasking. You take one dose of two pills, and you´re all better. Being sick is yucky and unpleasant, but it is sort of inevitable given the living conditions. Many volunteers proudly recite all of the infections and parasites they´ve had in Panama within minutes of being introduced. This is another reason why I´m afraid I´ll be unable to make normal conversation when I return to the U.S.

Ngobe FAQ

As people get more used to having me around, they´ve started to ask me more questions. Most of them generally cycle through the same 10-12 inquiries, and I´ve formulated many automatic responses.

On the one hand, I love answering questions, and enjoy the opportunity to teach them something new. I feel like I am tearing a small hole in the dark curtain that has, because of poverty, circumstance, and lack of access, limited their world view. I have to hide an incredulous grin sometimes when I hear Roberto, my host dad, unprompted, explanining earthquakes to someone in Ngobere, a topic I explained at great length last week over dinner. He is eager to spread the word. I even love how, after trying to navigate a long-winded scientific explanation, armed with my illuminated-by-kerosene-lamp Spanish dictionary, Roberto´s only response is ¨A mystery... the work of God.¨

And you know? Instead of talking myself blue in the face, this might become my fall-back answer.

But on the other hand, sometimes answering the exact same questions over and over has its frustrations. Even though I live in absurdly close quarters with these people, and spend virtually all day with community members, sometimes I feel the wide expanse of the whole world between us. It brings on the strangest feeling of loneliness-- this idea that I am here, in their country, speaking their language, living and learning their lives, and that my own existence in the U.S. is so far beyond their own understanding. I continually forget this until I hear the questions they ask. Then I am reminded that my life is impossibly distant from everything they know, and that they will never, ever really ¨get¨where I am coming from. It´s an odd feeling. I try not to wonder too much about what they really think about me. It´s better to live only in the moment of our interactions, which are usually rich and fulfilling. If I think too much about the barriers between us, some of my work here starts to seem even more difficult, bordering on impossible.

This is the first time in my life when I have truly felt that I am the only kind of person in one place. I am having an experience so foreign and unique that I can never fully explain it to someone else, American or Panamanian.

I think I know what you´re thinking. That is a lot of emotion coming from a simple Q and A. But during each, I am confronted with the privelage of my education, of where I grew up, and everything in the world I have learned. We know so much, and we don´t even realize. It´s something to think about, and something to be grateful for.

But please do remember as you read these questions the differences between being uneducated and being stupid. The people here are not stupid. I am impressed daily by how quickly the grasp the things I talk about, how they remember everything I´ve ever told them, and continue to bravely ask intelligent, thoughtful questions that they´ve never had the resources to answer themselves. They are not stupid, but they are uneducated.

Until 2001, there was no school in town past sixth grade, and those who wanted to continue would have to pay a daily bus fare to Almirante, the nearby port town, to finish 7th through 12th grade. Few families can afford that. Consequently, most of the adults stopped formal learning in sixth grade, and took to the family finca. They know impossible amounts about farming, their products, and every plant that grows s around them. They can identify every animal, including all of the venemous snakes that Cati could get killed by. They have the sharpest eyes, spotting sloths in trees that are imperceptible to me, or noticing and fretting over every new bug bite that dots my ¨blanquita¨skin. They know alot; it´s just a completely different kind of knowledge.

Here is some of what they ask me most frequently, and in some cases, how I answer.

Q: Will you marry an indio? If so, when and who?
A: These conversations are always long. They really, really, really want me to marry a Ngobe and live forever among them (also a good option: taking him to the states so he can send money!). I always say that I am not looking for a boyfriend, American or indigenous and, ¨also, my mother would be really mad at me if I got married in Panama.¨Which is true, right Mom?!

Q: Why do you have blue eyes/Why do we have brown or black eyes/Are you sure you don´t want to marry an indio so we can have blue eyes too?
A: They call me ¨Ojos de muñeca,¨ meaning ¨doll eyes¨and are endless fascinated by the gringo baby blues. I have been asked by many if all gringos have blue eyes like me. Sometimes I go into the fair-skinned people with European heritage explanation about why more gringos have them, but most of the time, I try to turn their compliments back to them, and tell them how I´m jealous of their brown eyes and jet-black shiny hair. I point out that the sun hurts my eyes and I get sunburns, and they sort of smile proudly like they had it figured out all along. Silly gringita!

Q: What are the stars, and where are they? If the world is round (many people are still not convinced of this... Sorry Columbus), why don´t the people on the bottom fall out?
A: These explanations never go so well. I try to start at the beginning, but for many, the idea of space is a new one, and as I fumble in my dictionary for words like ¨axis¨or ¨lightyears¨, I know I´ve said too much. And gravity? Forget it.

Q: Does your mother remember you?
A: The first few times I was asked this, I thought I understood them wrong. Alas, no. For people who never leave each other for more than a day at a time, the thought of having been away from my family for four months and counting is unimaginable. If we haven´t seen each other, maybe she forgot me? But my dearest mummy still answers my phone calls and emails, so I think so far we´re good.

Q: Is there pobreza, poverty, in the United States?
A: Many can´t believe me when I say yes. Admittedly, I get a little tired of their ¨everything in hunkey-dory in the U.S.¨assumptions, but I have trouble likening the two kinds of poverty in the two countries. Here in Panama there is a program called Red de Opportunidades that is similar to the American welfare system. I often just say that we have a Red de Opportunidades too, and that people need help like they do in Panama, and that seems to be enough.

Q: How much did _____ cost?
A: They ask this about literally everything. For more information on this, read the Ngobe Culture Points post. Depending on what it is, sometimes I tell them the truth, sometimes I reduce the price by half, and if it´s something costly (like my mp3 player or camera), I say it was a gift. It´s just easier.

Q: What do you eat por alla?
A: I always begin my answer with a big grin and say, ¨First of all, we never eat green bananas or plantains, only ripe, yellow ones, and we eat them as snacks, not as meals.¨ Their brows furrow. They scan my face, pause, and say, ¨Then...what do you eat?¨ I usually talk about fresh vegetables, and emphasize that we eat rice sometimes but not every day and not in heaping portions. I leave out the frequency with which I eat chicken because here, it is a rarity and only for a special occasion. I don´t talk about dairy, because I am pretty sure no one has ever eaten yogurt or cheese, and even though they have cows, I have never seen the milk used for anything? Anyway, some things are sacred, and I like yogurt to be my special little secret.

Q: Can you read?
A: I am not sure why they ask me this. Could the answer really be no?
Q: Can you read in Spanish?
A: Yes. (This is always very impressive to them.)
Q: In English?
A: Again, could the answer really be no? Sometimes people even ask me if I know how to speak English. Whenever I ask them what else they think I would speak, I don´t get an answer. And no, my Spanish isn´t anywhere near that good, so they can´t think I´m a native speaker.

So there you have it. I have my hands full here some days.

Worth 1,000 words

Put up some new pictures in my Picasa album. This takes forever. You´re welcome, Mom.

View them by clicking on the picture below:

Panama

Culture points and catch phrases

During training, I wrote a post about culture in Panama. At the time, I lived with a Latino family and had little exposure to life with Ngobes. I´ve spent over a month in site now and would like to catch up up on some of what I´ve learned. I include catch phrases in this list because I hear each of these sayings many times a week, if not more, and I consider each a culture point in its own right.

¨No hay plata.¨ (There is no money). If Ngobe life was a song, this would be the chorus. People like to end a lot of stories with this sentence, and then look wistfully at me. Sometimes it´s innocent, but it can also be an indirect way of asking for money. Direct communication doesn´t exist in this country, and telling a long story and ending it with this common refrain is the way they know to ask. And they ask often because they think that I am...

The Gringa with money. Panama uses American currency, and everyone knows the U.S. as the place where the money is made. Many also think that its just handed out from the ¨factory¨to anyone who wants some. Everyone is rich, right?, they ask. I have tried to explain this, but in my efforts to explain the basics of inflation, deflastion, and other economic keywords, I often lose them and myself. (If everyone has $1,000, tomorrow when you go to the store, rice will cost $100´, I say). It feels futile anyway, because poverty in the United States is nothing like it is here.

Anyway, needless to say, everyone assumes that because I´m a gringa, I have unlimited piles of money lying around. I´ve been moderately successful in my efforts to dispell this rumor, explaining that I came to live with them, and live like them, so PC only gives me enough for food, money, and transport. I still get asked for money a lot, which is irritating, and from my perspective, kind of hurtful. I left family, friends, and much more to help out here, and it feels like it still isn´t enough. But that´s the thing. I can´t look at it from my perspective. In a way, yes, they do ask me for money more frequently because they assume I have it (and even on my PC stipend, I do have a lot more money than families here), but they also ask because the idea of sharing and gift giving is ingrained in their culture. It isn´t a big deal. It happens all the time, and there isn´t so much of the ¨but this is mine!¨mentaility Americans have.

¨¿Regalame esto?¨- Gift me this? If someone hands me a bag of oranges from their finca, they often say ¨Te regalo,¨meaning ¨I gift this to you.¨Similarly, the idea of money lending and sharing in general much more accepted here. It is not rude to walk up to my bedroom door and say ¨Lend me a dollar.¨Even though it rubs me the wrong way (not even a please!), I remind myself that these are the same people who see me walking and ask worriedly if I´ve eaten yet, and if the answer is no, and they have food to spare, they always invite me in for dinner. Before I came to Panama, I would have said I was a good sharer, but I think these people have me beat.

The Ngobe Cookbook

One of the less satisfying aspects of the PC experience is the food. Living with host families means that I eat what they eat, which some days is more of a chore than others. I have a secret jar of peanut butter in my room, a crutch which I originally hoped to avoid. But with 8-10 hours between some meals, and plates filled with only carbs, I am often left with a taste for something homey. If you´d like to spend a day eating like a Ngobe, read on. I´ll fill you in on some of their favorite recipes.

Coffee: If you had told me back in August that I´d be living in a place where I am offered coffee 3-5 times a day, I might have hugged you, kissed your cheek, and stood grinning, hands clasped, unable to control my glee. Alas, the ¨coffee¨here is not quite what I´d imagined. Here´s how you make it:

Empty a 20 cent package (about 3-4 tbsp) of coffee into a large pot. Throw in no more than 2 cups of water. Place over fire or stove, stirring occasionally for 10-15 minutes. You should have a thick paste. (This is when the coffee smells really good, and I always get excited, even though I know what´s coming next.) Throw in 8-12 cups mugs of water, depending on how many family members or guests are present. Add enough sugar so that each cup has at least 5 tsp. Serve luke warm or cool and in giant portions.

This recipe usually results in a brownish liquid that tastes mostly like sugar water. Hummingbird food, if you will. Babies start drinking coffee as soon as they can hold a cup, as evidenced by the kids´unfortunately cavity-ridden teeth. I do know a few people who make a decent cup of coffee though, and I plan to ask them their secret. When the weather is ¨cold¨, many do let the coffee heat up a little bit after adding all the water. They are all adament that one must drink hot things when it is cold outside. And Lord knows, if the temperature dips below 75, one could catch a chill!

Boiled Green Bananas/Plantains, Verduras: I don´t have much to say about these because mostly they just make me sad. They´re flavorless, heavy, and always fail to absorb any of the flavor of what they are cooked with. I can eat more of them now than I used to be able to, but I´ll never be able to wolf down 8 or more in a row like my buddies here in QP. While their lackluster flavor is a downer, what´s worse is how they cook them.

To prepare: Peel and cut bananas lengthwise. (Peeling these suckers makes your hands splotchy and burny. Be careful!) Throw what seems like an impossible amount in the largest pot you have. Add water until bananas are covered. Lay a plastic bag over everything. Yes, a plastic bag. Boil for 45 minutes to two hours, depending on how much you feel like doddling, and how much of a mush factor you´d like.

I know. Cooking with a plastic bag. They insist this is the only way to get the bananas to cook through, and proudly explain the function of the bag when asked. I prefer not to consider what sort of chemicals could be leached into my food with this method, and frankly, I don´t care. Sometimes, in terms of harmful things that are introduced to my body on a daily basis, this is the least of my concerns.

Rice: Until recently, I thought white rice was one of the only foods that consistently escaped the snap-crackle-pop of the ubiquitous cooking oil. Then my host mom told me I was cooking it wrong. I left out an important first step. One must begin by frying the hard, uncooked rice in some left over oil, you see. Stir occasionally for 5 minutes and cook as normal.

I am not sure what effect this really has. The rice tastes the same to me, but I guess I have a lot to learn. My pallete isn´t yet fine-tuned to all the delicate flavor notes rice and other starches can have.

While there are some foods that I´ll never love (cold, ground sardines with coffee at 6:30 in the morning), my new diet has resulted in a new-found affection for the foods I do enjoy. For example, a plate of boiled yucca and a hard-boiled egg makes me absolutely giddy. A plate of fried rice with a spinachy plant they call callaloo is my new favorite comfort food. And lentils, of course, they will never know how much I love them.

I´ll move into my own house sometime in January, and I plan to plant my own vegetable garden. Dozens of veggies grow well here, it´s a shame more people don´t take advantage. Other volunteers have had some success in leading by example with their own vegetable gardens and encouraging others to do the same. They couple their efforts with some nutrition charlas, and some seed packets to get started, and many community members follow their lead. I also look forward to infusing some traditional dishes with some good flavor and nutrients when I live alone. Stay tuned because I expect you all to help me brainstorm recipes.

Gobble Gobble

I´ve been in Panama for a about three and a half months now, and it recently occured to me I´ve already seen so much more of the country than most of the people I´ve met in it. Three of the four siblings in my first host-house have never been farther than Changuinola, Bocas´s main city, which is about 80 minutes away from my site by bus. This is true for many adults in the community as well. Only a few have ever been to Panama City, and even fewer have been anywhere else.


Which make me grateful for the opportunities I´ve had to travel around during my short time here, and especially so because I was able to head to the mountains this week to a town called Cerro Punta, near Panama´s only volcano,Volcan Baru, and highest peak. It´s frequented quite regularly by tourists, as the hiking trails on and around Volcan Baru are the best the country has to offer. It´s also known for its strawberries, with farms lying around every bend in the winding roads, and street-side stores selling strawberry jams, breads, milkshakes, and everything in between. The area feels distinctly un-Panama-like however. The weather was cool. I wore a sweater both days. The homes, stores, and lodges are all vaguely-European looking. Many of us felt as if we´d somehow landed in some forgotten Swiss town, and had to keep reminding ourselves that we were in Panama.

It was a treat to see all of my Group 64 volunteers again, and also to meet dozens of other volunteers from other sectors and regions around the country. We ate delicious breakfasts, with yogurt, granola, fresh fruit, and strong, sweet coffee every day. I couldn´t believe what I was eating, after existing for a month on a diet that consists of little more than rice, boiled green bananas, canned sardines and the occasional legume.

Thanksgiving dinner was an incredible site, and an even more spectacular culinary experience. Trays of food just kept coming from the kitchen. Platters of turkey and ham were endlessly refilled. Pumpkin pies lined both sides of the table, with vats of freshed whipped cream standing by. Heaven-sent green-bean casserole, cranberry sauce, apple crisp, garlic mashed potatoes, squash, sinfully rich hot chocolate made from Panama cacao. You name it, I ate it. Absolutely no restraint was shown on the part of any volunteer. I ate so much that I was in considerable pain for hours after. This is not a complaint. I was the happiest I´ve been, belly protruding and largely immobile on the couch. Some other volunteers somehow had the energy to dance after dinner. The owner of the lodge cleared the floor, and a full-on dance party ensued, which I watched while I digested and thought about how often it feels like I live in two very different worlds. The restrained, and sometimes solemn Ngobe/volunteer life, and the other one, when I´m with other volunteers, feeling entirely human, normal and comfortable in this tiny S-shaped country that we all (some grudgingly) have come to love.

I slept in a bed, took hot showers, drank unlimited amounts of coffee from the lodge, relaxed, and took in the scenery. It was an idyllic two days, and was a great reminder of all there is to be thankful for, especially when many of us come from communities where there isn´t enough food for everyone.

I am returning to site this afternoon, and on Sunday, will be moving in with my second host family. The house if further from the road, and more isolated in the community, but it will be a great opportunity to get to know new neighbors, take in some killer ocean views, and take advantage of the fact that the señor of the house has tapped a nearby spring, and there is always water running through the pipes.

Shamless promotion

Darling readers,

I have found the perfect Christmas present for your loved ones. Please think about buying a Panama calendar from our Volunteer Action Council! They´re $17, with free shipping, sent from within the U.S., and should arrive within 2-3 business days. All profits from the calendars go directly toward Peace Corps projects, so in buying one, you support the work I and the other 160-plus volunteers are doing here in Panama. The shots are beautiful, and you can get a glimpse of what´s right outside my door.

Here is the link.

Gone fishing

Many of you may know that my greatest fear in life is fish. The living ones, of course. The dead ones are just tasty. It´s an irrational fear at best, but I´ve spent all my life with one foot planted firmly in a world of my imagination, and there? Fish pose a big threat.

You can imagine, then, why I was less-than-thrilled to accept an invitation to go fishing with Seña, my beloved neighbor who has already declared me her other daughter. But as my Proyecto Amistad (Project Friendship) rolls on, I try never to turn down an invitation.

You can also imagine my horror when Seña arrived at my doorstep and I saw what they fish with here: nothing more than fishing line wrapped around a discarded water bottle. While I´d never been a fan of stateside fishing, the pole always offered a comforting distance between predator and prey. What we had here seemed like a decidedly more contact-heavy endeavor.

No matter. I sallied forth, knowing Seña would be patient and forgiving, even though we were fishing for her family´s dinner. We walked down narrow paths in the direction of the Carribean, surrounded on both sides by cacao trees. We spent an hour wading through the river, gently overturning rocks and hoping to find shrimp to use for bait. I failed greatly in this task, managing to collect only a half-dozen babies, with a net. Seña, the expert, found dozens and was able to snatch most of them before they scurried away among slimy leaves and mini-caves formed by rocks too large to move.

Carrying our bait in a bucket, we made our way upstream and got to work. Standing on the banks of the river in my rubber waders, I hopelessly cast my line into the shallow waters. I stood by helplessly as Seña jerked fish after fish out of the water. The fish she caught were small, but she caught many, digging her thumb into the gills of each one, and snapping its head back to break its spine. A slight trickle of blood would drip down its scales as she unceremoniously tossed it into the bucket.

After several hours of this, and me with several bites and no hooks, Seña thought it was time to kick it up a notch. She wanted me to see the ocean up close. Despite the many beautiful ocean views my community offers, I´d never been taken down to the shore. We waded through the putrid, sand-fly infested mangroves in the direction of the ocean.

Please note, at this time I was rather thirsty and hungry. Having not realized that fishing was a day-long endeavor, I left the house at 7a.m. without my water bottle. I tried to disguise my displeasure with the malodorous mangroves as Seña paused occasionally, dangling her hook into impossibly small pockets of water. She snatched up a black, two-to-four-inch fishes within seconds, and threw them on top of the other dead ones in her happy yellow bucket.

So on we marched until suddenly, the mangroves came to an abrupt hault and we stood with an unobstructed view of the crystalline Caribbean ocean. I wedged my machete into a tree branch, and was prepared to take a rest and enjoy the view.

"Cati, let´s go!" Seña said in Ngobere, smiling, waving her arm in the direction of the ocean.

We were standing on the edge of the mangroves. Fish were flopping in the water below, and men in dugout canoes were paddling in from their own morning of fishing. I´d recently read baracudas love the shallow waters around mangroves, and was trying to push the idea out of my mind.

"Um, where are we going?"

"We´re going fishing!"

This happens a lot. People half-answer a question without really answering it. Before I had time to rephrase, Seña, pregnant no less, was thigh-deep in the water, holding out an outstreched hand. We were going to fish in the ocean. Now this is a contact sport, I thought. And so we waded, and waded, and waded, until we were a few hundred feed from the shore, though the water never reached much past our hips. In the shallower areas, I saw a fish flirt with my bait, watched him steal it, and then vowed to think twice before I accepted a fishing invitation again. Seña caught a few more fish, bemoaned my bad luck, and we waded back to shore, where we drank some sugary coffee and ate a couple of pieces of bread that she´d been carrying in her bag.

All in all, the day turned out all right. I went fishing again this week, where I was allowed the sole responsiblity of guarding the fish we (read: Seña and two of her six children) caught. This time, she stored them on a stick, threading them through the kills and mouth and leaving them there to dangle. As I extracted a set of teeth that had become lodged in the bloody stick, and felt the weight of the carcasses hanging below, I thought perhaps I´m getting used to this. Maybe one day I´ll catch one. And until I do, I know Seña will still call to me from her kitchen, inviting me over for the surprisingly delicious fish soup she makes, or the cocount rice she serves with the catch of the day.

At the intersection of four languages

One of the things that makes Bocas so unique is its varied cultural history, which today results in the rich blend of Spanish, Caribbean, European, and indigenous influence seen throughout the province.

Language is part of that unique blend. Each day, someone tries out their limited reserve of English phrases with me, but many times I don´t even realize they´re speaking my language because the pronounciations are so garbled.

"Gerd marning, herr you!?"

Whenever someone asks me to teach them an English word or phrase, they always repeat it back to me in a strange voice, peppering it with superfluous ´r´s. I´ve yet to figure this out, as Spanish doesn´t sound like that either, but it always makes for an interesting lesson. They take little offense to my grins or giggles. They enjoy themselves just as much when I stumble over my Spanish.

Then there´s Guary-Guary (I don´t know how to spell this and my half-hearted Google searching turns up nothing), a Creole-infused English, some colonial left-over with a nearly indecipherable accent. Guary-Guary is spoken choppily, lips thrust forward, and with hardly any mouth movement. Sometimes it´s easy to understand, but certain words are unrecognizable. "Cow" is pronounced more like "Go," and if you say "Cow?" they usually can´t confirm whether we´re talking about the same animal, leaving me to ask, "Vaca? Nivi?" in Spanish and Ngobere, respectively. "Yes, go!," they respond affirmatively.

Not many people in my village speak Guary-Guary, and I am still unsure of where they learned it and why. My host parents speak a bit of it, and it´s their chosen dialect when they fight because their kids don´t understand. And because they don´t understand normal English, I think they believe I am also in the dark.

"Dees es ho yoo treat me!?"

But oh, I know.

Then we have Ngobere. I yet to officially begin my lessons with my neighbor. Despite his intial enthusiasm and impromptu lessons on my site visit, he´s been dragging his feet lately. I´m eager to get started, because many people here, especially the older women, insist on speaking to me only in dialect. I can tell people my name, ask where they´re going, comment on the whether, but can say little much else. Frequently, when I pasear with a guide, I speak to the families in Spanish for 15-20 minutes, and then everyone lapses seamlessly into Ngobere, leaving me with nothing to do but sit, watch the rain, and wonder how it is that I have to wrap my mind around not one, but two languages.

Then, of course, there´s Spanish, which I navigate comfortably, more or less. I have a harder time deciphering the rapid Spanish of the Latino teachers and school principal. But I understand well and am well-understood (mostly) among my community members. It helps that I am here in the country, where people speak a brand of Spanish which could generously be assessed as imperfect. It´s as if I went to Appalachia to learn how to speak English. And whenever someone tries to speak to me in English, I respond in Spanish, partly because it´s what I believe I should be doing, but mostly because I usually can´t understand their English.

As I´ve said before, there is certainly a lot to see here in Panama. But there´s also a lot to hear.

Gringa in the finca

As I continue to introduce myself to community members, I always explain that I´m looking for activities to do each day with them, so I´m not sitting inside all day. I ask them to invite me to events, or over to their houses to learn how to cook chicha de pifa, anything at all, I say, because I still know so little about their lives. When I told my host-father that I would go with him to his finca and harvest cacao, he interrupted saying, ¨Cati, wait.¨I waited, indulging his dramatic pause. ´´If I invite you to the finca, you will come and work with us?¨ His expression said it all. He can´t believe the things this gringa says sometimes.

Two days later, I was hiking with them to their other house (por alla arriba), close to their farmland. Finca is translated as farm or field, but the idea of a finca is quite unique to Panama. No visible boundaries exist, though everyone knows exactly where their finca begins and ends, and how many hectares they have. Nothing is planted neatly, in fact, you´d never know you were hiking through farmland if you weren´t looking for it.

We spent the afternoon, harvesting through the rain and fighting with the mud. One person knocked the cacao from the trees with a large stick, with a pick attached to the end, while I and my host-sister followed behind, loading them into our chakaras (woven bags made by Ngobes). We pick up every piece, even ones that seem like they were rotted through or picked over by birds. We shook them to see if the seeds moved inside, and if they did, it meant there was still something harvestable inside. They laughed while I wrapped the handle around my head and carried the weight on my back like they do. I had been nervous at first, imagining it would put a tremendous stress on my head and neck, but indeed, it does not, and is really the only way carry a heavy weight practically through narrow trails and muck.

Sometimes I would find myself grumbling, that I was soaked to the bone, had fallen at least 150 times in the mud, or pricked myself on one of the many spiny trees that are oh-so-tempting to grab when you´re trying to climb up an impossibly slippery slope. I would rack my brain wondering how they never fall, and do all of this in bare feet and skirts. And then I would notice a giant, towering tree, left over from what used to be primary forest. Or a neon-green and black frog would dart out from under a log. It´s easy to get frustrated sometimes, thinking about how there might not be water to bathe with when I get home, or that I feel sick from eating a strange food, but I never let myself stay that way for long. There are too many things to appreciate. I hope I never stop seeing how beautiful it is here.

We piled all of the day´s harvest among a bunch of logs, where they would be left until the next day, when they would be peeled, dried, and eventually brought to Almirante, a nearby port city, and sold. In the 80s, my host father was earning close to $2.50 per pound, but now he only earns about 50 cents. An incredible amount of work goes into each piece harvested; it´s unbelieveable to me that that´s all it´s worth.

So, how´s Panama?

I think I spent most of my first week in site in a semi-conscious daze. I have kept surprisingly busy, with something to do each day, if not all day, and have so far had good experiences interacting with the people here. Still, my mind wanders easily. I can block out background Spanish with remarkable efficiency, and I get lost thinking about how I got here, how impossible a task my work seems sometimes, and what all my friends and family are doing back home. It has been surreal for sure.

I am slowly re-adjusting to life with another host family. I have been met by incredibly generous people and families in my (almost!) three months in Panama, and the family I live with now is no exception. My 10-year-old host brother Caesar has the most contagious smile, and will sit with me for hours asking about what life is like ¨por alla¨in the U.S. He fancies himself my chaperone whenever I leave the house, escorting me two minutes to the public telephone, and waiting patiently while I babble away in English, grinning up at me all the while. My family gets endless enjoyment out of watching me fall in the mud, which happens several times a day, but they usually stop laughing long enough to ask if I´m okay.

Being under the miscroscope for all this time though has its frustrations. Ngobes in particular have a habit of staring long past what would be considered appropriate in the United States. I have to keep myself from snapping at my 16-year-old host brother when he arrives at my window to silently observe what I´d hoped would be my only 15 minutes of alone time.

My biggest obstacle has been the sanitation situation. No one washes their hands, dishes are only rinsed, and flies crawl all over food, utensils, and bowls, depositing who-knows-what and possibly laying eggs as well. When the 1-year-old has diarrhea, it gets rubbed over the concrete floor with a wet mop, without soap or bleach. My host mother absentmindedly cleans it up and goes right back to cooking.

I am trying to strike a balance between brainstorming household education techniques and also ignoring certain things in order to keep the fecal-oral transmission charts from haunting my every vacant thought.

I´ve already made a point about washing my hands as much as possible, or risinging dishes when I´ve seen flies on them. But the solutions to these problems aren´t as easy as you´d think. At home, you fill up a five-gallon bucket with water, pour in some cleaner, and mop your floor. (Better yet, your one-year-old wears diapers!) At home, you know your dishes are clean because you take them out of the dish washer yourself and put them safely into a clean cabinet. Here, without running water in the house, implementing sanitation efforts is much more challenging. Studies have shown that having more water available is more effective in reducing diarrhea and disease than water treatment itself, for example. Usually the first solution should be more water, not better water.

So you can see how sometimes life here seems surreal. For those of you who are as panicked about my health as my mother was when she heard all of this, don´t be. I chose to live in three separate houses during my first three months, and I visited my second house the other day. I was delighted to find out they have a latrine, an ocean view, and what appears to be an approved standard of cleanliness. And when you are an environmental health volunteer who works with water and latrines, it goes without saying that where you´ll be living might be without one or both.

There are so many things to think about here each day. I fall asleep every night watching TV with my family. (A lot of famlies have small, black-and-white TVs, powered by car batteries or solar panels.) Dinner is usualy served around 8:45, and I am collapsing gratefully into the floor by nine.

Leave any questions in the comments section. I know I leave a lot out in these quick updates. I´ll fill in the blanks as I can.

Pictures

1. R.I.P.
2. Getting a shave.
3. So much violence.
4. (Untitled)
5. Butcher stations.

Transition from Training

Last Thursday, our 36-person group was sworn-in at the ambassador´s residence in Panama City, and became the first in several years to have every trainee make it all the way through training. The ceremony was a formal affair, with speeches given by the Ambassador, the Peace Corps Panama Country Director, a representative from ANAM, a Panamanian environmental agency, and two trainees from our group.

(all of group 64, EH and Community Economic Development)

During the ceremony, we all had a chance to stand up, introduce ourselves and say where we would be serving. I was filled with an inappropriately maternal pride for all of our volunteers, with their much-improved Spanish, previously-unworn, fancy shirts, ties, dresses, and visible eagerness to see what the next two years will hold. We´ve grown so close over the last ten weeks that it´s hard to believe we´ve only been here since August. The intensity of this experience brings people together in a unique, unexpected way. When I signed up for Peace Corps, the process I imagined didn´t involve friends. But training has been an almost completely group experience, which is odd when you consider that it´s preparing us for one of the most solitary, self-directed jobs on the planet. Our environmental-health group spent this past weekend after swear-in together at a beach town, enjoying each other´s company for what will be the last time until February (for most of us). I feel lucky to have landed among group of exceptionally caring, thoughtful, intelligent people. But we all felt sad to be leaving each other. The reality is that many of us live at different ends of the country, or are difficult to get to, and we´ll never be able to keep in as close touch as we´d like. As we move on and into site tomorrow, it´s hard to imagine life without the immediate support system we became so used to.

(the five EH girls. Four of us lived up on the hill in Santa Clara, and spent many-a-walk debriefing, oversharing, and offering emotional support/reality checks as needed).

Most everyone is nervous, some borderline panicky, about returning to site. We arrive with nothing specific planned, no immediate assignment, and the responsiblity of directing ourselves, and eventually hundreds of strangers in a country, language, and circumstance that is foreign to us.

It is easy to become bogged down in all the anxiety. I came back from site visit feeling overwhelmed, underqualified, and uncertain about what I could offer my community. But, as I was reminded today, this is the part we all signed up for, to offer support to communities who want it, to live as the only gringo in rural communuties no one´s ever heard of, and to put ourselves in situations that we could only experience here. And I came to Panama partly to test my limits. Tomorrow, when I arrive in my community, it´s for good this time (but not forever, Mom!). I am ready to stop saying I´m going to live in Panama for two years when I explain and introduce myself. Going to live refers to the future. I live here now. Even though I felt intimidated by my responsiblity to my community, I also realize that there is no amount of training that can prepare you for what PC life is like. I know enough. The rest of it will come as needed.

We are encouraged to stay in-site for a few weeks at the beginning, so updates could be scarce. But stay tuned, and in the mean time, I´ll be taking notes and ready to assume a regular blogging schedule again. Comments, questions, and emails are of course always appreciated and encouraged.

Llega la gringa

My nervousness about my site visit started mounting when I realized how close I was to training´s finish line. Since I arrived in Panama, there was always a period of time stretching before me, during which I could improve my Spanish, learn about PC´s development approach, figure out everything I needed to know about aqueducts, latrines, and methods for community mobilization and organization.

The list was long, but I had time.

So as excited as I was to finally see my community, I also realized that it was time to pull everything I´d learned togethe, and with luck, convince over a thousand people I was up to the task. I would be all on my own (solita!) during the 5-day visit, and responsible for introducing myself and explaining my presence to as many people as possible. I would find housing, develop a sketchy outline of a work plan, and start gathering information for my community analysis due in January.

Last Monday, we headed to Farallon in the Cocle province to meet our community guides, who would travel with us to site. As our stretch on the Pan-American highway rolled by my window, I found myself wondering how I tricked so many people into thinking I was capable of taking on this assignment, what PC promises will be "the hardest job you´ll ever love."

We´ve been told over and over that the PC process is a roller coaster of emotions. Until now, I hadn´t really experienced it. I´ve been sick, encountered difficulties and frustrations, but overall I´ve been happy here. Things have gone smoothly, and I´ve been going little by little, poco a poco, through training. It´s funny to think that my application process for PC started almost a full year ago, and only now are the details coming into focus. Only when I met my community guide this week did the question marks really start fading away; an image of what life will be like here started coming coming in clearer.

And I´m realizing that some of my self-doubt and worry was well-placed.

Quebrada Pastor has many needs. The aqueduct, which only serves a small fraction of the community, works inconsistently , and the water committee doesn´t actively work to repair it. The vast majority of the community lives at great distance from the center, with some houses a two-hour hike from the road. No one out there (¨por alla arriba¨) is connected to the aqueduct. They hike through the monte to springs or the river to fill up their water buckets. The only latrines are at the school. People do their business in the river (the same one from which they get their water, also the one in which they bathe and wash their clothes.)

On Saturday, we held a meeting as a way to introduce myself formally to the community. I gave a quick speech, explaining who I am, what environmental health is, and what we might work on. I stressed that I don´t have money, or projects in mind, and that we must work together to figure out what the community needs, and what they will use. My gung-ho counterpart, jumped right into talking about composting latrines, which was not what I would have done, but he seems to be a man with a mission. Many seemed interested, which was a pleasant surprise. For people who are used to using a river, storing excrement above ground for prolonged periods of time, and then using it on crops, is a big leap.

One of the greatest challenges I will face is involving the whole community in project development and plannning. My community guide asked for a PCV because of his interest in composting latrines, but it´s hard to say whether everyone´s interest is genuine, or simply at his urging. PCV have done plenty of latrine projects in Bocas. Many stand unused or unfinished. Additionally, weighing the needs for latrines against the need for running water is nearly impossible, especially when the most underserved parts of the community are unwilling or hesitant to participate in meetings and potential projects. We visited houses all day Thursday and Friday, hiking two and fro, and we still failed to make it to over 50 percent of Q.P.´s houses. I have to work to work to include them all. Let me just say I am going to be really skinny after two years of all that walking.

I am lucky to have landed in a community with established leaders, who understand the PC process. But their expectations are high, and their needs are urgent. I hope I can help keep them motivated and interested through what will surely be a long, arduous process. I am not here to march in, build lartrines, and march out. It is essential that PCVs assess the real needs of a community and equip them with the skills and knowledge to reach their own goals. It´s called "capacity building" in development lingo. It´s the cornerstone of ¨sustainabile development.¨

In many ways, this visit was an overwhelming one. I met sick people who couldn´t afford medical treatment. I saw children who seemed two or three years younger than they are, because a diet of boiled bananas and rice lacks some important nutrients, to put it mildly. When we were visiting house-to-house, my community partner had to explain to some people who I was very carefully, several times, because when they see a gringo, they assume s/he brings trouble. My host family asked me questions that I didn´t know how to begin to answer. After remarking about how many tourists come to Bocas Island, my host father soberly asked me if there are benefits to travel. He couldn´t see why people would go so far away from where they´re from. During my first few days in site, I had a cold. They told me when I came back, I had to bring sandals to wear in the house. They pointed to the cool cement floor and said "You have to protect your feet from the cold, Cati. It affects you." I just nodded, deciding to save my explanation of Germ Theory for another day.

Even though at times I have felt apprehensive by what this experience has in store, as always, there are are a multitude of quiet moments that remind me how rich this experience is. In so many ways, it´s possible for to feel more fulfilled here than I could ever be if I were doing something else. These reminders are everywhere. When my host dad grabs my hand to help the uncoordinated gringa cross one of the many creeks and rivers. Or when the vice-president of the water committee invites me to dinner, and having heard of my desire to learn some dialect, decides to start teaching me immediately. He asked me to read from a Spanish hymnal while he proudly sang the same lines in dialect. Or when I explained the idea of sustainability and could see they understood, and felt excited by the idea of empowerment. When I learned how to wash clothes on rocks by the river. When my host parents say they think they´ll cry when I leave in two years, and are already worried that I´ll forget them one day.

How could I ever forget? In five days, I felt sad, overhwhelmed, energized, welcomed, confused, relieved, intimidated, excited, and as far away from what I know as I´ve ever felt. Whatever these two years have in store, I´m sure it will be unforgettable.

Mail, etc.

A lot of people have asked about where mail can be sent. First, thanks for asking! As of now, my mother has sent several packages, and I haven´t seen a single one yet. They may still be on their way, as mail takes forever here, but I´m unsure. I am recommending no one sends me any mail until I can set up a PO-box like situation in Changionola. I´ve heard mail is more reliable there, and further, the address I have now (listed on the side) is only good through October. So thanks to everyone who offered to send me something, but if it´s anything more than a postcard or letter, I´d recommend waiting until I can set up a new address which will hopefully be more secure.

Also, while this blog is set to private, I´m happy to let anyone read. If anyone you know wants access, send me their email, and I´ll send an invite.

Photos and Culture Points

I hope you all appreciate that I am spending our first day off ever here in Panama blogging and uploading pictures at long last. You can view them here.

Today I´m looking to fill you in on the culture points that I haven´t had time to write about in my other exhaustive summaries.

TOP 10 THOUGHTS ON PANAMANIAN CULTURE

10. If you ever took a Spanish class, you learned that the word bastante means "enough." As in, I have enough food, or We have enough time to go shopping. In Panama, bastante is only used to mean a lot or too many. How many grandchildren to you have? BASTANTE. It is a word you usually have to yell. This takes some getting used to, but now I enjoy having a way to express myself in extreme a way as possible.

9. If you ever have to ask directions, make sure to ask at least three people, because they will all give you some vague answer that mostly consists of wild gesturing and pointing with their lips. There are no maps anywhere-- not for public transit, not in malls. Towns don´t have street names, and there are eight different Diablo Rojo buses that can take you to the same place. Speaking of Diablo Rojos, they make up the public bus system here, and they look like this. At first they´re quite intimidating, but they´re really not so bad, as long as you don´t think too closely about the fact that you are barreling down the street in an outdated American school bus with 100 other people packed shoulder-to-shoulder.

8. If they call you fat, it´s a good thing. Within minutes of arriving in Santa Clara, Nani was already on the phone with her friends, telling them a "gordita" gringa had arrived. By the afternoon, Greysi was rolling up my shirt and pointing to my stomach saying, "asi gordita." For Panamanians, this is a compliment; it doesn´t really mean you´re fat, more so that you´re the right weight. It is also acceptable and normal to ask people how old they are, no matter how old. Go for it. I will miss being able to do this later when I one day return to the U.S.

7. Another vocab twist. "Ahora", despite its dictionary definition, never means "now." If you ask when you should do something, and someone says "ahora," wait at least 20 minutes and ask again.

6. We have been told many times that Panamanian time in general is quite different from American time. When we´re in our sites, if we want to give a charla at 10, we tell people to get there at around 8:30, with the idea that by 10, most people should be trickling in. There is also no sense of urgency in restaurants, where you can sit for an hour before a waiter comes to greet you. If you´re going to eat out, give yourself a few hours. I´ve gotten good customer service in malls or large supermarkets, but everywhere else, not so much. Be assertive.

5. No one can believe that the gringas don´t have boyfriends or husbands, and because of this, they are constantly asking who you have crushes on, who you think is cute, and if there is a secret boyfriend somewhere you´re not telling them about. They also want you to find love in Panama and constantly tell stories of other Peace Corps volunteers falling in love here.

4. If someone unleashes a flurry of uncomprehensible (and sometimes toothless) Spanish at you, and you ask them to say it again, they will almost always repeat/emphatically gesture the only word you understood. Sometimes I am just too tired to ask them again.

4. Panamanian women can do everything better than you. The first weekend here, we went hiking, and I didn´t have boots yet. I hiked through a lot of mud with only sneakers on, and when I came home, Nani was horrified to see my dirt-laden shoes. One day, she set out a bucket of soapy water and instructed me to get to scrubbin´. I was in a rush to get to class, but I thought I did a decent job, but there was mud caked everywhere, and some parts of the shoe would simply never be clean again.

I was wrong.

When I came back, she laughed and told me I didn´t know how to clean anything. My shoes stood before me, sparkling white, right down to the shoelaces.

Similarly, during culture week, I got some sea urchin spines stuck in my foot. When I got home, my host mother noticed I was fussing over them, and once I told her what they were, she immediately ran into the house, came back with a needle, and began furiously digging them out.

There are problems that sometimes you think you can´t solve. Your Panmanian host mother will find a way.

2. The food. Panama is second only to China in terms of how much rice is consumed per capita. When I first arrived, there was a heaping mound of rice on my plate at almost every meal. Portion sizes have been adjusted accordingly now that we´ve realized I can´t actually consume a pound of rice in one sitting. Here are the good and bad about the food I´ve discovered here:

The Bad:
Everything is fried. I am typically served at least two hot dogs a day, and in the morning, it is cut lengthwise and dropped in oil in order to maximize its contact with the deep-fried goodness. These are getting harder and harder to eat. But I might miss them one day, depending on what sort of food I´ll be eating in site.

Ojaldre- This is essentially fried dough that is frequently served with my hot dog at breakfast. I wouldn´t be so opposed it if wasn´t frequently the first thing I eat in the morning.

Fried platanos- these are flavorlesss, starchy, and ubiquitous in Ngobe villages. I ate them every day during culture week. With ketchup, they´re not so bad. It is more the frequency with which I eat fried food that bothers me, rather than the individual foods. Panama´s flavors in general are pretty bland.

The good:

Duros- these are basically homemade popsicles frozen in sandwich bags, but they come in amazing flavors like pineapple, or nansey. Nansey is a small, bitter fruit that grows from trees everywhere here. It is sort of citrusy, but when combined with sugar in a duro, it is the perfect treat. My abuela sells duros for 10 cents a piece, and I am a regular customer.

Pifa- a golfball-sized fruit that also grows everywhere here. A lot of the trainees hate pifa, but I love it. Its starchy and has the consistency of squash. Delicious when dipped in a little salt, and I hear it´s packed with vitamins.

CocaCola- I now have a new appreciation for soda. It is still sold in glass bottles here, and Coca Cola would really be proud of how we flock to any small tienda with a fridge for our daily fix. Further, it´s made with real sugar unlike in the States, and that really makes all the difference.

1. Machetes can be used for everything. During tech week, we used red-hot machetes to cut into 55-gallon barrels for water-catchmen systems. They can also chop down trees, cut up fruit, mow lawns, you name it. I cannot wait to bring the machete back into vogue in the U.S.

Tech week roundup

I am happy to be writing from an Internet cafe in Panama City, having just arrived from our tech week in Soloy in the comarca. The week dragged on at times, my energy was low, and we hit several obstacles along the way, including torrential rain, lack of materials, broken tools, and everything in between. In the end, we weren´t able to complete our projects in one week, so some PCVs are finishing up what was left on Monday. But as always, I learned a lot, and helped build two pit latrines and two composting latrines from the ground up behind the school buildings in town. And let me tell you, when you are inside the (as yet unused) poop chamber of a composting latrine, you cannot help but smile.

Life in Panama is so different.

We worked hard. I got dirtier than I´ve ever been. I will let you know my host mom´s reaction when she sees the clothes that come out of my backpack. I am preparing myself for 30 solid seconds of head shaking and eye rolling. This stuff is filthy. On Friday, we gave a charla to some of the middle-school-aged kids about how to use and maintain composting latrines. It is strange how acccustomed I´ve become to having only a few hours to prepare entire Spanish presentations. And you know? When there´s no electricity, your flashlight is broken, and the kerosene lamp is shooting out flames, you can´t really prepare anyway. So why worry?

Host-family wise, this week was less satisfying than culture week. My host mother was only 18, had a three-year-old, and was still in middle school. When she wasn´t in school, she was working, and if she wasn´t doing that, she was practicing in her dance group, which is traveling this weekened to represent the comarca in a Ngobe competition. Hence, I ate all my meals in a restaurant owned by her friends, and spent most nights by myself. This didn´t leave a lot of room to work on PC´s goals about cultural exchange, but it did mean that I could tuck myself into bed at 8 every night. On Thursday, we did get a chance to see the group perform, and Ngobe dancing is quite unlike anything else I´ve ever seen. Mostly it involves simple rhythmic foot steps, occasionally some chanting and general shifting about. After their performance, they invited the aspirantes up to dance. You can imagine I was mosty unsuccessfuly in my endeavors to execute these moves accurately, despite the insistent efforts of the tiny, tireless Ngobe men trying to direct me.

Tech week was also an opportunity to see the contrast between coastal Ngobe culture in Bocas del Toro, and in the comarca. Soloy is a large town, so I think they are less traditional than some other smaller, more remote communities, but the difference was still stark. All the women wear the traditional Ngobe dress, a nakwa (pronounced nahg-wah. I think I might be spelling this right, but I have no idea.) Their artisan works are everywhere. They carry babies in their hand-made bags called chakaras, and rarely greet or make eye contact with passersby. Ngobes are one of the largest indigenous populations in the world, and I always catch myself thinking about how I didn´t even know they existed a few months ago.

We have a week and a half in Santa Clara, then I leave on Wednesday for my site visit, where I will set up a host family for my first three months in site, meet my counter part, and generally get a better idea of my future home. So many new things in so little time!

Culture week roundup

Every time I sit down at the computer to write a blog post, I am daunted by the amount of information and stories I have to tell. Today is no different, and worse, I´ve forgotten my notepad with all of my little thoughts and notes I wanted to share.


I´ve just returned from culture week, and my first experience living with a Ngobe family. I stayed in a raised hut with with a mother and father, and two kids, 14 months and four years old on the Island of San Cristobal in the Carribean. When we arrived on Sunday, the whole town was abuzz waiting for the boat load of gringos to disembark, and while we walked through the town to the rancho, we were stunned by the number of children all around. So. many. children. Over the course of the week, they would become some of our best buddies in San Cristobal, running up to hold hands as we walked to class, lifting up their arms to be thrown in the air, and hanging on the legs and backs of the big, burly boys in our group. We spent a couple afternoons swimming in the ocean with them. Ngobe kids loaded up their dugout canoes with PC aspirantes, and we swam around among the coral in water that was still only about waist-deep(my host mom later dug out spines from my feet with a needle. So handy!). We made sure to paddle extremely far out. The environmental-health situation in Isla Cristobal is pretty poor; they do all of their business in ¨servicios¨over the water. Often in the afternoon and evening, the smell of excrement wafts from house to house, especially those whose homes are built directly over the shore.

That aside, I continue to be wowed by the jaw-dropping openness and kindness of the Ngobe people we meet. I would like to say it is my effervescent charm that endears me to everyone, but I can take no credit for how well we are treated.

My host mom was very shy and bashful, and at first. When she spoke it was barely above a whisper. But by second day, she started giggling at my jokes, making her own, and even asked to braid my hair. DISCLAIMER: Only consent to a Ngobe hair-do if you want to look like a fool. At first, I thought she was whipping up these styles purely to humiliate me, but I later found out they legitimately think they look lovely. The first style consisted of several brightly-colored pony tail holders positioned at all angles over my head. Everyone from the PC Bocas group could not look at me without laughing. The last day, my host mom said she had to braid my hair, and I tried to do a little intervention by saying that I like the braids best when they started in the back of the head and go down. You know...I was hoping for something french-braidish. I asked if she understood, and she said yes, but then she immediately began forming two gigantic Clifford-size dog-ear braids down the side of my head, with a violent part in the middle. The braiding continued, and at one point, I asked how many braids she had made, and in one of my favorite moments of the week, she sheepishly replied, ¨Varios...¨

This needs no translation. I spent all of Friday walking around with six braids with neon-colored scrunchies, hearing all the aspirantes laugh at me, barely able to mak eye contact. No Ngobes though, to them, I looked just fine.

The rest of the week consisted of culture lectures, Ngobere classes, walks on the medicinal plant trail, visits to the artisan shops, and even a visit to another volunteer´s community on the other side of the island. We paseared to a bunch of houses there, meeting one incredibly sweet, quietly intelligent older man who told us he stayed home all day from work to wait for our visit. With children tugging and grabbing you, Ngobes eager to teach you their language, and community members peering out their windows hoping you´ll stop by to talk, it´s hard not to feel incredibly optimistic about the next two years of service. Nothing comes easily in PC, but I can already see how the rewards will make it all worth it.

In other news, my Spanish is coming along. In my second language interview a couple of weeks ago, I scored advanced-low, and I am definitely shifting more easily between English and Spanish, and speaking a lot more fluidly. I am grateful that I´m well understood, and made sure this past week to spend a lot of time talking with my host family. Every night I sat out on the porch and chatted for a couple of hours, asking them questions about their life in Panama and answering some of theirs about life in the U.S. I continually found myself struggling to put words to such foreign concepts and realities in our country. For these people, the world is so small. One woman assumed everyone in the United States spoke Spanish. I told her a lot of people took it in high school, but few speak it fluently. She couldn´t figure out how they could forget. Everyone asked about my family constantly, trying to understand how I could be 22 and still without children. They were all worried about my parents, and couldn´t imagine why I would move so far away. And how could they? Most Ngobe families live within spitting distance, who could imagine moving half a world away to live with strangers?

On Thursday, my host mom snuck into the living room, where I had just finished watching Touched by an Angel dubbed in Spanish with Monica, a seven-year-old fan of mine who lived next door. (You may be interested to know, whoever dubbed for the Irish angel kept a slight brogue somehow through the Spanish. Incredibly impressive.) My host mom sat down on a bench, and all of a sudden said she didn´t want me to leave on Saturday, and why couldn´t we do tech week in San Cristobal? I told her my permanent site is close, and I could come and visit soon. She paused, a grin spread across her face, and she said, ¨Catherine, how many stories is your house in the U.S.?¨ I said it was two floors, and told her the floor plan, and she said, ¨You can visit me here, but when can I come and visit you and your family in America?¨

On Saturday, she and Toni, my four-year-old host brother, walked me to the dock to say goodbye, and I tried to thank her for everything, and to convey completely how grateful I was. They stood on the dock and waved goodbye, and I was caught off guard by how sad I was to be leaving them.

As we sped away toward Bocas Island, I realized I have two families in Panama now, in Santa Clara and now in San Cristobal. Nani, my SC-host mom was sad to hear my site was in Bocas, because it would mean visiting her, the Daiveys, and Gresyi would be difficult She hugged me as I left last week, and her concern and advice for me was so genuine. ¨Take care, Catherine,¨she said, scanning me up and down, in disbelief that the sweaty, friendly gringa was venturing out to the rough and wild Bocas province. She watched from the door as my friend and I disappeared down the hill, and again, I was surprised at how sad I felt to have to leave them for two weeks.

We are treated so well here, often times just because people, particularly Ngobes, are so honored and excited to have us as guests. We felt like rock stars walking down the paths in San Cristobal, with kids crawling out of windows and climbing onto porches to yell hello. I can´t wait to see my own community in a few weeks, and to find out what happens when my stay is more permanent, and it´s time to get real work done. The reality of living and working here for two years is starting to hit me. Food is an adjustment, there is very little privacy, and once the gringa-excitment wears off, I will undoubtedly be struggling trying to motivate, and inspire people to change how they´ve lived for years, all in a second language. As rich as some of our interactions have been, I am always wondering when other volunteers taking about having ¨friends¨in their community, how meaningful these relationships really are. How deeply can you know someone when, even though you live together, in most way you are still a world apart? Howevr, weeks like the one I just had always remind me that laughter sounds the same in every language, all kids want your attention, and people always surprise you, sometimes for the worst, but mostly for the best.

In other news, I have a cell phone! I finally called home last night, and the reception was awesome. I think you can get to me by dialing 001 for the int´line, country code 507, then 64101638. I won´t have service when I am in Santa Clara, but I will try to start texting and calling when I can. Once I am in Bocas permanently, I will always have service.

Much love to everyone. I´m off to tech week where we´ll be building a compost latrine, thermoforming PVC pipes for aqueducts, and learning how to maintain, repair and design the lines. We´ll be in the Comarca, where the food will be somewhat less plentiful, and a lot less enjoyable (think boiled bananas three times a day), so I´ll undoubtedly have more to share next week. Be good.

Site Annoucements

Thank you to everyone who has been sending me emails. I wish I could send more lengthy responses, but unfortunately my computer time is limited. But know that I miss you all, and am always thinking about what you´re all up to.

As for me, today was the most important day of my training so far. We received our site announcements four hours ago, and I couldn´t be more pleased. They kept us in suspense for several hours, during which I got a serious case of the nervous giggles, leg twitches, and thumb-twiddles. The hour of announcement began with a clip of President Kennedy talking about Peace Corps, and a series of commercials that have aired since PC was started 48 years ago. Talk about drama. They were giving the telenovelas (Spanish soap operas) a run for their money.

The training directors placed a huge map of Panama in the center of the room and said they would announce sites from east to west, starting in the Darien and ending in Bocas. I was called second-to-last, and will be living in a Ngobe site in Bocas, very close to where my site visit was. We only receive a little information about our future site, but from what I´ve heard so far, I´m absolutely elated.

My site has a view of the Carribean Ocean, is predominantly Ngobe, but also has a Latino population. This will be good for my Spanish, as many volunteers are concerned about language loss once they move to an indigenous site. I don´t need to hike anywhere, it sounds like the town is very close to the highway. I was surprised to hear it has over 1,000 people, which was not at all what I was expecting, but I was also told you´d never know there are that many people there. There are only 120 houses total, and while most live close to the road, many others are spread far out. So far out it might take me a couple of days to pasear from one side to the other.

This is good opportunity for exercise.

The site sounds more accessible than I was expecting overall, which means I should be able to get to the Internet regularly, and also to a market to buy the vegetables after which I am constantly lusting. My main project will likely involve composting latrines. The community has demonstrated an interest in them, and even applied for a grant through a government agency, but as of yet, nothing has come of it. They are desperately in need of latrines, as they only have three serving the entire community. Essentially everyone does their business in the creek.

Herego, there is a lot of opportunity for health education as well, which is something I was hoping for and looking forward to. The schools are well-attended and have a larger staff than I was expecting. There is also an existing water committee, and an active community leader who has taken the lead on the latrine project in the past. It is a relief to hear there is some leadership in the community already. Its size is daunting, but I think I was placed there partly because my APCD thinks I could be good at motivating an organizing the groups. Volunteers in Bocas also have a lot of opportunity to work with host-country agencies, like the Ministries of Health, Social Development, etc, which I hope to do also. Our first three months in-site are dedicated to ¨Proyecto Amistad¨or project friendship, and doing a community analysis. During this time, I´ll get a better sense of what people want, what it will take, and whether it´s feasible.

I am thrilled to be in the Bocas province. I´ll have cell reception, several other volunteers close by, and also... when you guys come to Panama... I am very close to Bocas Island, which is the top tourist destination of Panama.

This Saturday we leave for culture week, which will be on one of the islands off the coast of Bocas. After that, we´ll come back through David, and then have tech week in the Comarca Ngobe-Buble. Tech week is for learning more details about how to build latrines, repair, design, or build aqueducts, and other key EH skills. I´ll be away from Santa Clara for two weeks, living with indigenous host families, and spending a lot of time with my training group. I heard these are a stressful couple of weeks, but I´m ready to go in with guns blazing.

I promise to bring my camera this time.

I have so much more to share, but am running out of time. It´s been a chaotic couple of weeks, with tons of presentations, projects, language test, and everything in between. My APCD interview last week went really well. It was a huge confidence boost, and a good reminder of why I´m here. I´lll be in David again later this week, and hopefully I can check in again then. If not, I am sure I´ll have more thoughts than you want to hear once culture and tech weeks are over.

In the mean time, check out the video posted here. We watched it last week, and it shows what some indigenous communities in Panama are like. Might give you a better picture of what PC does here and under what conditions.

To Bocas and Back

Writing again from the city of David, having returned a couple of hours ago from my volunteer visit to Bocas del Toro. On Thursday morning, Patrick, the volunteer I was to going to visit, surprised me by knocking on the hotel door just as I had emerged from the shower. I didn´t know he´d be meeting me in David, but finding out I wouldn´t have to navigate any buses by my onesies was a pleasant surprise.

After a delicious lunch for the whopping price of $1.85, we departed on a Changuinola-bound bus and rode for about three-and-a-half hours over rolling hills, toward the blue misty mountains of Bocas. Panamanians like to pack their buses tight, and this one was about the size a shuttle you´d see shuffling tourists to and fro in Florida. Ngobe women got on with their children from the sides of the road, barefoot and in traditional colorful dresses. They stood so close their long hair was whipping my face at every turn. As we climbed higher, I could tell I was heading out of familiar Panama and into something completely different.

We got off the bus and sat down to put on our rubber boots, an indispensable accessory in this mud-laden country. We were immediately greeted by a Ngobe man that Patrick knew. Campesino, or farmer/country, Spanish is spoken much slower, a cultural equivalent of a Southern drawl. I could understand more than I expected, even though their language was peppered with Ngobere terms. Hearing Patrick converse with people throughout the weekend helped bolster my confidence that my Spanish would be up to par by the time training is over, more or less. He speaks simply and slowly, but so does everyone else.

The hike was a challenging one; quite steep and I had to frequently pause to pull my leg out of 8 inches of mud. There is something about walking through wet, sopping ground however, those satisfying slaps and squishes really make you feel like you´re going somewhere.

After about 80 minutes, we arrived at Patrick´s site. I was sweating profusely as usual, but eager to take in everything surrounding me. All the houses are raised huts, mostly with roofs made out of penca, or thatch. Some had zinc roofs, but those were exceptions. Penca, while dusty and attractive to critters, is overwhelmingly preferred because it keeps homes a lot cooler than zinc. I know this because my home in Santa Clara has a zinc roof and it undoubtedly contributes to the ever-present gringa sheen. At this point I must interject to apologize and say that again, I forgot my camera. I am failing miserably in my efforts to document this journey photographically, but I promise to do better/steal pics from my fellow trainees. But, your image of a wooden hut with a thatch roof is likely accurate, so continue to use your imaginations.

When we arrived, it was already getting dark, so I rushed away to rinse off quickly before dinner. Patrick´s bathing situation is an interesting but common one. About 50 feet away from his house is a three-sided bathing area with a large bucket and a faucet that usually has running water. I, in technical development terms, would call the water flow a half-hearted trickle but when it works, it gets the job done. Because it only has three sides though, most volunteers wear clothes while bathing, which limits how clean you can really feel. I decided after about day five in Panama that I wouldn´t really feel clean until 2011 so any time I don´t feel filty, I count my blessings.

Is this too much information? Now that we talk about excrement and water-borne diseases all day, I assume this is stuff everyone wants to hear. Any sense of decorum I was clutching onto left me immediately once I landed in Panama.

Anyway. I was interested to see how dinner would be because up until now, I didn´t have a good idea of how or what volunteers ate. Patrick happens to be a master chef, and he works wonders with a propane tank and two burners. We´d hiked up with veggies from the market in David, and over this last weekend, I ate the best food I´ve had since arriving in Panama. That is, if we discount the Dairy Queen Blizzards I´ve eaten in the mall food court. Why has no one told me about those until now? Over the course of a few days, we had spaghetti with stir-fried veggies, oatmeal with flax, wheat germ, powdered milk and sugar, homemade cornbread (I know!), chili, brown rice with squash, lentils, and other goodies, and even crepes. This trip proved to me several things, diet-wise, a) It´s possible to eat well as a PC volunteer b) beans are indispensable c) peanut butter can go in pretty much anything.

Friday, the Ministro de Salud (Health ministry) planned to be working on a water project in Loma Azul, which we were hoping to observe/help haul sand for, but it got rained out. A fierce thunderstorm rolled through, with lightning strikes only a couple hundred feet from our hut. I donned my fleece jacket for the first time in Panama and was thrilled to do so. So Friday ended up being a low-key day. I read a couple hundred pages of my book, laid in a hammock, and chatted with the people as they passed by Patrick´s place. Even though we didn´t do much, it was a useful experience to see how volunteers spend time in a day. PC work moves at a rate slower than a snail´s pace sometimes. Especially in the first year of service, there isn´t much to do the majority of the time. Even when you´re actively seeking out work, doing community analyses, and getting to know people, you have free time. It is one of the most frustrating aspects of service because volunteers feel that they´ve sacrificed so much to be in the Peace Corps, and many of their days are spent idle. So I was glad I got to experience a "tranquilo" Peace Corps day. Also it was the first time I´ve had a free moment since arriving, so falling asleep in a hammock and listening to storms roll in was exactly what I wanted to be doing. I introduced Patrick to Bananagrams and Farkle, and would you believe I was soundly beaten in Bananagrams three times? This was a blow to me ego, but I took in stride because my opponent is also a voracious reader and writer.

On Saturday, Patrick´s friend Jen, and my fellow trainee Aleah hiked from Jen´s site along with the soon-to-be regional leader Ben. The mission today was to give a nutrition charla at the school. Charlas are sort of informal lectures given by PC volunteers in the campo. I pasear´ed with Patrick in early morning, inviting people to the charla. Pasear-ing is sort of the Spanish equivalent of¨going to visit, or to come calling, if you will. A lot of the words we learn don´t have English equivalents, so I´ll introduce them as we go along. Pasear-ing is a huge part of volunteer service. Going to people´s houses, drinking coffee and shooting the breeze is the only way to built trust and relationships in some some communities.

Attendance at the charla was good, about 10 women showed up, some with their children. I was mistaken in my earlier entry when I said many Ngobes are shy and reserved. Most communities in the Bocas area are quite lively, and the women came ready to participate. At some point, we all broke into teams, a volunteer in each group, to make lists of different-colored foods. The women I was with were feeling competetive, and demanded to list the white foods. Good thing too because I don´t know many words for red, yellow, or green foods in Spanish. We joked that our list was the best, and the longest, and indeed ended up winning. I was delighted to talk with community members, joke around, and participate in a charla. We spend hours in training talking about ice breakers, different presentation methods and topics, but nothing compares to seeing what it is really like in person.

Also, I must add. Can you believe what music was playing from the school when we arrived. Celine´s "Because You Loved Me" followed by "My Heart Will Go On."

WHAT!?!? Nothing really compares to entering a tiny school in the mountains of Panama, in an indigenous community, and hearing Celine blasting from the windows. Talk about surreal.

After the charla, the five gringos paraded through town back to Patrick´s house and we spent the afternoon asking the volunteers questions, making lunch, and playing some more Farkle.

This visit was designed to show us what volunteer life is like, and to spend some time up close and personal in a site. I have pretty much nothing but positive feedback for my APCD interview this weekend. Bocas is incredibly beautiful, the communities are less intimidating than in some other areas, and most sites are relatively accessible. They have cell service, and are about an hour away from a town with Internet and some stores. The only downside I saw was that Patrick hasn´t had many big projects to work on. He tried to start some latrine and aqueduct work, but found that people weren´t willing to haul sand or cement up the mountain. Peace Corps is all about building capacity from the ground up, and teaching people how to do the work themselves, and Patrick wasn´t willing to put in effort if the community wasn´t. I think he is exactly right. Unfortunately it means he closes his service without many tangible results, but he did have some big success in giving AIDS/sexual education charlas in eight sites throughout bocas, as well as helping with some side projects in his town.

We arrived back in David at about 12:30 this afternoon and I took the first hot shower I´ve had since getting here. It was glorious and I think my feet are actually legitimately clean for the first time since August 11th.

Peace Corps is all about small victory´s, so three cheers for clean feet!

Volunteer Visits

First of all thanks to everyone who sent me news about Celine being pregnant. Even though celebrity gossip, and news of most kinds, if off my radar while in Panama, I expect immediate notification of anything and everything regarding Celine Dion, or our favorite trainwreck celebs like LiLo, Amy Winehouse and the like. Development work is serious business, but I still have room in my wee little brain for some celebrity skuttlebut. Don´t forget it.

On a more serious note, I heard the news this morning about Ted Kennedy, and audibly gasped, turning heads in the restaurant where we were eating. It´s awful to see him go before the culmination of his life´s work, but after hearing reports about him being unable to speak, and suffering through his last days, in a way it comes as a relief. I don´t have much time to check news here, and Panama nightly news is all about truck accidents and drug busts, so any updates on health policy news would be greatly appreciated.

Today I´m writing from David, the second-largest city in Panama, in the Chiriqi province. I´m munching on slices of mango, which I bought from a street vendor for 25 cents. I am pleased with the cost of food here.

We left Panama City last night at 7:30 on a comfortable, Greyhound-y bus and headed about six hours west, arriving at 2:45a.m. in an unfamiliar city without maps or an exact idea of where our hotel was. Peace Corps likes to give you enough information to get somewhere, but not so much that you really feel like you know where to go. It´s all part of the experience, see?

This trip is for our volunteeer visits, where in our second week of training, we go to the real site of a volunteer. My site is in Bocas del Toro, the eastern-most province in Panama, bordering Costa Rica. A majority of the province is in the Comarca, or the Panamanian equivalent of reservations for indigenous people. To my surprise, my volunteer met me here in David this morning, and we´ll leave together around noon, take a three-and-a half-hour bus ride, and then hike for an hour to his Ngobe site. His directions to his site were good, but I´m glad to be going along with him to make sure I hike up the right super-steep path. Also, if you ask for directions in Panama, most people just gesture wildly and say ¨Por Alla¨ meaning ¨Way over there¨or ¨Por alli¨meaning ¨Close, but a little bit over there¨ or ¨Por Aca¨ meaning ¨Kinda close, like right here!¨ Last week I was showing Nani where I´d be going in Bocas, and Greysia wanted to see the world map I brought. Nani new exactly where we were in Panama, but on the world scale, she wasn´t sure, and needed me to point out the U.S. She did remember where all the other aspirantes who have passed through Santa Clara lived, asking me to point out Virginia, Massachusetts, and a bunch of other states.

I´m thrilled to be out and experiencing the real Peace Corps life this weekend. The majority of our environmental health group will be placed in indigenous sites, and we´ve heard a lot about them, but it´s impossible to know what they´re really like until we get there. So now I have my chance, and when we return to Santa Clara on Monday, I´ll be able to talk with the Associate Programing Director about my thoughts and experiences, whether I would hate living in Bocas or love it, and what I think of a Ngobe community. Using this interview and other means of assessment, Tim (the APCD) will decide a permanent placement for me. I´ll know where I´m going during week four of training. (We´re halfway through week two now.) If I´m in a site where there is cell service, I´ll probably buy a phone soon and will be able to call and text again.

One culture point that is important to consider about Latino sites, but more particiularly Ngobe and other indigenous communities is the concept of ¨pena,¨ which in English translates roughly to something like embarassment, shame, or shyness. We´ve heard people, epecially in the rural country, tend to speak very indirectly, and often not at all to a new person, so it takes months to build a relationship and confianza, or trust, with only a few select people. Ngobes frequently assume the Americans know best, are too shy to be forthcoming, or prefer to wait and be told what to do. But the job of a PC volunteer is to learn from them about the community and its needs. Only they know, and they have the most to teach me. Starting to break down that pena barrier is a months-long process for many volunteers. I am not expecting many to readily talk with me this weekend, but at least I´ll get a feel of what the site is like and how I might react to living there.

In preparation, yesterday I took a one-hour class in the Ngobere language. My only real take away thought is ¨Good Lord...¨At times I feel like my Spanish is actually getting worse; I don´t know how I´ll ever manage to learn Ngobere. The vowel sounds and sentence stuctures are completely different than Spanish and English. I did have another ¨This is so cool¨moment though, as I was being instructed in Spanish about a rare indigenous language that most people in the world don´t even know exists. I didn´t even notice I wasn´t thinking in or about English at all.

Some days there is so much to take in, and my brain is just buzzing with new information until it finally gives up and shuts off. But when I walk home from class, saying ¨Buenas¨to everyone that passes, sharing space with the plethora of chickens, turkeys and ducks that roam around town, I´m always refreshed and feeling grateful for this experience. I´ve been encountering all these little signs along the way too, like one of the first songs Daviey Sr. played on the stereo when I arrived was ¨La Vida Es Un Carnaval.¨ I´m not supersticious but when things like that happen, it makes me feel like I´m in exactly the right place.

So that´s it for now. I might have a chance to write again Sunday when I´m back in David for the night.

And hey y´all don´t forget to keep me updated on your own lives. I want to hear about everyone´s new jobs, schools, and everything in between.