Saving sloths: an illustrated tale

A couple of weeks ago, we went up into the monte to re-start our water-level survey (the previous day, the tank had broken after a fall, and we had to post-pone until I could fix it). We were about to cross a small creek, when the two young men I was working with noticed this:
That is a sloth. It must have fallen from up high, landed between the two trees and gotten good and stuck. It was not moving and appeared to be dead. But my cohorts and I decided we had to be sure, so they got a couple of large sticks and started poking.
Eventually, they knocked him loose and he thudded to the ground. He was not exactly the picture of health. We figured he probably wouldn´t make it, but at least he could drink from the creek and maybe make a recovery.


When we passed back down there again a few hours later, he had climbed back up into another nearby tree and appeared to be very much among the living.

The next day, the two boys, who are also members of my Panama Verde group, were happy to tell the story with some gentle prodding from me. All in a day´s work.

The two animal rescuers, at the water reserve tanks, with the water level.

The Best-Laid Plans

I was excited last week. I had a bunch of things to do, and everyone seemed ready to do them with me. But, whenever I start to get too optimistic, or start thinking ¨Hey, this isn´t so hard¨, reality comes, slaps me around and says ¨Hush now, gringita. You don´t know a thing.¨

I was talking with another PCV the other day on the phone, and told him that it´s clear to me now that we must cycle through at least three dates for an event before we actually do it. People cancel, don´t come, or something comes up and I can´t make it. Here is an example of what last week was like for me:

Tuesday: Planned a self-esteem and values charla in the junior high. Actually did it! Score! It was so-so. My audience wasn´t quite captive.

Wednesday- At long last, the second planned day for our water-level survey. This takes all day. At 8:30 when the President had not yet arrived at my house to begin working, I called him. ¨I have another commitment.¨ That came up awful fast. He said he was ready to go when I went and confirmed Tuesday afternoon. We agreed to do it Sunday. Our other worker, who arrived on time, was unable to do it Sunday. You need at least three people to work with the water level, four is better. I´d have to spend some time chasing down some other people for Sunday.

I was later met by my counterpart, who asked me if I had plans for Thursday. I had reserved that day to prepare a training for Friday about disease transmission with my latrine committee. He informed me that the next day a Bocas organization was holding a meeting in my school, and could I please house 8-12 people on Thursday night? And could I also please attend the meeting on Thursday and Friday morning because ¨movers and shakers¨might be coming, and there could be potential funders for our latrine project. I agreed, but ask him, what about the training we prepared for Friday morning? We agreed to change the date.

Thursday- Sat-in on meeting. Did not need to be there. Brought four participants back to my house in the evening only to realize my rain-water tank had been left open by kids and I had no water for them to bathe with. Luckily, my first host-dad was there to witness my discontent. He will hopefuly speak to his family who comes to use the water to wash their feet when they arrive barefoot from arriba. Leaving the faucet running is a rain-water tank is not good.

Friday- Training session cancelled. Sat-in on rest of meeting. Still not needed.

Saturday- Cleaning of water tanks and spring box planned for the morning. Especially motivated to do this because the aqueduct´s operator told me he had climbed naked into all three the day before to dislodge blockages. Please pass the bleach.

Too few people showed up, so we could not clean the spring box because at least six men are needed to lift the cement tops. We settle for cleaning the reserve tanks, which I pointed out is a little silly if what is arriving from the source is still dirty, but to clean something is better than nothing. Then I see that the aqueduct president did not bring any bleach, only dish soap. I point out that this is not sufficient, bleach is needed. He mutters some excuse. He responds poorly to criticism, especially if anyone else is around, so I bit my tongue and started scrubbing and catching the live crabs that were being thrown out of the water tanks.

I am glad I drink rain water now.

So in the afternoon, we were supposed to have our first English class since the recess began in March. As I was hiking down from the tanks I pass a member of my latrine committee on the path going up. She had the days confused about our training, and thought it was for Saturday. She asked me why I made her walk for no reason! I cleared up the confusion, and asked her what about the English classn in the afternoon? Because I was only expecting 3-4 students, her presence was important. She tells me my other star student was in Almirante and would also not be coming. We agree to cancel the class and pick another day to start over.

Do you see? Some weeks are like this. Despite preparation and plans, none of it actually really happens. Oh well, we´ll try again this week.

Where´s Walter?

I always subscribed to the ¨Dogs are people too¨ line of thinking. If you´re a dog person, you know what I mean. Our family dog Whistey was definitely part human. He was always respectful of personal space, and only got up in your face when he really needed something. He didn´t rush to eat his biscuits in the morning; he ate them neatly, using both paws to hold them as he nibbled away politely. If he had an accident or misbehaved, his embarassment was visible. He had a certain dignity about him.

My Walter, albeit still in his puppyhood, certainly has a different character, but is no less human than the late great Whistey Basham. He´s got this sadness in his face--a knowingness that tells you this puppy has seen it all, and it´s made him tired. The look of defeat he wears is a warning that life isn´t always sunshine and rainbows. Take it from a puppy who knows.

Do we believe dogs have past lives? He is only eight weeks old but his malaise is so convincing.
I know this dog is special because he has even captured the hearts of Ngobes who, though they often have dogs, treat them poorly or don´t feed them enough (or at all). But Walter? They see his face and ask ¨Is he OK, Cati? You should buy him milk.¨Which always makes me laugh because it´s such a luxury that they don´t even buy it for their children, let alone a lowly perrito. I took him by the school the other day, and two of the teachers said, ¨Why does he look like that?¨I don´t know; he just does. He lives the life of Riley compared to all the other dogs, but that miserable coutenence leaves the general public questioning my parenting skills.

So moved by his mournful gaze, neighbor Julio asks to take him out on trips into the woods to fix the aqueduct or go fishing. Julio says it´s so Walter doesn´t get lazy, but I know better, because the invites only come after Julio wonders aloud at the Ambassador´s ¨little sad face.¨

Of course, he doesn´t always look like it´s the most disappointing day of all time. He plays, scares the neighbors, and walks right by my side whether I´m going lejos arriba to clean the water tanks, or down to nearby Quebrada Juan to pasear. He´s afraid to cross the street and gets nervous in front of a lot of people, but left to run loose in the monte, he looks more at home.

I never had a puppy before, so I was unsure about what it would be like, but I´m always delighted by the ways he is like a real baby. He has sweet puppy breath and does not react well to bathtime:


In the night, sometimes he cries. I get up, give him a little cuddle, and he goes back to sleep again until the morning. When I read at night, he starts trying to climb up on me and wedge his face in the crook of my elbow or on my chest. H ewon´t settle for some affectionate patting. He wants to snuggle. In fact, while I was writing out this entry last night, he climbed into my lab and positioned himself just so:
I will have to work on phasing this out eventually because hammock snuggle hour is not as easy or enjoyable with a 50 lb hound. But right now, I am powerless to deny him. His eyes!

So life with Walter is fun. He makes every day a little more interesting. The town refers to him as my chi chi, Ngobere for child, and he is exactly like that. My own little chi chi with a body spotted like a cow, and a face marked by a persistant melancholy that he might be too young and erm, canine to really own.

Frankly, my dear

¨Cati, how much do you weigh?¨ Julio arrives at my fence, hangs his arms around it, and waits for my answer.

¨And why do you want to know?¨ In Panama, you can ask anything of anyone, and it´s okay, but I like to maintain a lady-like sense of decorum when at all possible. It so rarely is.

¨Just wondering. How much?¨

Some days I am too tired to put up a fight. I tell him.

¨What!!?!?!¨ Julio falls backwards.

¨Why, what did you think,¨ I asked.

¨You are much taller than me, Cati.¨ Julio is 5´4¨ and weighs 168 pounds. ¨I thought you weight at least 200 pounds, probably more.¨

A lot of times, candor is refreshing. In the United States, we spend a lot of time avoiding questions or dancing around the truth without even realizing it. In Panama, when you are calling attention to someone, it is perfectly okay to refer to them as ¨the old one¨ or ¨that fat one.¨ If you have a scar, a scratch, a pimple, whatever, someone will probably ask you what it is or where you got it. It´s out there for the world to see, why not talk about it? One time in the supermarket, a woman called to her colleague, ¨Oye, gordita!¨ Hey, little fatty! No one ever minds, and being gorda isn´t a bad thing. My community wants me to get fatter. They encourage it because it would mean I am thriving and being taken care of.

Commenting on people´s appearances is one of the first places you notice the candor when arriving in Panama, but it extends to virtually every corner of conversation. Mothers, for example, have no shame about telling you they got pregnant just so they could have a baby of a particular sex. None of this ¨I just want it to be healthy,¨ mumbo jumbo. She wants a daughter, dammit! One day, my neighbor Seña came to pasear. We always talk about her kids, and she started talking about her eldest son, and how he had fought with his father the night before. ¨I hate that, Cati, when he is upset. I love him the most.¨

¨You love him the most?¨ Maybe I misunderstood. Declaring favorites? Also a no-no in the land of the free and the home of the brave.

¨He was my first! I like the other ones just fine, but I love him A LOT. Way more than the rest.¨ She admits this as her three youngest children play at our ankles. Don´t worry kids, she loves you too, just not as much as number one!

Then there´s the impromptu emotional confession. This happens less often, but still with considerable more frequency than in the U.S. People will air their family´s dirty laundry (threatening men with rifles, sisters who won´t share recipes, mothers and fathers with lovers on the side) with very little prompting. One night, I was writing in my journal, and a visitor came by. I asked how he was, and he responded, ¨Sad.¨ I asked why, and he came back with a four-minute monologue about the burden of his father´s illness, the responsibility that he has taken on, and how his youth has been sacrificed as a result. He sees other boys his age hanging out and having fun, and realizes he never got a chance at that care-free time to be young. Have you ever answered ¨How are you?¨ with so much honesty?

While in many ways, the Ngobe people are much more reserved than most cultures, once some level of trust is established with certain people, they´ll tell you more than you asked to know about their hernias, land disputes, and everything in between. This is certainly the exception to the rule in my community, and only the people who I know well share with me this way, but goodness, once they open up, you hear it all.

I am a Mom

There were several months of internal debates that went into the should-I-get-a-puppy decision. Many volunteers have done it and sung the praises of having a little furball around to help you through those dark electricityless nights and the awkward pasearing moments. Then, I decided, unequivocally, that now is not the best time in my life to take on the responsiblity of a dog. I live, temporarily, in a foreign country, have to travel, and live on a limited allowance that doesn´t leave a lot of room for puppy medical emergencies.

But then Jim, our Bocas regional leader, found himself in a bit of a bind when a pregnant dog decided that he was her new daddy, and proceeded to move into his Changuinola home until she bore eight perritos. He asked me if I could please take one, and I thought to myself, ¨Cati, you did not seek out this puppy. It was delivered it to you.¨ And there are some faces that you are just born to love. And this one?

I fell hard, and I fell fast. His complete name is Ambassador Walter Fitzgerald Caballero-Lopez Santos Santos. Jim named him Droopy, but I thought a name like that could have life-long effects on his self-esteem. His last names came from my first host family and neighbors. The name Walter was suggested by my birthmother and also Paul. Fitzgerald is a shout-out to the adulterous, back-pain-plagued founder of Peace Corps, JFK.

He is an Ambassador because, well, why not givea dog a title? It might keep the kids from playing too roughly with him. El es un ambajador! Cuidado! Since Walter arrived on Sunday, he has been coming to pasear with me, at the quebrada to wash clothes, and from house to house helping me accomplish my daily tasks. We are working on the whole walking-on-your-own thing. He prefers to be carried like a baby and rest his head on my shoulder. He is still a wee thing (one month!), but it can´t go on forever. That isn´t very dignified behavior for an Ambassador. You have legs, Walter. Use them.

We are living a very happy life together. He falls asleep on my tummy while I lie in my hammock at night, and he even poops outside! Although we are encountering some small problems. One is that all of the deathly thin dogs that never get fed can fit through my porch fence and steal his food. And twice in the a night a bully has come by and tried to hurt Wally Fitz. His screams broke out into the night and awakened me from my slumber. My neighbor saw this happen both times and is also feeling fiercely protective of our poor defenseless hero. He is also a little bit of a chewer, and a mouther, which are common puppy problems but I am determined to be a rigid trainer. Teething is no excuse to behave like a common street dog, Señor Caballero-Lopez Santos Santos. This lady´s ideas about how to keep him from biting are interesting. Although if I start yelping everytime he mouths me, I think the Ngobes will finally decide that Cati is just completely off her rocker. He responds to my reprimands, and can be redirected to playing with his toy I made from a handkerchief.

Doesn´t he look thrilled? Anyway, he is usually only awake for fifteen minutes before he needs another break:

So that´s the story. Stay tuned. (I promise I will endeavor to keep the annoying dog-doting to a minimum. BUT DID YOU SEE HIS FACE?!)

My first year of medical school (updated)

So by now the secret´s out that I harbor delusional fantasies of practicing medicine, but posess neither the will or the skill to actually pursue a professional, (legal), career. But you know? Sometimes when you really want something, you are provided with opportunities. (I think I just heard you all roll your eyes.)

Yesterday I went to the nearby community of Valle de Agua Arriba, where another Peace Corps volunteer is wrapping up her service. The community was hosting a gira medica, which is essentially a traveling clinic made up of doctors, dentists, vets, and students, that descends on a town for a day and sees as many patients as possible. Unfortunately, I didn´t get to see much of what was going on in the medicina general room, but that all sounded quite boring compared to where I was stationed in the dental room.

Of course, my role was to translate for the students and nothing more, because none of them spoke a word of Spanish. And for a rural population who has never seen a dentist and has trust issues with gringoes and foreigners, my services were appreciated by both parties. I felt most useful when even the Spanish-speaking Costa Rican doctors asked me to speak with patients to explain medicine or treatment, because they could tell the Ngobes were more willing to listen to me.

But besides all of that, I got to see some pretty gruesome tooth extractions, record-amounts of plaque scraped off teeth, and explained how to brush teeth about 100 times (I have never seen anyone in my community brush teeth. Toothpaste is sold in the tienda, but I am quite sure I am one of perhaps three QP dwellers who purchase it.) I also felt the fierce defensivenes I´ve lately been experiencing when it comes to ¨outsiders¨talking down, or badly about the people here. It´s easy for some people to criticize when you have no idea about the context of their lives.. But people who have never lived alongside them, haven´t seen them haul buckets of water for 15 minutes uphill just so they can cook, or seen how little money they really have, cannot understand all of the barriers poor, rural populations face in trying to be healthy.

In between translations, I did decide dentistry will not be the fake medical-specialty I adopt in the vast vallies of my imagination. It is the only area of modern medicine that makes me cringe more than orthopedics.

Other Asuntos Varios on the health front:

So if you are wondering how my feet are, the answer is much better, thankyouforasking. The infections are gone, and I had a blood test today to make sure there were no more creepy crawlies hanging out in my blood. Luckily, there were not, but there are some other creepy crawlies hanging out in my skin.

So I had been suffering from a REALLY SEVERE ITCH ALL OVER MY BODY THAT WAS DRIVING ME CRAZY for about two weeks. Like crazy itching, especially at night, when I would wake myself up digging at my skin like a mangey flea-ridden dog. Then I broke out in a rash on my knees, which was a charming addition to the scars, cuts and bites that already inhabit my legs. These gams are getting pretty hard to look at, folks.

The doctor says I have scabies, and all of their egg-laying and pooping under my skin causes an allergic reaction. Which is beyond disgusting. I hope he is wrong and it is just an allergic reaction to the jungle. He didn´t dwell very long over the diagnosis, just pointed to two nearly miscroscopic dots on my scratched-up hand and said ¨That is where it went in, and that is where it went out!¨

So let´s allow ourselves to float around in the hopeful fantasy that it was a hasty, incorrect assessment. Because even though I am an imaginary medical professional, mites burrowing around in my skin is just a little too Victorian-England-jail-cell for my liking. Furthermore, you usually need to have some close human contact to get scabies, if you know what I mean, and I am a very single young lady living a very single life in the jungle. If I caught this wretched disease from having kids crawling all over me, then well... NO MORE COLORING AT CATI´S HOUSE!! Scabies... seriously?

So anyway, I am in Changuinola for the weekend, getting some PC work done and catching up on some R and R before I head into a marathon couple of weeks doing stuff in site. You might be hearing from me again.