It still seems strange that this chapter is over, but I'm glad to have the blog as a record of where I started and ended up. Thank you to everyone who has kept up with me and my adventures for the last couple of years. It's been a lot of fun keeping track of the experience for people who are genuinely interested and take the time to read about a corner of the world totally different than their own. Thanks. I won't be blogging here anymore, so for newcomers who want a re-cap, or readers who caught some but not all of the story, here are a few posts that, together, might make something of a summary.
1. Why I joined the Peace Corps.- July, 2009
2. Llega la gringa.- October, 2009. My first visit to the community. Skimming over this post again reminds me of how much a volunteer's perspective changes over 27 months.
3. The Doctor is Out.- February, 2009. An introduction to traditional health beliefs. Reader favorite!
4. Saving Sloths, An Illustrated Tale. June, 2010. Living in the rainforest has so many benefits.
5. One Year In. August, 2010.
6. Distance. September, 2010. A learning experience for everyone involved.
7. Cati Quiero Pintar and Visitor's Pass. October 2010 and July 2011. To help you get a better idea of the true daily experience.
8. Latrine Project Continues. June, 2011.
9. Singing Kids and Dancing Kids. September 2010 and September 2011.
10. Why Participatory Community Development Is Hard...and Right. August 2011.
Monday, December 5, 2011
Friday, October 28, 2011
The very end
Where to begin when you're telling the very end of a story?
I spent a dreamy last week in Quebrada Pastor. I stared at the greenness of all of those hundreds of thousands of leaves. I listened one last time to the arrival of a rain storm, hearing it hit the zinc roof of my neighbors two seconds before it hit mine. I wanted to talk to everyone who defined the last two years, to spend one last hour in their houses, to share one more meal. I tried my best to say something to let them know what this experience had meant. My words were jumbled. I did a bad job, but they nod, and there was as much understanding as there ever was.
This life, which became normal and routine, would all of a sudden seem foreign and strange the second I stepped back home. And I hate that it's that way. That such a beautiful, complicated, challenging experience already seems to me like a dream.
In those last few days, the tension hung. The kids visited even more than usual, snuggling extra close, attaching themselves to me, trying--and succeeding-- to prolong their already too-long visits. Some adults did the same, only slightly more subtly, and I did it right back to them.
Friday morning arrived, and all of my bags were packed and waiting. My closest friends came over one last time. I said goodbye to my host family and it seemed too simple and too big all at once. I felt like a traitor. I lived in this place for two years, trying to learn about them, be like them, get them to like me, and like them back, and maybe after all that, do some work. And then it was ending and I go back to a place that they don't know and act like someone who isn't exactly their Cati. I didn't want to stay anymore, but leaving didn't feel good either.
My neighbors walk me down to the bus shelter. Every time I looked at someone's face I started to cry, and I noticed the adults wouldn't look at me either. But the kids kept staring. They've always been the best at that. One boy asked his dad, why I was crying. His dad explained that I was sad to go, and the boy asked, "Then why doesn't she stay?"
Truthfully, I looked forward to leaving for weeks. I wanted to go. But all of a sudden, when faced with the fact that a bus would be coming within minutes and taking me away, I couldn't believe how all my reasons for leaving suddenly seemed less important than this one reason for staying: This is way harder than I thought.
A bus pulls into sight. My neighbor asked me if I'm going to get on. The thought that this was the very very end, and hearing that he was thinking for a second that it might not be, shattered any control I was trying to maintain.
Hugs and kisses from people I never hugged or kissed before. The sweetest, comforting words from people who are usually too stoic to say those kinds of things. One last squeeze for the kids who are reaching their arms up, hugging me on their tiptoes. Those liquid eyes were never afraid to stare into mine, and they weren't then. And me, I couldn't say anything. I couldn't even look. The only thing I managed to get out was "Thank you" as they helped get my luggage on the bus, told me they'll see me, and made me promise to call.
Then I'm on the bus, and it's moving away. Everyone's waving. And then I'm gone, and the story is over.
Thank you, thank you, thank you.
I spent a dreamy last week in Quebrada Pastor. I stared at the greenness of all of those hundreds of thousands of leaves. I listened one last time to the arrival of a rain storm, hearing it hit the zinc roof of my neighbors two seconds before it hit mine. I wanted to talk to everyone who defined the last two years, to spend one last hour in their houses, to share one more meal. I tried my best to say something to let them know what this experience had meant. My words were jumbled. I did a bad job, but they nod, and there was as much understanding as there ever was.
This life, which became normal and routine, would all of a sudden seem foreign and strange the second I stepped back home. And I hate that it's that way. That such a beautiful, complicated, challenging experience already seems to me like a dream.
In those last few days, the tension hung. The kids visited even more than usual, snuggling extra close, attaching themselves to me, trying--and succeeding-- to prolong their already too-long visits. Some adults did the same, only slightly more subtly, and I did it right back to them.
Friday morning arrived, and all of my bags were packed and waiting. My closest friends came over one last time. I said goodbye to my host family and it seemed too simple and too big all at once. I felt like a traitor. I lived in this place for two years, trying to learn about them, be like them, get them to like me, and like them back, and maybe after all that, do some work. And then it was ending and I go back to a place that they don't know and act like someone who isn't exactly their Cati. I didn't want to stay anymore, but leaving didn't feel good either.
My neighbors walk me down to the bus shelter. Every time I looked at someone's face I started to cry, and I noticed the adults wouldn't look at me either. But the kids kept staring. They've always been the best at that. One boy asked his dad, why I was crying. His dad explained that I was sad to go, and the boy asked, "Then why doesn't she stay?"
Truthfully, I looked forward to leaving for weeks. I wanted to go. But all of a sudden, when faced with the fact that a bus would be coming within minutes and taking me away, I couldn't believe how all my reasons for leaving suddenly seemed less important than this one reason for staying: This is way harder than I thought.
A bus pulls into sight. My neighbor asked me if I'm going to get on. The thought that this was the very very end, and hearing that he was thinking for a second that it might not be, shattered any control I was trying to maintain.
Hugs and kisses from people I never hugged or kissed before. The sweetest, comforting words from people who are usually too stoic to say those kinds of things. One last squeeze for the kids who are reaching their arms up, hugging me on their tiptoes. Those liquid eyes were never afraid to stare into mine, and they weren't then. And me, I couldn't say anything. I couldn't even look. The only thing I managed to get out was "Thank you" as they helped get my luggage on the bus, told me they'll see me, and made me promise to call.
Then I'm on the bus, and it's moving away. Everyone's waving. And then I'm gone, and the story is over.
Thank you, thank you, thank you.
Puerco de Paz
You may remember that last fall, I purchased a piglet for $25. I did this with the carnivorous intention of raising him 'til he was big and fat, and then killing him for my despedida. Goodbye parties are a big tradition in Panama, and I wanted to make sure there would be enough food to feed the flocks. Plus, it was a good conversation topic. People found it hilarious that I owned livestock and enjoyed asking me how fat he was getting. His name was well-known around town. Puerco de Paz means Peace Pig and is a play on the words for Peace Corps in Spanish, which is Cuerpo de Paz. It was impossible to mention him without grinning just a little.
Purchasing this piggy was perhaps one of the best decisions of my life. The day before my despedida, he was brought down from his house on the hill and my neighbors and BFF's Julio and Rosita took charge of the subsequent slaughter and preparation. Good thing, because when initially face-to-face with the 80-pound hog, I got cold feet and contemplated going into town to buy chicken. I learned a lot of things in Panama, but Intro to Butchery is a course I missed.
The plan was to smoke him that night, and the next day prepare a barbeque sauce, reheat and serve. I purchased some screen and, using tall stakes, we set up a grill of sorts, perched high above Rosita's cooking fire. Over the next eight hours, we smoked two batches of pork, and oh my goodness, did it taste good. The guilt I had over watching my baby get killed in cold blood slid away as the smoky smells of his roasting flesh filled the air. Yummo!
We attracted quite the crowd. Other neighbors and passersby seemed delighted by watching me rotate the meat over the smoky fire, and covering it back up with banana leaves. They said a lot of things like,
"Oh, look at Cati with all of that pork! She's crying from the smoke! What a great memory this is!"
And it was. Julio, Rosita, the kids and I stayed up until one o'clock in the morning smoking my dear puerco to perfection, all the while telling stories and jokes and enjoying each other's company. That night, I returned to the house with two five-gallon buckets filled with food.
In the morning, I prepared a barbeque sauce. I wanted to share something American in terms of cuisine at my despedida, but sometimes people scare easily when it comes to new, bold flavors, so I tried to keep it simple. The recipe was this:
1 part vinegar
1 part water
1 part ketchup
1 part sugar
Then I threw in some paprika, chili powder and a bit of bbq seasoning. That afternoon, we re-heated the meat in huge pots, threw on some sauce, and served it up with some rice and yucca. It was a hit.
I documented each step of the pig's demise, but I understand that some people might not want to be assaulted with such violent imagery. Therefore, follow this link if you want to see.
Purchasing this piggy was perhaps one of the best decisions of my life. The day before my despedida, he was brought down from his house on the hill and my neighbors and BFF's Julio and Rosita took charge of the subsequent slaughter and preparation. Good thing, because when initially face-to-face with the 80-pound hog, I got cold feet and contemplated going into town to buy chicken. I learned a lot of things in Panama, but Intro to Butchery is a course I missed.
The plan was to smoke him that night, and the next day prepare a barbeque sauce, reheat and serve. I purchased some screen and, using tall stakes, we set up a grill of sorts, perched high above Rosita's cooking fire. Over the next eight hours, we smoked two batches of pork, and oh my goodness, did it taste good. The guilt I had over watching my baby get killed in cold blood slid away as the smoky smells of his roasting flesh filled the air. Yummo!
We attracted quite the crowd. Other neighbors and passersby seemed delighted by watching me rotate the meat over the smoky fire, and covering it back up with banana leaves. They said a lot of things like,
"Oh, look at Cati with all of that pork! She's crying from the smoke! What a great memory this is!"
And it was. Julio, Rosita, the kids and I stayed up until one o'clock in the morning smoking my dear puerco to perfection, all the while telling stories and jokes and enjoying each other's company. That night, I returned to the house with two five-gallon buckets filled with food.
In the morning, I prepared a barbeque sauce. I wanted to share something American in terms of cuisine at my despedida, but sometimes people scare easily when it comes to new, bold flavors, so I tried to keep it simple. The recipe was this:
1 part vinegar
1 part water
1 part ketchup
1 part sugar
Then I threw in some paprika, chili powder and a bit of bbq seasoning. That afternoon, we re-heated the meat in huge pots, threw on some sauce, and served it up with some rice and yucca. It was a hit.
I documented each step of the pig's demise, but I understand that some people might not want to be assaulted with such violent imagery. Therefore, follow this link if you want to see.
Saturday, October 1, 2011
Young entrepreneur
One of the largest frustrations throughout my service was dealing with people constantly asking for free things. When I first moved into my house, every night the neighbors would send their children over to ask for cooking oil, matches, kerosene, packets of coffee, anything and everything. I knew that being a friendly neighbor and lending a cup of sugar now and then wouldn't work. To give one thing one time establishes the expectation of giving every time, every day. And while at first it was hard to say no to the kids, I knew they'd survived without my help and would continue to do so.
I came up with a few solutions to counter the barrage of requests for food or supplies. I always offered to buy produce from the families- bananas, otoe, wild peach palm, limes, whatever. I would be happy to act as a loyal paying customer, but would always refuse to hand out free money.
Few adults latched onto this, but the kids were captivated. I would pay them for the plantains they had in their house? Ten cents each! Their eyes lit up at the mere idea. Abdiel, my ten-year-old neighbor was my best supplier. If he needed a few cents for a pencil for posterboard for school, he would come over and peddle whatever he had in exchange for a quarter. Or he'd ask me if I wanted anything in particular when he knew his family was headed to the farm. Sometimes the kids would still ask for money for no reason, and I always responded that they had to find a way to earn it. Little Rosibel would busy herself washing dishes, or collecting trash. Milexi might find me some firewood or put some elbow grease into the pots and pans Rosibel just couldn't scrub clean. Asael would cut my lawn, and Nelson would stand there swinging a stick like a machete trying to convince me he was big enough for the job too.
As my departure from site approached, the kids started asking what would become of all the books, puzzles, and games I'd collected over the last two years. These requests were immediately followed by a demand of "give it to me!" which was always met by my explanation of a yard sale so that everyone would have a fair chance. I promised to sell all the "kid things" cheaply, between ten cents and fifty, but if they wanted something, they'd have to think and save their money for that day. This is hard. In a place where every nickel counts, and sometimes there are none at all, adults have trouble managing what little they have and planning for a rainly day. I was asking a lot.
Abdiel came by a couple of days before and asked about a game of Trouble I had. He'd had his eye on it since I bought it and had played it countless times while visiting. I told him it cost fifty cents, and he'd better start thinking about how he was going to get that money or else someone else would buy it.
I saw a mixture of excitement and defeat in his eyes. Fifty cents is a lot to these kids and I could tell he thought I was being unnecessarily miserly. Then he smiled and told me he'd figure something out and I better not tell anyone else the game is available.
Ten minutes later he came back with five pieces of wild palm and asked if I wanted to buy them. I handed him his quarter and he smiled and said, "Only one more quarter to go."
I heated up some refried beans to dip the palm in, and he came back over and sat down at the table with me. We talked for a few minutes before he said, "Give me an egg for my dad to eat with dinner? We don't have any meat to eat with the bananas." In my crotchityness, I reminded him that I just paid him a quarter, and the only person whose dinner I am responsible for is my own. If he needs an egg that badly, he should use his own money to buy it at the store across the street.
"If I do that I won't have the fifty cents to buy the game," he said.
I told him that's not my problem and reminded him he still had a few more days to earn more money. At that point, most other kids would have sensed their defeat and called me selfish or mean, but Abdiel just sat there quietly for a few minutes. I thought the conversation was over and was about to send him home when he said, "Well, what if I buy an egg for my dad, and then I could sell you ten more peach palms for five cents each and then I would have 50 cents?"
I wanted to hug him. And you know this early purchase was technically breaking the rules of the yard sale, but I was so proud of his problem-solving and resourcefulness that I said "It's a deal!" He grinned and ran off to collect my produce.
Somehow, that moment felt like one of the most successful in my entire service. In two years a boy went from only asking and expecting free things, to figuring out some simple solutions to earn what he needs or wants. It's a kind of empowerment even a lot of adults here don't feel. These quiet moments of tiny success are what made my service more rewarding. You never know how much you affect one person, and results are sometimes impossible to see. Peace Corps humbles its volunteers because it shows us how hard it is to do the smallest things, and how little change we can really spark in two years. I don't know if I really taught him anything or if he would have eventually figured it out on his own. Maybe I was just a supportive customer.
I hope he always stays as motivated and pro-active as he is at ten.
I came up with a few solutions to counter the barrage of requests for food or supplies. I always offered to buy produce from the families- bananas, otoe, wild peach palm, limes, whatever. I would be happy to act as a loyal paying customer, but would always refuse to hand out free money.
Few adults latched onto this, but the kids were captivated. I would pay them for the plantains they had in their house? Ten cents each! Their eyes lit up at the mere idea. Abdiel, my ten-year-old neighbor was my best supplier. If he needed a few cents for a pencil for posterboard for school, he would come over and peddle whatever he had in exchange for a quarter. Or he'd ask me if I wanted anything in particular when he knew his family was headed to the farm. Sometimes the kids would still ask for money for no reason, and I always responded that they had to find a way to earn it. Little Rosibel would busy herself washing dishes, or collecting trash. Milexi might find me some firewood or put some elbow grease into the pots and pans Rosibel just couldn't scrub clean. Asael would cut my lawn, and Nelson would stand there swinging a stick like a machete trying to convince me he was big enough for the job too.
As my departure from site approached, the kids started asking what would become of all the books, puzzles, and games I'd collected over the last two years. These requests were immediately followed by a demand of "give it to me!" which was always met by my explanation of a yard sale so that everyone would have a fair chance. I promised to sell all the "kid things" cheaply, between ten cents and fifty, but if they wanted something, they'd have to think and save their money for that day. This is hard. In a place where every nickel counts, and sometimes there are none at all, adults have trouble managing what little they have and planning for a rainly day. I was asking a lot.
Abdiel came by a couple of days before and asked about a game of Trouble I had. He'd had his eye on it since I bought it and had played it countless times while visiting. I told him it cost fifty cents, and he'd better start thinking about how he was going to get that money or else someone else would buy it.
I saw a mixture of excitement and defeat in his eyes. Fifty cents is a lot to these kids and I could tell he thought I was being unnecessarily miserly. Then he smiled and told me he'd figure something out and I better not tell anyone else the game is available.
Ten minutes later he came back with five pieces of wild palm and asked if I wanted to buy them. I handed him his quarter and he smiled and said, "Only one more quarter to go."
I heated up some refried beans to dip the palm in, and he came back over and sat down at the table with me. We talked for a few minutes before he said, "Give me an egg for my dad to eat with dinner? We don't have any meat to eat with the bananas." In my crotchityness, I reminded him that I just paid him a quarter, and the only person whose dinner I am responsible for is my own. If he needs an egg that badly, he should use his own money to buy it at the store across the street.
"If I do that I won't have the fifty cents to buy the game," he said.
I told him that's not my problem and reminded him he still had a few more days to earn more money. At that point, most other kids would have sensed their defeat and called me selfish or mean, but Abdiel just sat there quietly for a few minutes. I thought the conversation was over and was about to send him home when he said, "Well, what if I buy an egg for my dad, and then I could sell you ten more peach palms for five cents each and then I would have 50 cents?"
I wanted to hug him. And you know this early purchase was technically breaking the rules of the yard sale, but I was so proud of his problem-solving and resourcefulness that I said "It's a deal!" He grinned and ran off to collect my produce.
Somehow, that moment felt like one of the most successful in my entire service. In two years a boy went from only asking and expecting free things, to figuring out some simple solutions to earn what he needs or wants. It's a kind of empowerment even a lot of adults here don't feel. These quiet moments of tiny success are what made my service more rewarding. You never know how much you affect one person, and results are sometimes impossible to see. Peace Corps humbles its volunteers because it shows us how hard it is to do the smallest things, and how little change we can really spark in two years. I don't know if I really taught him anything or if he would have eventually figured it out on his own. Maybe I was just a supportive customer.
I hope he always stays as motivated and pro-active as he is at ten.
Tuesday, September 13, 2011
QP Dance Troupe
They need some work on following choreography, but I still think Rihanna would be proud.
Bathing
The Competition
People started gathering around mid-day. The diputado, a local government representative, had announced a visit, and slowly but surely, hundreds of Quebrada Pastor residents started trickling toward the meeting rancho. I'd never seen so many people in once place in town, not even when traveling medicine clinics have come through. But no one would be foolish enough to miss a day with the diputado.
When he finally arrived at 5 p.m. that afternoon, his minions began unloading. Hundreds of pounds of food, mattresses, shovels, machetes, plates, bowls and toys were unloaded as all the community members stood by and watched, chattering among themselves about which things they wanted. The meeting began with an introduction and small speeches given by other local diputados as well as two of QP's "leaders." Our "dirigente," something lie a town mayor who doesn't actually do anything, gave a speech about all the needs Q.P. has, soliciting financial or material help from the diputado. I think he made up this list entirely by himself, as a weedwhacker and fancy bus shelter topped the list. Our water committee presented a solicitude for more tube and a new reserve tank installation in a place which would do so much more harm than good to our fragile aqueduct. I bit my tongue, thinking of all the work I tried to do with him, and how we could have improved the system in a meaningful way if they'd had interest.
The entire exercise was completely ridiculous. After everyone got a chance to speak, one of the diputado´s handlers got up and began a speech about how his boss was more than just a government representative working for the people. This diputado had converted himself into a real-life Santa Claus, traveling from community to community handing out things people needed and wanted. I looked around at the crowd, trying to gauge a reaction. No one seemed to consider this a blatant show of corruption or vote-buying, instead, they considered this what they were owed. Rural Panamanians are used to being marginalized, mostly ignored by government and officials, and the way they feel recognized is by days like these. The matteress or sack of food they walk away with is official recognition, evidence that someone is looking after them.
I´d seen enough and headed back to the house before the gift giving began. I started thinking about development, and Peace Corps´ participatory community approach. I thought about how that really plays out in the field, how it works and how it fails. And I thought it sounds like a pretty good theory on paper, but it can be totally different in real life when your competition is... Santa Claus.
When he finally arrived at 5 p.m. that afternoon, his minions began unloading. Hundreds of pounds of food, mattresses, shovels, machetes, plates, bowls and toys were unloaded as all the community members stood by and watched, chattering among themselves about which things they wanted. The meeting began with an introduction and small speeches given by other local diputados as well as two of QP's "leaders." Our "dirigente," something lie a town mayor who doesn't actually do anything, gave a speech about all the needs Q.P. has, soliciting financial or material help from the diputado. I think he made up this list entirely by himself, as a weedwhacker and fancy bus shelter topped the list. Our water committee presented a solicitude for more tube and a new reserve tank installation in a place which would do so much more harm than good to our fragile aqueduct. I bit my tongue, thinking of all the work I tried to do with him, and how we could have improved the system in a meaningful way if they'd had interest.
The entire exercise was completely ridiculous. After everyone got a chance to speak, one of the diputado´s handlers got up and began a speech about how his boss was more than just a government representative working for the people. This diputado had converted himself into a real-life Santa Claus, traveling from community to community handing out things people needed and wanted. I looked around at the crowd, trying to gauge a reaction. No one seemed to consider this a blatant show of corruption or vote-buying, instead, they considered this what they were owed. Rural Panamanians are used to being marginalized, mostly ignored by government and officials, and the way they feel recognized is by days like these. The matteress or sack of food they walk away with is official recognition, evidence that someone is looking after them.
I´d seen enough and headed back to the house before the gift giving began. I started thinking about development, and Peace Corps´ participatory community approach. I thought about how that really plays out in the field, how it works and how it fails. And I thought it sounds like a pretty good theory on paper, but it can be totally different in real life when your competition is... Santa Claus.
Wednesday, August 24, 2011
On paseo
Last Saturday I went on on a trip with a friend from QP and his three kids. My neighbor Pcv Elsie came along and we made a day of fishing and then heading to the beach in a dugout canoe with a motor on back. Pictures:
Saturday, July 30, 2011
Re-Entry
I only have two months left in Panama, and people have been asking how I feel about coming back home. Of course, there are the obvious good-for-a-dinner-party answers, involving funny culture clashes or developmens in the States that I´ve missed. For example, I have no idea how to use a modern cell phone anymore. When I left, the iPhone had only just come out, and I´d only seen one or two. The iPad didn´t exist yet, and my ungainly old Dell laptop didn´t look as ridiculous as it does now sitting next to the ubiquitous dwarfish netbook. If you think I´m overstating the rate of change, I will tell you that when I visited home in December, I walked up to a paper picture of an iPad in Target and, thinking it was real, tried to scroll my fingers across it.
Sad but true.
So there is the anxiety that certain aspects of U.S. culture and life now seem foreign or even undesirable to me. But more than that, I am faced with wrapping up one of he biggest, most important periods of my life. I´ve had the time here to figure out what makes me happy, what I´m good at, not so good at, and take on things that at first seemed impossible. I´ve become so much more patient, serene, and open-minded than I could ever have imagined. When I first got here, I lacked the self-assuredness to believe that I could so much of anythuing here. But somehow, I´m still not sure how, I figured things out little by little, and before I knew it, the journalism major who had never been on a plane before was managing a construction project in an indigenous village.
Sad but true.
And then of course there´s all the news I´ve missed. The BP Oil Spill. The emergence of the Tea Party. Revolutions in the Middle East. The Federal debt crisis. Earthquakes in Haiti, Chile and Japan. Osama´s capture. The Royal Wedding. All of these I´ve-just-come-from-the-jungle-and-I-feel-lost stories are good for a laugh, but I know I can eventually catch up when it comes to scary technology, big headlines and celebrity gossip.
The real reason PCVS worry about their close of service isn´t so much about going back home, but about leaving the country in which we´ve lived and worked for two years. I´ve had a life-changing experience and learned more about myself and this tiny part of the world than I ever imagined I would. And now I am struggling with how to reconcile the old U.S. Catherine with the new Panamanian Cati. My fear is that when I go back home, I will have let go of so much of what I´ve learned and the life I´ve had, in some ways slowly and unconsciously and in others, more abruptly. I know I´ll be homesick for Panama and the way I lived here.
One of the things I like most about Panama is the friendliness and approachability of everyone who lives here. Strangers are always striking up conversation, hanging around and looking out for each other. When you get on a bus, you say ¨Buenos dias!¨to everyone, and most people say it back. If you feel like talking, you just go to your neighbor´s house and pass the time. Here, I feel like I can talk to anyone anywhere about anything. There is a real sense of community.
In the hours I might have previously wasted talking on a phone, surfing the net, or watching trash television, I have made amazing friendships with other PCVs, people who, because of the extreme circumstances we´ve shared, feel closer to me than some people I´ve known my whole life. I´ve loved and been loved by a group of people in my community who I didn´t even know existed two years ago. Panama and the pace of life here offers people this time to get to know each other, to enjoy the company of someone else, and in doing so, become more aligned with one of the essential things that makes life worth living: human connections.
Whereas, in the United States, to a large exent, people have stopped connecting in this baic way. Everyone is too busy with their smart phones to look up and say hi to the person sitting next to them. You could argue that Americans are more connected than ever, with the Internet and social networks that enhance the relationships we have in ¨real life.¨ But I don´t think so. Sharing links or liking someone´s status on Facebook doesn´t offer as much as sitting down and sharing coffee and conversation with that person. In my time here, I have come to feel more connected to myself and the people around me than ever before.
So there is the anxiety that certain aspects of U.S. culture and life now seem foreign or even undesirable to me. But more than that, I am faced with wrapping up one of he biggest, most important periods of my life. I´ve had the time here to figure out what makes me happy, what I´m good at, not so good at, and take on things that at first seemed impossible. I´ve become so much more patient, serene, and open-minded than I could ever have imagined. When I first got here, I lacked the self-assuredness to believe that I could so much of anythuing here. But somehow, I´m still not sure how, I figured things out little by little, and before I knew it, the journalism major who had never been on a plane before was managing a construction project in an indigenous village.
Peace Corps does this to people. It gives you opportunities and responsibilities that you may not deserve, and allows you to run with them. I look back and am amazed by all that´s happened in two years, what the people here have taught me, and how much perspective I´ve gained. An experience this challenging and foreign forces people to evaluate what is really important to them, what they are capable of, and how their life and purpose fits in with those of of the seven billion others. I am sad to let go of this time in my life, where something new happens every day, when I am so constantly challenged, and the rewards for success feel so great. The contrast of highs and lows, combined with the novelty of the things we get to do here, give us the sense of really living and experiencing life completely.
But as much as I have loved Panama, and the life lessons it has taught me, I also have a greater appreciation for the United States and the countless advantages I enjoy for just having been born there. I am excited to go back. I miss my family and friends. I´m burned out by certain aspects of being a PCV and am eager to start the next stage of my life. But I struggle with the idea that the patience, tranqulity and thoughtfulness that have defined my time here will start to fade away. I will miss the simplicity of life, the connectedness to community and nature and the sense that, even if I feel I´m failing, I am still making an effort at something worthwhile. I know parts of this experience will be with me forever, but the pace and competitiveness of U.S. life will surely start to chip away at some of the perspective, patience, and understanding I´ve been forced to adopt here.
It´s difficult to sum up what this experience has meant. It may be something I won´t fully realize until I´ve been back in the U.S. for a while, and even then, something that is so subjective and personal it´ll be hard to articulate. In the mean time, as I tie up the loose strings and prepare to leave, I am being extra-conscious to remember and savor everything I´ve gotten used to-- from the ocean views and rainforest downpours to the kids´ brilliant smiles and bottomless eyes.
I´ve experienced so much , and I can´t afford to forget any of it.
Notes from the Clinic, Part III
A couple of weeks ago, I had to stop by the hospital to get some medicine for an ear infection. (My body, still flummoxed by the environs in which it finds itself, insists on contracting diseases usually affecting small children under the age of five.)
I had the following interaction with a nurse, who weighed me, took my blood pressure, and proceeded to ask some routine check-in questions.
Nurse: How are you?
Cati: Good, thanks. And you?
Nurse: Alright, a little hungry, but that´s not your fault.
Cati: *blink*
Nurse:... do you have a fever?
Cati: I´m not sure, maybe a little.
Nurse: (touches Cati´s arm). AY! My God! You´re burning up!!
Cati: I am? I don´t think...
Nurse: (touches Cati´s arm again) Oh, wait, no, you´re normal.
Without touching a thermometer, she notes 37 degrees Celsius on my chart.
Here´s the thing: They always do this at that hospital. Just ask the patient if she has a fever without ever reaching for the device that would provide an accurate answer. Whyyyyy? Although maybe I should be impressed this time the nurse went so far as to use her finger tip to take a reading, because I mean, it´s the same as a thermometer, right?
I went on to be seen by the doctor, who examined the ear that was bothering me with the ear-flashlight-telescope thing. Then he asked me if the other one was infected. I said I didn´t think so, but wasn´t sure, and he sat down contendedly at his desk and started writing prescriptions. Why wouldn´t you look at the other ear? All he had to do was shuffle six inches to the right and take a peak. WHYYY?!
I always thought of medicine as a science, but am confused by the persistent lack of scientifiy inquiry involved in its practice here in Panama. Just saying, the medical professionals here are doing nothing to convince me that it is inappropriate for me to follow my dream of practicing Dr. Quinn-era frontier medicine in 2011.
I had the following interaction with a nurse, who weighed me, took my blood pressure, and proceeded to ask some routine check-in questions.
Nurse: How are you?
Cati: Good, thanks. And you?
Nurse: Alright, a little hungry, but that´s not your fault.
Cati: *blink*
Nurse:... do you have a fever?
Cati: I´m not sure, maybe a little.
Nurse: (touches Cati´s arm). AY! My God! You´re burning up!!
Cati: I am? I don´t think...
Nurse: (touches Cati´s arm again) Oh, wait, no, you´re normal.
Without touching a thermometer, she notes 37 degrees Celsius on my chart.
Here´s the thing: They always do this at that hospital. Just ask the patient if she has a fever without ever reaching for the device that would provide an accurate answer. Whyyyyy? Although maybe I should be impressed this time the nurse went so far as to use her finger tip to take a reading, because I mean, it´s the same as a thermometer, right?
I went on to be seen by the doctor, who examined the ear that was bothering me with the ear-flashlight-telescope thing. Then he asked me if the other one was infected. I said I didn´t think so, but wasn´t sure, and he sat down contendedly at his desk and started writing prescriptions. Why wouldn´t you look at the other ear? All he had to do was shuffle six inches to the right and take a peak. WHYYY?!
I always thought of medicine as a science, but am confused by the persistent lack of scientifiy inquiry involved in its practice here in Panama. Just saying, the medical professionals here are doing nothing to convince me that it is inappropriate for me to follow my dream of practicing Dr. Quinn-era frontier medicine in 2011.
Visitor's Pass.
One thing I will miss about Panama and my time here is the sense of community. People talk to their neighbors. They come over just to say hi and spend some time talking to you.
I, the resident gringa, of course receive a disproportionate amount of visitors on a daily basis, mostly children and my former host family, and I´m sometimes overwhelmed by the number of people who come parading by on a daily basis. To give you an idea of daily foot traffic in and out, I have made a list entrances and exits on a fairly typical day.
I, the resident gringa, of course receive a disproportionate amount of visitors on a daily basis, mostly children and my former host family, and I´m sometimes overwhelmed by the number of people who come parading by on a daily basis. To give you an idea of daily foot traffic in and out, I have made a list entrances and exits on a fairly typical day.
7 a.m. - My host brother goes to high school at night in Almirante and takes the first bus home in the morning. He usually arrives at my house early in the morning, sometimes just as I am rolling out of bed. I usually try to shoo him away, but as my house is used as a storage bin for all members of my host family, he usually sneaks in to drop something off and then continues to linger until I shoot him enough grumpy morning looks that he gets the hint.
7:15 a.m.- My host family stores their shoes at my house and the kids stop by to wash their feet and put on their uniforms. If I´ve already made breakfast, several moments are reserved for them staring at what I´m eating and telling me it looks gross.
7:30 a.m.- As I am washing up breakfast dishes, the youngest neighbor kids usually come by and ask to come in and play. I usually tell them it´s too early. Unless they offer to wash my dishes, in which case, I pull the stool up to the sink and let them have at it.
7:35 a.m.- Someone comes by with a project-related question. Where is the shovel? Do you have a bucket? How much wood do I need for the walls of my latrine? Will you come and observe every small task associated with my latrine so I don´t make a mistake?
8 a.m.- My former host mother comes in without knocking or announcing her arrival. As I am busy trying to get dressed and ready, she plops down in my chair and announces she is thirsty. If I pretend not to hear or understand, she begins breathing heavily and makes quite the show out of acting tired and dehydrated.
8:30 am.- 4 p.m.- I am out and about working in the community. People come by during this time and report to me later their shock and dismay upon finding the house empty.
4 p.m.- As the children see me coming home from work, they ask to come over. I am usually exhausted and filthy, and it takes my very last reserve bit of patience and benevolence to tell them to let me bathe first. They demand that I call them when I am ready to receive visitors.
4:15 p.m.- Despite said agreement, they yell and ask if it´s time to come over yet. Or they are waiting outside my fence as I emerge from the bathroom, and my dreams of alone time vanish into thin air. I run a comb through my hair and relent.
5:00 p.m.- I kick the children out just in time to have my former host-siblings in the junior-high school come and drop off their shoes, books and clothes.
5:20 p.m.- No sooner do they leave then some other visitors who just got out of class stop by. Often one of my Panama Verde kids or some other directionless youths looking for somewhere to sit and pass the time. My host brother, the one who attends high school otuside of town, usually comes by around this time again on his way to night classses.
6:00 p.m.- By this time my hopes of relaxing in the hammock with a cup of coffee have all but vanished, and I decide to start cooking dinner before it gets too dark. Just as the onions and garlic begin to sizzle, my host dad pops in to drop off his chain saw. He sits and seems like he wants to talk. Sometimes I indulge, other times I refuse to leave he kitchen and concentrate very closely on the onions.
6-8 p.m.- Things are finally quieting down, but at least one person usually stops by to chat, often asking what´s for dinner or if the coffee is ready yet. Sometimes the neighbors send someone over to ask for oil, sugar, or kerosene. Inevitably, the kids arrive and try to come in again, although the ¨no visitors after six o´clock¨ rule has long been enforced.
Please note that this happens in a day when I am out of the house working most of the time. Imagine what happens on the less busy days. I get frustrated with people using my house as a public park and storage room, and sometimes feel that whhole days go by in which I never escape the gaze of visistors and loiterers. But, I do love having neighbors, and being accessible to the community, and I try my best to remind myself that they come by because they like me and that I should soak up all the time I have left with them. But my first cup of morning coffee? I´m not sharing that.
A Ngobe Guide to Healthy Living
Many of the most memorable conversations I´ve had with people in my site are about health and home remedies. People here rely on botanical medicine and some of the local healers have extensive knowledge of the local plants that cure a wide range of ailments. What they know is impressive and to be respected. The only objection I raise to the use of natural medicines is in serious cases, when a person fails to get better, or needs urgent care, and the family inevitably waits too long to take the person to a doctor. Some of the medicine men´s remedies are guesses, and they have no ¨real¨ training beyond tradition. There are limits to what they do, although the people I live with will be just as quick to remind you that the same is true of doctors.
As a volunteer, it´s important for me to walk the line of acceptance and support for local knowledge, while also offering some ideas and tips from a more modern, clinical perspective.
During my time here, I´ve learned a lot about the basic beliefs and superstitions of the people in my area. Here are a few of the most common :
1. For parasites, diarrhea, stomach ache, etc., follow the following recipe:
Boil very stong coffee in only a few ounces of water. Add the juice of one lemon and dissolve an Alka Seltzer tablet. Drink it all and expect relief within a few hours.
Note: People swear by this. I doubt what value it could possibly have, but it certainly sounds like something that would flush out the pipes.
2. Skin infections. When I was having a lot of problems with infections of my legs and feet, people were always asking who I had been hanging around with. This question made little sense to me, until they explained that the sort of infections I was getting are usually contracted when the afflicted person spends time near a pregnant woman. They say that the ¨heat of her belly¨ causes the outbreak. Don´t worry though. There is a simple cure. Go to the woman´s house and ask her for a glass of water. Drink it all and the infection will go away. But it is important that you drink her water, or else it won´t work.
They are aware that this sounds a little fanciful, so they usually say, ¨I know it seems like a lie, Cati, but it´s true.¨
3. People believe very much in curses, and for people who are chronically ill and don´t get better, or who visit a doctor who cannot render a diagnosis, it is assumed that they have been cursed. The doctor can´t see the disease because it is only the manifestation someone´s ill wishes against them. For this reason, people often don´t take medicine given to them if they believe the root cause of the illness is really a maldicción. (Medical compliance is a whole other issue, which could be a post in itself.)
4. Relationships of hot and cold are extremely important and can explain away the onset of virtually any sickness. For example, one must never bathe right after working, because the cold water combined with a hot, sweaty body is a recipe for disaster. You should also only drink hot drinks when it´cold because that is the only time your body can truly handle them. I have offended more than a few visitors by offering hot coffee on a warm day.
I once baked using my neighbor´s stove, and she came in and told me not to bother washing the dirty dishes. She mentioned how I would get sick if I washed them, because I had been so close to the hot oven and taking pans in and out all afternoon. I thought this was her way of telling me she didn´t mind cleaning up my mess, but I washed the dishes anyway. I received a very angry scolding afterwards, and she checked up on me for days afterward to see if I was okay.
5. Worms (of the intestinal variety) are so normal that people believe they are necessary to digest food. When I talk about eliminating contaminants from drinking water, people have asked, ¨but how can we keep eating if we don´t have worms?¨ I didn´t quite realize how strongly people believe in worms being necessary for sustaining life, until a child asked me if I had worms, and when I said no, both he and his cousin asked in unison how I was still alive.
6. You must never eat pork if you have any kind of medical condition, real or imagined. Any kidney condition will be especially aggravated. (Many have already told me I will have to buy chicken for them when I have my goodbye party, because that pig I have been raising is no good to them.)
7. People usually don´t attribute diarrhea to bad water or unwashed hands. It is almost always caused by fresh fruit, vegetables, bread, or virtually any food that that they don´t eat every day. And you know, this may actually be true because some things are so unfamiliar to them, they may upset stomachs. Nonetheless, this belief is a serious inhibitor to good nutrition.
It´s always a challenge to determine if I should offer counter information and when to do it. Even though these things sound ridiculous to us, I am conscious of the fact that me explaining ideas like solar disinfection of water sounds just as preposterous to them. The invisible rays of the sun are killing the invisible microbes in the water? Sure, Cati. How can I convince them that their baby really shouldn´t pick things up off the floor and put them in her mouth when babies have always done that, and most of them grow up to be healthy, functional adults?
When I first came to my community, I was shocked at what I perceived as a blatant disregard for basic cleanliness. What I now realize is that people are very conscious of cleanliness and their family´s health, but their reasons for preventing or explaining illness are very different, and unfortuantely, in many cases, misdirected. They take great care sweeping out their houses, bathing their children, and generally making sure their homes look as neat and tidy as possible. They are doing what they think is best to be clean and healthy. Every mother loves her child and wants him to be well. She does everything with his best interests in mind. This is a universal human trait. If she fall short, it is almost always due to a lack of education or simply traditional beliefs that offer different explanations.
A friend recently explained it this way, and it makes total sense: Very few of us Americans have ever actually seen a germ. By this I mean, to have looked through a microscope and seen a cold virus, bacteria or anything else that causes disease. But we believe it because we have years of education and resources that tell us that it´s so, and we accept it as fact. We have had access to scientific information and education, and that is what informs our thinking and behavior. For people who haven´t had that access, there are other explanations and reasons for things that seem as plausible to them as a cold virus does to us.
Thinking of it that way, how can we look down on someone who has a lifetime of experience that indicates to them bathing right after work might cause the flu? It seems irrational to an American, but we sound equally so to them when we explain that there are harmful things in their water that looks perfectly clean to them.
Part of my job has been to touch on that common desire we all have to be healthy and offer some new ideas and strategies to be even healthier. And sure, I´ll drink that pregnant lady´s glass of water to clear up my foot infection, if she meets me halfway and puts bleach in it first.
As a volunteer, it´s important for me to walk the line of acceptance and support for local knowledge, while also offering some ideas and tips from a more modern, clinical perspective.
During my time here, I´ve learned a lot about the basic beliefs and superstitions of the people in my area. Here are a few of the most common :
1. For parasites, diarrhea, stomach ache, etc., follow the following recipe:
Boil very stong coffee in only a few ounces of water. Add the juice of one lemon and dissolve an Alka Seltzer tablet. Drink it all and expect relief within a few hours.
Note: People swear by this. I doubt what value it could possibly have, but it certainly sounds like something that would flush out the pipes.
2. Skin infections. When I was having a lot of problems with infections of my legs and feet, people were always asking who I had been hanging around with. This question made little sense to me, until they explained that the sort of infections I was getting are usually contracted when the afflicted person spends time near a pregnant woman. They say that the ¨heat of her belly¨ causes the outbreak. Don´t worry though. There is a simple cure. Go to the woman´s house and ask her for a glass of water. Drink it all and the infection will go away. But it is important that you drink her water, or else it won´t work.
They are aware that this sounds a little fanciful, so they usually say, ¨I know it seems like a lie, Cati, but it´s true.¨
3. People believe very much in curses, and for people who are chronically ill and don´t get better, or who visit a doctor who cannot render a diagnosis, it is assumed that they have been cursed. The doctor can´t see the disease because it is only the manifestation someone´s ill wishes against them. For this reason, people often don´t take medicine given to them if they believe the root cause of the illness is really a maldicción. (Medical compliance is a whole other issue, which could be a post in itself.)
4. Relationships of hot and cold are extremely important and can explain away the onset of virtually any sickness. For example, one must never bathe right after working, because the cold water combined with a hot, sweaty body is a recipe for disaster. You should also only drink hot drinks when it´cold because that is the only time your body can truly handle them. I have offended more than a few visitors by offering hot coffee on a warm day.
I once baked using my neighbor´s stove, and she came in and told me not to bother washing the dirty dishes. She mentioned how I would get sick if I washed them, because I had been so close to the hot oven and taking pans in and out all afternoon. I thought this was her way of telling me she didn´t mind cleaning up my mess, but I washed the dishes anyway. I received a very angry scolding afterwards, and she checked up on me for days afterward to see if I was okay.
5. Worms (of the intestinal variety) are so normal that people believe they are necessary to digest food. When I talk about eliminating contaminants from drinking water, people have asked, ¨but how can we keep eating if we don´t have worms?¨ I didn´t quite realize how strongly people believe in worms being necessary for sustaining life, until a child asked me if I had worms, and when I said no, both he and his cousin asked in unison how I was still alive.
6. You must never eat pork if you have any kind of medical condition, real or imagined. Any kidney condition will be especially aggravated. (Many have already told me I will have to buy chicken for them when I have my goodbye party, because that pig I have been raising is no good to them.)
7. People usually don´t attribute diarrhea to bad water or unwashed hands. It is almost always caused by fresh fruit, vegetables, bread, or virtually any food that that they don´t eat every day. And you know, this may actually be true because some things are so unfamiliar to them, they may upset stomachs. Nonetheless, this belief is a serious inhibitor to good nutrition.
It´s always a challenge to determine if I should offer counter information and when to do it. Even though these things sound ridiculous to us, I am conscious of the fact that me explaining ideas like solar disinfection of water sounds just as preposterous to them. The invisible rays of the sun are killing the invisible microbes in the water? Sure, Cati. How can I convince them that their baby really shouldn´t pick things up off the floor and put them in her mouth when babies have always done that, and most of them grow up to be healthy, functional adults?
When I first came to my community, I was shocked at what I perceived as a blatant disregard for basic cleanliness. What I now realize is that people are very conscious of cleanliness and their family´s health, but their reasons for preventing or explaining illness are very different, and unfortuantely, in many cases, misdirected. They take great care sweeping out their houses, bathing their children, and generally making sure their homes look as neat and tidy as possible. They are doing what they think is best to be clean and healthy. Every mother loves her child and wants him to be well. She does everything with his best interests in mind. This is a universal human trait. If she fall short, it is almost always due to a lack of education or simply traditional beliefs that offer different explanations.
A friend recently explained it this way, and it makes total sense: Very few of us Americans have ever actually seen a germ. By this I mean, to have looked through a microscope and seen a cold virus, bacteria or anything else that causes disease. But we believe it because we have years of education and resources that tell us that it´s so, and we accept it as fact. We have had access to scientific information and education, and that is what informs our thinking and behavior. For people who haven´t had that access, there are other explanations and reasons for things that seem as plausible to them as a cold virus does to us.
Thinking of it that way, how can we look down on someone who has a lifetime of experience that indicates to them bathing right after work might cause the flu? It seems irrational to an American, but we sound equally so to them when we explain that there are harmful things in their water that looks perfectly clean to them.
Part of my job has been to touch on that common desire we all have to be healthy and offer some new ideas and strategies to be even healthier. And sure, I´ll drink that pregnant lady´s glass of water to clear up my foot infection, if she meets me halfway and puts bleach in it first.
Saturday, July 16, 2011
Book Report
A blog chronicling Peace Corps life would be incomplete without some acknowledgment of how much we read. Even on my busiest days, I spend an average of three hours reading. And then of course, there are the rainy days, or the slow days, when the majority of waking hours are spent devouring a book while lounging in the hammock.
I feel spoiled to have so much time to invest in books. I was a reader in the United States, but I have read probably 70 books during my service which is certainly the greatest number I've gone through in a two-year period since I graduated from story books. (And somehow, that 70 is on the low end of many PCV counts...) This daily reading binge will soon come to an end, when I go back home and am distracted by the Internet, smart phones, electricity, and actual 9-5 occupations. So until then, I will relish my nightly routine of making a strong cup of Panamanian coffee, lighting my kerosene lamp, and settling into the hammock and reading until I'm too tired for another page. Here is a list of my top 10 favorites:
1. The Ghost Map, by Steven Johnson- This is about the cholera epidemic in 19th century England. It traces the outbreak to a single household and explains how it spread rapidly due to a lack of public health infrastructure and scientific knowledge. It chronicles the independent works of a priest and scientist who mapped the outbreak and founded a new framework for understanding diseases and how they are spread. It beautifully weaves together ideas of epidemiology, urban planning, public health and the future of cities and their environmental consequences. Completely fascinating.
2. The World According to Garp, by John Irving. I've read several of Irving's books here in Panama, including A Widow for One Year,The Hotel New Hampshire, Last Night on Twisted River, and A Prayer for Owen Meany. He has become one of my favorite writers. I'm addicted to his crafty writing and epic stories that follow the characters from childhood to adulthood. What makes his books so remarkable is how he combines incredible plot elements, ie dwarves, weird fetishes, and circuses, with richly-detailed characters who ring completely true. A great storyteller.
3. How the Brain Changes Itself, by Norman Doidge. A book about brain science which overturns any notions about our minds being "hard-wired" and unchanging. Doidge explains the idea of neuroplasticity through case studies involving stroke patients, or people who suffered injuries or birth defects and then went on to train their brains to function in unexpected and highly effective ways. A nerdy pick, but worth reading if you're interest in medicine or science.
4. Little Bee, by Chris Cleave. I had to put off all work-related activities until I finished this book. One of the most affecting novels I've ever read. The back of the copy I own contains only a sentence or two of plot summary because it claims not to want to ruin the story. I'll say this much: the book is narrated by a young girl from Nigeria and a woman in England. Their lives intersect and what results is an incredibly thoughtful book on what it means to have a conscience, memory, and culture and how these things affect the relationship between people in ways we can only try our best to understand. The plot twists and turns and you'll never know what's about to happen to the characters whose voices will stay with you a long time after you close the back cover. Read this.
5. The Grapes of Wrath, by John Steinbeck. Love Steinbeck. East of Eden might be my favorite book ever, and Grapes of Wrath lived up to all my expectations. Who could ever forget the Joads?
6. The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo triology, by Steig Larsson. Page-turning thrillers that will also making you completely uninterested in pursuing other tasks. The second two installments can't beat the tight, expertly-woven plot of the first book, but the Lisbeth Salander character has to be one of the most interesting in modern popular fiction and you'll want to follow her until the end.
7. The Spirit Catches You When You Fall Down, by Anne Fadiman. An extensively researched look at how Western medicine collides with cultural tradition of the Hmong people from Laos. A toddler named Lia lives with her family in a Hmong community in California and is diagnosed with a seizure disorder. Traditional Hmong culture views this as a misalignment or curse of the spirits. Her parents refer the illness as 'the spirit catches you and you fall down' and believe it is caused by a wandering of the soul. While Lia sees doctors at a local California hospital, her parents are confused by their clinical diagnoses and obvious disregard for the soul's role in Lia's healing. Their efforts to incorporate natural remedies into Lia's treatment results in accusations of non-compliance and eventually they are declared unfit and Lia is taken to a foster family. But this book takes no sides. Fadiman showcases the strengths and limits of Western medicine and Hmong culture equally, and makes it clear that neither one nor the other, but rather the clash of the two, is what ultimately failed Lia. It is a compassionate and dramatic story that will challenge the world view of any reader.
8. The Poisonwood Bible, by Barbara Kingsolver. A story of a fervent missionary who brings his family to the Belgian Congo in the 1959 just before the country's revolution. They are dangerously ill-prepared in every sense and in the course of events, Kingsolver shows what it takes to fracture families and countries. This book is certainly political, but I loved it for the story it told and the sometimes breathtaking beauty of the author's writing.
9. The Professor and the Madman, by Simon Winchester. This non-fiction pick is about the making of the Oxford English Dictionary and its most prolific contributor, who sent in over 10,000 entries while he was a patient at an asylum for the criminally insane. This story proves the maxim that truth is stranger than fiction. Winchester tells it with the skill of a novelist as he ties together a violent murder, the obsessive drive of the dictionary's editor and the boggling coexistence of genius and madness in one man's mind.
10. Me Talk Pretty One Day, by David Sedaris. This man is hilarious. His essays are the perfect cure for in-site blues. He can take any mundane event and transform it into sharp, witty commentary on family dynamics, culture, or the simple absurdity of everyday life. He writes about pretty much any topic, and if you listen to to NPR, you've probably heard him read one of his stories. Listen to him here as he explains the Easter Bunny.
I feel spoiled to have so much time to invest in books. I was a reader in the United States, but I have read probably 70 books during my service which is certainly the greatest number I've gone through in a two-year period since I graduated from story books. (And somehow, that 70 is on the low end of many PCV counts...) This daily reading binge will soon come to an end, when I go back home and am distracted by the Internet, smart phones, electricity, and actual 9-5 occupations. So until then, I will relish my nightly routine of making a strong cup of Panamanian coffee, lighting my kerosene lamp, and settling into the hammock and reading until I'm too tired for another page. Here is a list of my top 10 favorites:
1. The Ghost Map, by Steven Johnson- This is about the cholera epidemic in 19th century England. It traces the outbreak to a single household and explains how it spread rapidly due to a lack of public health infrastructure and scientific knowledge. It chronicles the independent works of a priest and scientist who mapped the outbreak and founded a new framework for understanding diseases and how they are spread. It beautifully weaves together ideas of epidemiology, urban planning, public health and the future of cities and their environmental consequences. Completely fascinating.
2. The World According to Garp, by John Irving. I've read several of Irving's books here in Panama, including A Widow for One Year,The Hotel New Hampshire, Last Night on Twisted River, and A Prayer for Owen Meany. He has become one of my favorite writers. I'm addicted to his crafty writing and epic stories that follow the characters from childhood to adulthood. What makes his books so remarkable is how he combines incredible plot elements, ie dwarves, weird fetishes, and circuses, with richly-detailed characters who ring completely true. A great storyteller.
3. How the Brain Changes Itself, by Norman Doidge. A book about brain science which overturns any notions about our minds being "hard-wired" and unchanging. Doidge explains the idea of neuroplasticity through case studies involving stroke patients, or people who suffered injuries or birth defects and then went on to train their brains to function in unexpected and highly effective ways. A nerdy pick, but worth reading if you're interest in medicine or science.
4. Little Bee, by Chris Cleave. I had to put off all work-related activities until I finished this book. One of the most affecting novels I've ever read. The back of the copy I own contains only a sentence or two of plot summary because it claims not to want to ruin the story. I'll say this much: the book is narrated by a young girl from Nigeria and a woman in England. Their lives intersect and what results is an incredibly thoughtful book on what it means to have a conscience, memory, and culture and how these things affect the relationship between people in ways we can only try our best to understand. The plot twists and turns and you'll never know what's about to happen to the characters whose voices will stay with you a long time after you close the back cover. Read this.
5. The Grapes of Wrath, by John Steinbeck. Love Steinbeck. East of Eden might be my favorite book ever, and Grapes of Wrath lived up to all my expectations. Who could ever forget the Joads?
6. The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo triology, by Steig Larsson. Page-turning thrillers that will also making you completely uninterested in pursuing other tasks. The second two installments can't beat the tight, expertly-woven plot of the first book, but the Lisbeth Salander character has to be one of the most interesting in modern popular fiction and you'll want to follow her until the end.
7. The Spirit Catches You When You Fall Down, by Anne Fadiman. An extensively researched look at how Western medicine collides with cultural tradition of the Hmong people from Laos. A toddler named Lia lives with her family in a Hmong community in California and is diagnosed with a seizure disorder. Traditional Hmong culture views this as a misalignment or curse of the spirits. Her parents refer the illness as 'the spirit catches you and you fall down' and believe it is caused by a wandering of the soul. While Lia sees doctors at a local California hospital, her parents are confused by their clinical diagnoses and obvious disregard for the soul's role in Lia's healing. Their efforts to incorporate natural remedies into Lia's treatment results in accusations of non-compliance and eventually they are declared unfit and Lia is taken to a foster family. But this book takes no sides. Fadiman showcases the strengths and limits of Western medicine and Hmong culture equally, and makes it clear that neither one nor the other, but rather the clash of the two, is what ultimately failed Lia. It is a compassionate and dramatic story that will challenge the world view of any reader.
8. The Poisonwood Bible, by Barbara Kingsolver. A story of a fervent missionary who brings his family to the Belgian Congo in the 1959 just before the country's revolution. They are dangerously ill-prepared in every sense and in the course of events, Kingsolver shows what it takes to fracture families and countries. This book is certainly political, but I loved it for the story it told and the sometimes breathtaking beauty of the author's writing.
9. The Professor and the Madman, by Simon Winchester. This non-fiction pick is about the making of the Oxford English Dictionary and its most prolific contributor, who sent in over 10,000 entries while he was a patient at an asylum for the criminally insane. This story proves the maxim that truth is stranger than fiction. Winchester tells it with the skill of a novelist as he ties together a violent murder, the obsessive drive of the dictionary's editor and the boggling coexistence of genius and madness in one man's mind.
10. Me Talk Pretty One Day, by David Sedaris. This man is hilarious. His essays are the perfect cure for in-site blues. He can take any mundane event and transform it into sharp, witty commentary on family dynamics, culture, or the simple absurdity of everyday life. He writes about pretty much any topic, and if you listen to to NPR, you've probably heard him read one of his stories. Listen to him here as he explains the Easter Bunny.
Congratulations
...to my brother James on receiving his doctorate. Wish I could be there to celebrate with you, but I did the next best thing: told Nelson to dance. The sign says "Felicitaciones, James!" We send hugs from QP!! And rockin' dance moves.
Sunday, June 19, 2011
Water
PCV Michelle recently finished a huge water project that included many houses in her community, and several others in three other towns. Quebrada Pastor was lucky enough to receive three 300-galllon rainwater tanks bought with funds from her project. A few months ago, when Michelle offered the materials to me, she asked if I had some families in mind. It worked out that there were three in particular who had spoken to me many times about their struggles with water and wanted to figure out what we could do. They all lived far out of reach of the community´s aqueduct, and two of them drank out of a contaminated spring in which they also bathed and washed clothes. Worm infections were common among the families, and on more than one occasion, they had found a dead animal upstream from where they collected water. The third family lived in another remote part of town, and the spring they used often dried up in the summer. The family often packed up and stayed at their grandmother´s house because there was no other source of water nearby.
Michelle came by last week to help with the tank installations. You can read about her project here. Many thanks to her and the project´s donors for providing an essential resource to three families in QP.
Michelle came by last week to help with the tank installations. You can read about her project here. Many thanks to her and the project´s donors for providing an essential resource to three families in QP.
Latrine project continues
We have reached the downhill slope with regards to the latrine project. We only have about 3 composters and 7 pit latrines to go. It has been a professionally and physically challenging time for me, but it has been the most rewarding part of my service so far watching men transform from not wanting to pick up tools they didn't know the name for, to being able to carry out most of the construction by themselves. And after spending so much time working so closely, my relationship with the workers has become much closer. Work days are filled with jokes, laughs, and openly expressed anxieties about what they will do with themselves when I leave. I feel happy about what they have been able to accomplish and learn throughout the process about initiative, responsibility, and the realities of executing a project like this. Here are some photos of what we´ve been up to.
The Sleepover
My host family, including a 12-year-old brother and 9 and 7-year old cousins, never quite understood why I could live alone. And why I would possibly request to have an entire big house to myself, especially when before I moved in, they used to stay there during the week because it eliminated a 30-minute walk and river crossing on their way to school. It seems ridiculous that I would want to be there alone, night after night, among the witches and goblins that lurk nearby, and in my typical gringa selfishness, had never even once thought to invite them over to spend the night.
So, I finally caved. In my final months, I am relaxing the iron fist with which I have traditionally ruled and letting people, especially the kids, get away with a little more than before. Last week, after my host-brother Kaicer asked me WHEN CAN HE EVER COME AND SPEND THE NIGHT WITH ME, I responded, ''How about Sunday?'' A look of grateful disbelief spread across his face, and I could tell he was thinking, that´s all? All I had to do was ask? I invited him and his cousin, Marvin, and told them to bring their uniforms ironed and ready so they could leave straight for school on Monday morning. He skipped out of my house with a smile plastered to his face, but stopped at the gate to ask, ''What will we eat?''
Feeling particularly generous, the words, ''What do you want?'' tumbled forth, and I immediately regretted it, thinking I would have to go find fish or buy some type of meat that I usually wouldn't prepare. Instead, he said hopefully, ''Rice and a boiled egg?''
DONE. I can do that. ''And for breakfast?''
''Coffee and bread?'' I thought these might by far be the easist house guests I had ever entertained.
So about 5:30 Sunday afternoon the boys arrived with backpacks filled to the brim with books and clothes, and Marvin's little brother, Geovani tagged along. It immediately occurred to me I should have planned something to do in the hours that stretched before us until bed time, but we quickly settled into some easy conversation and Farkle playing. Dinner time came and I busied myself in the kitchen while the boys played outside and started making jokes about how such a white girl could have such three dark-skinned sons. I presented them with their meals, and shortly after, had to get up to boil some yucca because it became obvious that little Geovany is a man of root vegetables and bananas, and did not appreciate my attempts with store-bought rice.
By that time, the neighbor girls had come over and asked if we would be ''doing exercise,'' which is their way of requesting that we do yoga. (I made the mistake of indulging their interest in my yoga magazines a few weeks ago, and am now hounded by daily requests from my little yogis.) Within two minutes, all of the other neighbors had arrived, and I was leading about nine children through a few basic moves. The boys wobbled and giggled, asking ''CATI HOW ARE YOU DOING THIS?!'' as I instructed them to stretch out and reach their hands to the sky in triangle. It was one of the many moments I've had in my service, where I all of a sudden zoom out of the moment, and see what I am actually doing and can hardly contain my laughter. In the Peace Corps you can do anything, including becoming an amateur yoga instructor.
After we took our last vinyasa, I shooed away the riff-raff and offered the boys some hot chocolate, hoping to signal an end to the evening. All of the liquid nourishment I had offered throughout the evening was clearly overwhelming to little Geovany, who stood up to pee through my fence at least half a dozen times. We played cards for a little while, and made sure everyone's uniforms were hung up, and then I tried to get everyone upstairs and settled . They fell asleep right away, and I considered that they settled down a lot easier than most sugar-high-riding American children who stay up half the night, sending pangs of regret and rage through the parents who agreed to host them.
Morning came, and I woke everyone up and went downstairs to put the coffee on. The boys' giddiness from the night before was undiminished as they were visibly reveling in the idea of being in Catí's house and Cati making breakfast for them. Coffee was served with the bread, the boys dressed and scampered off to to school.
A sigh of relief. That was way easier than I thought. Everyone ate, no one complained, fun was had, very little chaos. Until I went up to clean up the blankets where the boys slept, and encountered a sopping, urine-soaked blanket and sleeping pad, which indicated to me that next time, if there is a next time, it is better to err on the side of mild dehydration when it comes to tending to your little guests. Oh well, nothing a little laundry soap and a mild bleach solution can´t fix.
Above: Kaicer, on his 12th birthday in May. Below: Geovany, 7 going on 79
So, I finally caved. In my final months, I am relaxing the iron fist with which I have traditionally ruled and letting people, especially the kids, get away with a little more than before. Last week, after my host-brother Kaicer asked me WHEN CAN HE EVER COME AND SPEND THE NIGHT WITH ME, I responded, ''How about Sunday?'' A look of grateful disbelief spread across his face, and I could tell he was thinking, that´s all? All I had to do was ask? I invited him and his cousin, Marvin, and told them to bring their uniforms ironed and ready so they could leave straight for school on Monday morning. He skipped out of my house with a smile plastered to his face, but stopped at the gate to ask, ''What will we eat?''
Feeling particularly generous, the words, ''What do you want?'' tumbled forth, and I immediately regretted it, thinking I would have to go find fish or buy some type of meat that I usually wouldn't prepare. Instead, he said hopefully, ''Rice and a boiled egg?''
DONE. I can do that. ''And for breakfast?''
''Coffee and bread?'' I thought these might by far be the easist house guests I had ever entertained.
So about 5:30 Sunday afternoon the boys arrived with backpacks filled to the brim with books and clothes, and Marvin's little brother, Geovani tagged along. It immediately occurred to me I should have planned something to do in the hours that stretched before us until bed time, but we quickly settled into some easy conversation and Farkle playing. Dinner time came and I busied myself in the kitchen while the boys played outside and started making jokes about how such a white girl could have such three dark-skinned sons. I presented them with their meals, and shortly after, had to get up to boil some yucca because it became obvious that little Geovany is a man of root vegetables and bananas, and did not appreciate my attempts with store-bought rice.
By that time, the neighbor girls had come over and asked if we would be ''doing exercise,'' which is their way of requesting that we do yoga. (I made the mistake of indulging their interest in my yoga magazines a few weeks ago, and am now hounded by daily requests from my little yogis.) Within two minutes, all of the other neighbors had arrived, and I was leading about nine children through a few basic moves. The boys wobbled and giggled, asking ''CATI HOW ARE YOU DOING THIS?!'' as I instructed them to stretch out and reach their hands to the sky in triangle. It was one of the many moments I've had in my service, where I all of a sudden zoom out of the moment, and see what I am actually doing and can hardly contain my laughter. In the Peace Corps you can do anything, including becoming an amateur yoga instructor.
After we took our last vinyasa, I shooed away the riff-raff and offered the boys some hot chocolate, hoping to signal an end to the evening. All of the liquid nourishment I had offered throughout the evening was clearly overwhelming to little Geovany, who stood up to pee through my fence at least half a dozen times. We played cards for a little while, and made sure everyone's uniforms were hung up, and then I tried to get everyone upstairs and settled . They fell asleep right away, and I considered that they settled down a lot easier than most sugar-high-riding American children who stay up half the night, sending pangs of regret and rage through the parents who agreed to host them.
Morning came, and I woke everyone up and went downstairs to put the coffee on. The boys' giddiness from the night before was undiminished as they were visibly reveling in the idea of being in Catí's house and Cati making breakfast for them. Coffee was served with the bread, the boys dressed and scampered off to to school.
A sigh of relief. That was way easier than I thought. Everyone ate, no one complained, fun was had, very little chaos. Until I went up to clean up the blankets where the boys slept, and encountered a sopping, urine-soaked blanket and sleeping pad, which indicated to me that next time, if there is a next time, it is better to err on the side of mild dehydration when it comes to tending to your little guests. Oh well, nothing a little laundry soap and a mild bleach solution can´t fix.
Above: Kaicer, on his 12th birthday in May. Below: Geovany, 7 going on 79
When they´re not in school...
I make my neighbors participate in American history re-enactments. On this day´s schedule: The Oregon trail! Westward expansion! Sod houses and fur trapping!
Just kidding. These are church dresses their dad made for them. But they look about as thrilled to have them on as they would be to be clearing wagon trails during a winter storm.
Saturday, May 7, 2011
Someone else's shoes
The biggest challenge I've faced recently is dealing with all of the people issues associated with the latrine project. At some point in the last few months, a couple of people I was very close to stopped talking to me, presumably over some sin I committed in my efforts to execute this project. I know the root of the issue began because of arguments between the two of them, which somehow spun out to involve me. But how it resulted in the silent treatment from one and angry accusations directed at me, followed by silence from the other. I still don't understand.
I am left thinking, how can this be? I have tried to be fair, patient, and have given people the benefit of the doubt more times than they deserve. How can people be mad at me? But, that is a selfish line of thinking. Of course no one will see it my way. And truthfully, it is unfair for me to feel put upon or attacked when I understand as little about their point of view as they do about mine. After all this time, I still have no idea what they are thinking sometimes. The experience of growing up in an entirely different culture, with different norms, expectations, and ways of resolving conflict acts as blinders that will keep me from ever understanding completely. But I keep trying to figure it out.
To them, I am a white person who has access to a large sum of money for latrines. They are poor people who deserve this money. We are friends and I owe it to them personally. They think that they have waited a year and a half and only now have I produced something worth getting excited about. In their eyes, I am finally fulfilling my commitment to them, giving what is owed.
My rule, among others was that people who work will receive materials for the latrine they solicited. That was the agreement we made in the planning stages. If they do not show up for work days, they lose their rights to the materials. It is the fact that I am sticking to this that is rubbing some people the wrong way.
They are angry because, to them, I am breaking a promise by excluding them. Because we are friends, and I am refusing to help them. I am directing my attention to those who are working and the others feel left out and betrayed. They assume because I am white and from a rich country that they are owed hundreds of dollars of materials. They see my behavior as petty, malicious, and cold. I see theirs as unreasonable and greedy.
What makes it all so frustrating is that to many (not all) of the people I work with, the very idea of sustainable development on which Peace Corps is based is incomprehensible. The idea of earning something, working for it, participating as a community to reach a common goal is still untranslatable. They fall into the same traps--gossip, negativity and complacency that have held them back from progress in the past. However, to them, the lack of progress is my fault. They make zero connections between their own behavior and the potential for positive change. Panama's traditional model of rural development-- giving things out and requiring nothing from receivers, combined with the idea that I come from a country that gives out money in bags from the factory (most people sincerely believe this and think I am lying when I deny it) leaves them with the expectation that they have no role to play in their own development. Someone will do the work for them, and they will benefit from it. Some people don't understand what I am talking about simply because they have never seen a project run this way before.
So although these situations leave me tearing my hair out and feeling at times, like maybe everything Peace Corps is trying to do in these communities is too ambitious, I do have some successes to celebrate. The problems I described are not shared y everyone. Some people get it, at least sort of. I have a dedicated group of workers who are showing a lot of initiative and motivation. The the other day, they finished the blocking on a latrine by themselves and set up the table and rebar to throw the cement floor on top. This is huge. A month ago they had no idea how to build a latrine, how to lay block, or even mix a good batch of cement. They were too skittish to work without my supervision, and even then, stood back and watched me before picking up a tool. Now they are doing the work themselves. People who I haven't worked with very much with in the last year articulate Peace Corps' mission and my ideas more clearly than some of my key counterparts. These are huge steps that they have decided to take.
There are frustrations, hundreds of them. There are just as many disappointments. But along with those there are the rewards, ones I hoped for that are coming true, and a bunch of unexpected others. I am constantly challenged by this experience, and although I wish it weren't this way, I know I will leave here with so much more knowledge gained than I could ever hope to leave behind.
I am left thinking, how can this be? I have tried to be fair, patient, and have given people the benefit of the doubt more times than they deserve. How can people be mad at me? But, that is a selfish line of thinking. Of course no one will see it my way. And truthfully, it is unfair for me to feel put upon or attacked when I understand as little about their point of view as they do about mine. After all this time, I still have no idea what they are thinking sometimes. The experience of growing up in an entirely different culture, with different norms, expectations, and ways of resolving conflict acts as blinders that will keep me from ever understanding completely. But I keep trying to figure it out.
To them, I am a white person who has access to a large sum of money for latrines. They are poor people who deserve this money. We are friends and I owe it to them personally. They think that they have waited a year and a half and only now have I produced something worth getting excited about. In their eyes, I am finally fulfilling my commitment to them, giving what is owed.
My rule, among others was that people who work will receive materials for the latrine they solicited. That was the agreement we made in the planning stages. If they do not show up for work days, they lose their rights to the materials. It is the fact that I am sticking to this that is rubbing some people the wrong way.
They are angry because, to them, I am breaking a promise by excluding them. Because we are friends, and I am refusing to help them. I am directing my attention to those who are working and the others feel left out and betrayed. They assume because I am white and from a rich country that they are owed hundreds of dollars of materials. They see my behavior as petty, malicious, and cold. I see theirs as unreasonable and greedy.
What makes it all so frustrating is that to many (not all) of the people I work with, the very idea of sustainable development on which Peace Corps is based is incomprehensible. The idea of earning something, working for it, participating as a community to reach a common goal is still untranslatable. They fall into the same traps--gossip, negativity and complacency that have held them back from progress in the past. However, to them, the lack of progress is my fault. They make zero connections between their own behavior and the potential for positive change. Panama's traditional model of rural development-- giving things out and requiring nothing from receivers, combined with the idea that I come from a country that gives out money in bags from the factory (most people sincerely believe this and think I am lying when I deny it) leaves them with the expectation that they have no role to play in their own development. Someone will do the work for them, and they will benefit from it. Some people don't understand what I am talking about simply because they have never seen a project run this way before.
So although these situations leave me tearing my hair out and feeling at times, like maybe everything Peace Corps is trying to do in these communities is too ambitious, I do have some successes to celebrate. The problems I described are not shared y everyone. Some people get it, at least sort of. I have a dedicated group of workers who are showing a lot of initiative and motivation. The the other day, they finished the blocking on a latrine by themselves and set up the table and rebar to throw the cement floor on top. This is huge. A month ago they had no idea how to build a latrine, how to lay block, or even mix a good batch of cement. They were too skittish to work without my supervision, and even then, stood back and watched me before picking up a tool. Now they are doing the work themselves. People who I haven't worked with very much with in the last year articulate Peace Corps' mission and my ideas more clearly than some of my key counterparts. These are huge steps that they have decided to take.
There are frustrations, hundreds of them. There are just as many disappointments. But along with those there are the rewards, ones I hoped for that are coming true, and a bunch of unexpected others. I am constantly challenged by this experience, and although I wish it weren't this way, I know I will leave here with so much more knowledge gained than I could ever hope to leave behind.
Skills and knowledge I've learned in Panama that will be useless upon re-entry
1. Cooking without dairy, refrigeration or meat.
2. Lawn mowing with a machete.
3. Bathing and washing my hair with fewer than two gallons of water.
4. Enjoyment of boiled green bananas and plantains.
5. Enough knowledge to get me half way to a medical specialty in tropical infectious diseases.
6. The life cycle of roundworm.
7. Drinking things which in the U.S. are solid foods, ie corn flakes frozen popsicles, oatmeal drinks.
8. Sleeping through crows, screaming children and church hymns sung between 11 p.m. and 5 a.m.
9. Basic masonry.
10. Advanced hair braiding.
11. Essential properties of gravity-flow water systems.
12. Conversational Ngobere.
2. Lawn mowing with a machete.
3. Bathing and washing my hair with fewer than two gallons of water.
4. Enjoyment of boiled green bananas and plantains.
5. Enough knowledge to get me half way to a medical specialty in tropical infectious diseases.
6. The life cycle of roundworm.
7. Drinking things which in the U.S. are solid foods, ie corn flakes frozen popsicles, oatmeal drinks.
8. Sleeping through crows, screaming children and church hymns sung between 11 p.m. and 5 a.m.
9. Basic masonry.
10. Advanced hair braiding.
11. Essential properties of gravity-flow water systems.
12. Conversational Ngobere.
Saturday, April 23, 2011
So you want to climb a volcano
I have been busy at work recently, but I also realize that my time in Panama will be quickly coming to an end. There is a lot of travel I still want to do, several destinations left on my Panama bucket list. I got to cross one of them off this weekend, as I climbed Panama's highest peak, Volcan Baru Thursday night with several friends.
We made it to the trailhead in Boquete and started hiking around 10p.m. I packed light, with a Camelbak holding only my water, snacks and several layers to stay warm as the temperatures dropped. I was a little nervous, as I had heard several horror stories from another PCV- involving hikers who turned around, threw up, cried, or even had trail side "bathroom accidents" as their bodies gave way to fatigue. I wondered if it was the best activity to undertake after 10 hours days of heavy construction and cement mixing. But, two hours in, although I felt the burn, I knew he'd overstated the difficulty. I'd be fine. Our headlamps guided us and conversation made the time pass quickly. Every now and then we stopped to refuel on peanuts, granola bars or fruit and keep ourselves hydrated. As we climbed higher, we covered our tanks and tees with long sleeves and sweatshirts. I love being cold in Panama.
The last hill was the most costly, I wove my way up it, feeling slightly dizzy from the altitude and/or five and a half hours of strenuous hiking. If we made a mistake, it was leaving as early as we did. We thought it might take longer to get there, but our 3:30 a.m. arrival made for a long wait until sunrise. Temperatures were in the 40s but felt much colder with blowing winds and sweaty bodies that were cooling down too fast. We huddled together trying to keep as warm as possible and looking for buildings to sneak into on a compound just below the peak.
By around quarter to six, strips of orange and green began to break along the horizon line and we sat there, above the clouds, waiting. On a clear day, you can see both the Pacific and Caribbean oceans from the summit. Our day was a little cloudy, but the view was still completely magnificent in its own way as the sun came up, casting colors into the fog, clouds and sky that we felt a part of. We stood at 11,398 feet looking down at clouds below, at the hills and the swirls of white, orange, pink and blue that surrounded us. Fatigue in our legs was forgotten, the hike down wasn't a concern because the breathtaking view trumped everything. The pictures below can't quite capture the natural beauty.
At about 8a.m., 10 hours after first starting, we began the descent. A lot of people say going down is harder, especially if you do the overnight hike. We hadn't slept, were already sore from the ascent, and the adrenaline was fading. It took us about four and a half hours to get down. The last 90 minutes were pretty brutal, with the impact of each step pounding into my knees and ankles, and the effects of pulling an all nighter while walking a total of 16 miles and climbing up to an 11,000 feet peak beginning to make themselves known.
But this trip will be one of my favorites in Panama. The combinaton of physical strain followed by a resplendent reward was the kind of experience I needed to relieve some in-site stress and remind myself that I am surrounded by natural beauty and fortunate to live once-in-a-lifetime experiences all the time in this beautiful country.
We made it to the trailhead in Boquete and started hiking around 10p.m. I packed light, with a Camelbak holding only my water, snacks and several layers to stay warm as the temperatures dropped. I was a little nervous, as I had heard several horror stories from another PCV- involving hikers who turned around, threw up, cried, or even had trail side "bathroom accidents" as their bodies gave way to fatigue. I wondered if it was the best activity to undertake after 10 hours days of heavy construction and cement mixing. But, two hours in, although I felt the burn, I knew he'd overstated the difficulty. I'd be fine. Our headlamps guided us and conversation made the time pass quickly. Every now and then we stopped to refuel on peanuts, granola bars or fruit and keep ourselves hydrated. As we climbed higher, we covered our tanks and tees with long sleeves and sweatshirts. I love being cold in Panama.
The last hill was the most costly, I wove my way up it, feeling slightly dizzy from the altitude and/or five and a half hours of strenuous hiking. If we made a mistake, it was leaving as early as we did. We thought it might take longer to get there, but our 3:30 a.m. arrival made for a long wait until sunrise. Temperatures were in the 40s but felt much colder with blowing winds and sweaty bodies that were cooling down too fast. We huddled together trying to keep as warm as possible and looking for buildings to sneak into on a compound just below the peak.
By around quarter to six, strips of orange and green began to break along the horizon line and we sat there, above the clouds, waiting. On a clear day, you can see both the Pacific and Caribbean oceans from the summit. Our day was a little cloudy, but the view was still completely magnificent in its own way as the sun came up, casting colors into the fog, clouds and sky that we felt a part of. We stood at 11,398 feet looking down at clouds below, at the hills and the swirls of white, orange, pink and blue that surrounded us. Fatigue in our legs was forgotten, the hike down wasn't a concern because the breathtaking view trumped everything. The pictures below can't quite capture the natural beauty.
At about 8a.m., 10 hours after first starting, we began the descent. A lot of people say going down is harder, especially if you do the overnight hike. We hadn't slept, were already sore from the ascent, and the adrenaline was fading. It took us about four and a half hours to get down. The last 90 minutes were pretty brutal, with the impact of each step pounding into my knees and ankles, and the effects of pulling an all nighter while walking a total of 16 miles and climbing up to an 11,000 feet peak beginning to make themselves known.
But this trip will be one of my favorites in Panama. The combinaton of physical strain followed by a resplendent reward was the kind of experience I needed to relieve some in-site stress and remind myself that I am surrounded by natural beauty and fortunate to live once-in-a-lifetime experiences all the time in this beautiful country.
How to build a composting latrine
Construction has been underway for about three weeks in Quebrada Pastor. Here are some pictures that might give you all a better idea of how the building goes and how much work it entails. A refresher: a composting latrine is a good alternatative to the traditional pit latrine. It includes two chambers, with only one used being used at any given time. Urine is diverted through tubes out the side of the latrine to keep the contents of the box try, and after every "deposit," a dry material like saw dust or ash is thrown on top to eliminate odor and aid in the compost process. When one side fills, it is left for up to a year to convert into rich soil. Depending on how fast you work, construction takes between 3 and 5 days. Here is some of what it entails.
Step one: Throw a concrete floor.
Step 2: Make the walls and dividing wall with four levels of block. This is the day that is the most technical, and usually intimidates the workers the most. But once they get going, they really love it and always joke about all the masonry jobs they can get as a result of the new skill.
Step 3: Make wooden table to support cement floor which will be thrown on top. Tie up some rebar for support. Below, a man shaves a few inches off a too-wide board. Again, you gotta love these handy men.
Plaster the outside walls, make stairs, and plaster the seats over the holes in the cement floor. Connect tubes that lead outside for the urine,and plaster in the doors on the back wall (out of which you will eventually take the compost).
More pictures coming soon! For further reading, my friend Louis wrote an insightful post about the challenges of working with these latrines and the conflicts volunteers face in deciding whether we ought to promote them. They are not the solution for everyone, and require a lot of prep work and education before a project is pursued. The 12 families who will be receiving the composting latrine chose them over the pit latrine, and were required to meet several pre-requisites in order to demonstrate their understanding and genuine interest. Louis's retro-fitted bidet accessory is something I plan to offer as an option and will eliminate one of the biggest barriers to latrine use (wipe vs. wash).
Step one: Throw a concrete floor.
Step 2: Make the walls and dividing wall with four levels of block. This is the day that is the most technical, and usually intimidates the workers the most. But once they get going, they really love it and always joke about all the masonry jobs they can get as a result of the new skill.
Step 3: Make wooden table to support cement floor which will be thrown on top. Tie up some rebar for support. Below, a man shaves a few inches off a too-wide board. Again, you gotta love these handy men.
Plaster the outside walls, make stairs, and plaster the seats over the holes in the cement floor. Connect tubes that lead outside for the urine,and plaster in the doors on the back wall (out of which you will eventually take the compost). 
More pictures coming soon! For further reading, my friend Louis wrote an insightful post about the challenges of working with these latrines and the conflicts volunteers face in deciding whether we ought to promote them. They are not the solution for everyone, and require a lot of prep work and education before a project is pursued. The 12 families who will be receiving the composting latrine chose them over the pit latrine, and were required to meet several pre-requisites in order to demonstrate their understanding and genuine interest. Louis's retro-fitted bidet accessory is something I plan to offer as an option and will eliminate one of the biggest barriers to latrine use (wipe vs. wash).
Just because you live in the rain forest...
...doesn't mean you have to be wet when you arrive at school.
Saturday, April 16, 2011
A taste of the tranquilo
You may remember I told my brother James that he would be obligated to write a blog entry about his trip this time around. He has delivered on his promise with an interesting comparison between the Panamanian and American ways of life. My idea of happiness and fulfillment has certainly been re-framed by my time here, and he does a good job explaining how and why his ideas have changed too. Here it is:
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As I return to Panama for the second time, I am struck by how simple life is here. Life out in the country is usually a very straight-forward arrangement. People have a few acres of land with maybe a few cattle and a few banana and orange trees. It seems as though people have very little, but they get by. In fact, they really need very little. Many of them are farmers and they live in what could be described as a giant greenhouse. There is no winter. A small cinder block house with a tin roof and some bright paint seems to be enough for a lot of people. Whenever they need money they do a bit of work or sell some of their cows or bananas, just enough to get them through the week. Overall the life of a farmer in Panama seems pretty easy and idyllic. With all the rain and sun one could hardly fail as long as they put a few seeds in the ground. Life certainly seems a lot easier than back in the US.
Amazingly, even though people in Panama have almost nothing to their name, they seem not to care. In fact, they seem quite a bit happier than the average American. I think it may actually be because they all have so little that it is hard to feel poor when there is no rich person next door to compare yourself to. There are no Joneses in town to keep up with. If a person has a fully-feathered flock of chickens, they are rich. They don’t seem to want electric service to their house as badly as most Americans want, say, an iPhone 4, because no one else in Quebrada Pastor has electric service. They worry about other things, like who is going to win the next pick-up baseball game.
One of the thoughts that goes through my mind is "man, wouldn't it be great to live like this?” To be on an almost permanent vacation with a 10-hour work week. To be free of the 1000 commitments the average American has to deal with on a daily basis. To have time to spend living life instead of sitting behind a desk or watching America's Next Top Distraction. Wouldn't it be great to be in charge of your own life, even if there wasn't much to be in charge of? What would I be willing to give up? At the end of my week in Panama, staying in Catherine's house I was right at home and I felt like I could have got by indefinitely with just my toothbrush and a few changes of clothes, if for some reason my big American pile of stuff back home suddenly burnt down or disappeared. My life would different, for sure, but would it be any better or worse? That’s hard to measure.
We think we are better off in America than the average Central American because we have more stuff. In some ways we are, for example I don't plan on dying of Cholera any time soon. But in many ways, we just have a bigger sand box with more toys but no more meaning. If we are better off we ought to be healthier, happier, feel more secure, have move free time, more friendships and more meaningful experiences in our lives than Central Americans. But they seem to beat us in all these categories. Americans are more obese and have more cancer than any other country. Costa Rica actually has a longer life expectancy, even though their hospitals are not nearly as advanced. In Panama people have strong ties to their neighbors and extended family which have not existed in the US since before the depression. Here we seem to be afraid of everyone and everything, we live to work, we spend our free time on escapism and even though we are the richest nation somehow we still feel poor and rack up debt. There is no way to declare success. There is always more stuff to buy.
So it seems like the thoreauvian thing to do is to go to Panama, build yourself a little shack in the jungle and love life. Panama is the place to go, you see, because it is the home of the tranquillo lifestyle and the only place one can live a low-key life. This was my immediate thought - you have to move to Panama to live like this. But what is to stop me from living like this in the US? I could make a little cinderblock shack, buy a couple acres of forested land real cheap and live just like a Panamanian. I could even cut my lawn with a machete if I wanted to. I could do all the same things here and it should be equivalent. But what would the neighbors think? I would seem crazy. I would seem so terribly poor in comparison, without that speedboat I proudly display in my front driveway to impress my jerk neighbor even though I'll only use it twice in three years then sell it because I can't make the payments on my McMansion. People would think I was too lazy or too stupid to work. What would I do with all my free time? Shouldn't I be working at a job I don't like to buy stuff I don't need to impress people I don't care about? I would be crazy not to.
Coming to Panama and seeing a different way of life has given me a great check on reality. It has allowed me to see how loose the correlation between money and happiness is, and how important your actions and attitude toward life are. It reminds me that I don’t want to be answering emails from the office at 10pm on a Saturday on my Blackberry no matter what my salary is. Hopefully these are lessons I can take home with me so that I don't get distracted by the American dream and can be truly happy.
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