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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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

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.

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.

Losing Your English

An odd phenomenon exists among the volunteers here in Panama. We spend so much time speaking Spanish, that when we get the chance to speak English, sometimes things come out a little strange. We can´t think of the word we need, or we translate directly from how something is said in Spanish, and we end up sounding like an outsourced customer service representative. Here are some recent examples:

-When trying to say something angers me, I said, ¨It gives me rabies.¨ In Spanish, you would say me da rabia. It gives me anger.

-In Spanish, the word for ¨to train¨is capacitar, and we use it all the time. I caught a friend of mine referencing how many people we have ¨capacitated,¨and interjected that it sounded like an awkward use of the word in English. She indignantly insisted that it is the only way to say it, and demanded to see my dictionary. When she didn´t find what she was looking for, she agressively responded, ¨WELL THAN HOW DO YOU SAY IT?!¨¨

¨I guess it´s more common to say trained,¨ I said.

¨Oh.¨ She looked confused and disappointed. When we describe our PC service on future cover letters, we better be sure to get them proofread. Volunteers?

- A lot of words I just don´t know in English, or I used them so rarely in the U.S. that I forgot how to say them. All my experience with them has been in Spanish. This happens mostly with technical words like spring box, or a tool which I know only as a koa, but is a pick used to break up earth. What´s that thing called anyway? Similarly, I can never remember the word in English for to plaster because that´s a word I used sparingly until I became a part-time mason here in Panama. I try to tell my English-speaking friends about how the repellando went and they remain quiet waiting for me to elaborate. I fail to realize I need to.

-When discussing options about how to keep my lice shampoo in over night (don´t ask), my friend suggested I wrap my head in a plastic bag. I responded, ¨But that will give me so much heat during the night.¨She paused and waited to see if I would notice what I said. I did not. A few more months here and I will start introducing myself by saying, ¨I am called Catherine. I have 23 years. It is pleasing to me to meet new people.¨

-Volunteers speak Spanglish when we are around each other. There are some ideas or sentiments which we only ever express in Spanish. One of them is cumplir con su compromiso, which means to fulfill your commitments. In English, I never had to remind anyone to follow through with what they say they will do. But that idea is a theme I return to over and over when I am busy capacitating the people. An example of what we might say, ¨Pancho really understands what Peace Corps is about and is motivated, but he has a real problem cumplir´ing with his compromisos.¨

- Double negatives. A friend was recently complaining about a hamburger she ordered that came with little in the way of condiments or french fries. She said, ¨It came WITHOUT NOTHING!¨ Una hamburguesa sin nada is correct. The former is not.

Spanish also changes the way you look at things because it is such a passive langauge. In English, if something breaks while you´re using it, you might say ¨I broke it.¨ In Spanish, you say it was damaged to me. Se me dañó. If you forget your keys, you might say you left them behind or forgot them. But in Spanish? Nothing is ever your fault. They stayed behind to you. Se te quedaron. The keys just decided not to come with you today. Your absentmindedness has nothing to do with it. Similarly, if your are sick, you don´t get better of your own volition. The sickenss removes itself from you. Se te quitó. This isn´t just campesino Spanish either. Doctors say it exactly the same way, which makes you wonder if they believe in the efficacy of the medicines they prescribe, or if they are just biding time until your scabies descides to resolve itself.

It is always a shock when a word you used to know escapes you, and it happens to me now more than ever. Sometimes I hear myself put accents on the wrong words, or phrase something completely awkwardly. When I was home over Christmas, I played Bananagrams with my friends, a fast-paced version of Scrabble. I sat there bewildered with all of the tiles in front of me. The words that used to bounce around in my head and form themselves in front of me weren´t coming. I used to play so competitively that my friends had to gently remind me that my pace and agressiveness were frightening to new players, and maybe I should stop being such an intimidating shrew. Now I can´t even keep up.

Communication issues can be frustrating, but at least I have a new way of looking at it. The words have removed themselves from me, temporarily at least. But I am sure when they are ready, they will come back.

Supermen

PCV Michelle recently wrote a funny post about how unrealistic her expectations for men will be after living here in Panama. The men we live with are freakishly strong, can work all day in hot sun without water or food, and are ridiculously handy at fixing everything with literally no tools at their disposal. It´s been a while, but I don´t remember men in the U.S. being able to do anything but play fantasy football and flirt with women on facebook instead of in real life. I am going to be so disappointed when I go back. What do you mean you can´t cut perfect 2x4´s with just a chain saw? And I don´t understand why you need a lawn mower. A machete works just as well, and it makes your arms look amazing.

Last week we began construction on the first composting latrine. We had ordered wooden floats to use on the cement floors, but the hardware store didn´t have any. My host-dad Angel saw my face knitting itself into fretful worry, and he said ¨Oh, it´s fine, Cati. I´ll just make some.¨ He sat down in the shade of a tree, grabbed some wood scraps and the essential Panama multi-tool, his machete. Within half an hour, he produced two of these:

The freaks come out at night

The people I live with are a little skittish. They believe in vampires, boogie men, and creepers with ankle fetishes that arrive after sundown. At first, I tried to challenge these ideas, especially after they blamed a loaf of bread stolen from my kitchen on a recent string of vampire crimes. I fought against it, asked them to think logically, but that was a losing battle. Now? Now I consider it my full responsibility to advise of these public safety hazards and spread every single rumor I hear. I think of it as another notch on my "cultural integration" belt.

These tales must be told with complete earnestness. Wide eyes, a little finger waving, and some gentle but persistent pleading for the listeners to please be careful. This is serious.

Here is the latest tale that has been spread around QP. I warn everyone I come across:

About 14 years ago, a baby boy was born in the nearby town of Quebrada Plátano. He was not like other babies. From the stomach up, sure, 100 percent normal. But from his hips stretched two, long horse legs.

The doctors advised the mother not to raise this baby. There are ways to get rid of infants that are born half-horses, you know. The mother refused. This was her son. She loved him, but she recognized she couldn't raise him like any other baby. So for the last 14 years, he has been enclosed in a room of their house. She feeds him, bathes him, and takes care of him like any mother. But the door is always locked, and he has been kept away from prying eyes.

In all this time, he grew restless. He is haunted by passing visions of the outside world that he's unable to participate in. He has become, or always was, what the people here call a "bad spirit." And in the recent weeks, his restlessness caused him to leave in the middle of the night, appearing beside unsuspecting people in the dark. Some stories say he walks with two "friends," others say he comes alone. All warn against him. He is a bad spirit who wants to do us harm.

I was warned about him by several men in my community, two of whom who had seen him first hand. "You live alone," they said. "It would be very easy for him to find you." I nodded and promised to double check the locks on my doors. Of course, not everyone believes these stories, and I imagine that, like the vampires and that weird guy with the ankle fetish, they will soon fade from fashion, but in the mean time? I like walking up behind people and clicking my tongue in the rhythm of a two-footed horse.

Birthday

My uncle Peter asked me what it´s like, being here in Panama. It sounds like an easy enough question, and at the time I think I answered with little hesitation. You can get used to anything. Life in the village feels normal to me now. Things that shock outsiders seem so minor to me that sometimes I wonder why they make such a big deal out of them. I uess i can't say exactly what it's lie being here because I've gotten so used to it.

While I was home, a lot of people asked me if the kids in my village get presents at Christmas. They don´t. If families celebrate, it might be with a nicer-than-normal meal. They spend a few extra dollars to have stewed chicken and maybe a bit of lettuce and tomato.

This idea seemed to make Americans sad. A Christmas without presents. But that´s only because we´ve always had something to open on Christmas morning. We´d miss all that stuff if we only had a plate of chicken to look forward to. But poor kids don´t believe in Santa. They don´t expect presents, so it´s not really sad when there aren´t any. That is just how Christmas is here. They eat well, spend the day with the family, and are truly grateful if the day goes by and everyone is healthy, happy and full. Sounds nicer than some American Christmases if you ask me.

Birthdays are the same. Special food if there´s money, and if not, it´s just another day. I got used to that. But returning to my community after spending two weeks in the states, and at a time when it´s buy buy buy, give give give, my view was set a little askew.

One of my favorites, Rosibel turned five on Friday. The day before her mother has been rushed to the hospital after fainting while washing clothes. Rosibel came over to my house early on Friday morning when Julio, her dad, stopped by to tell me he was going to the hospital for the day to be with his wife, and his oldest daughter would be watching the younger kids. I asked Julio if Rosibel knew it was her birthday. I thought maybe they hadn't said anything, since no one would be there to celebrate with her. Family emergencies take precedent. But he said that yes, she knew.

In the mixed-up mash of having one foot still in the U.S. and one in my village, I lost my balance a little bit. All of a sudden I wanted to give this girl a birthday. Maybe because her family made me a part of theirs in the last year, or because she is one of the sweetest, most adorable children around and expected nothing. And in a weird way, I think I wanted to do it mostly for me. When I returned to QP after being in the states, a heaviness landed on my chest. I wanted something fun for these people, something to be easy, to celebrate something. After almost a year and a half there I got used to the hardships and the rough edges, but I felt newly exposed once I came back.

So the mission that day was to lighten the mood. I made Rosibel a birthday crown. I gave her some change, a fortune to a five-year-old. And I let her in every single time she came by the house (at least five or six.) When I saw her running to the hill each time a bus slowed to see if her parents were finally coming, I offered to read her a story instead.

I don´t think I would have felt as sympathetic had I not just returned from the states. If you let every sad or difficult thing affect you here, you would be immobile. But somehow, after reminding myself how easy things can be at home compared to life here, I felt the need to make something easy just for once. Brighten a birthday just for the sake of it.

You can get used to anything, including forgotten birthdays and holidays. In the big scheme of things, they are trivial. But sometimes all it takes is a birthday crown and a smile to turn a couple of girls' day around.

From 2011-01-12

(she insisted on posing with the pencil sharpeners)

To Plant Corn

The 21st of November was a full moon, an important day for most farmers. Wood is cut on the full moon to avoid insect infestations. Most crops are planted to ensure a better harvest. That day, I accepted the invitation of my neighbor Hernando to plant corn in his finca.

It is the custom that food is provided on work days by the family for whom the work is being done. So after a hearty breakfast of coffee, boiled plantains, and hot dogs, we headed out of the house in a light mist. Forty minutes later, we arrived at the parcel of land he had burned earlier in the week to prepare for planting. Sticks were cut to make holes for the kernels, and we got started.

That day we had to abide by the rules of a superstition. It dictates that because Hernando´s wife is pregnant, we could not bring any food or water to the finca, or the corn would not grow. The people here have a lot of beliefs, and many make some sense, but this is one of the stranger ones I´ve heard. Apparently this food and drink rule only applies to rice and corn because they are more ¨delicate¨ crops. One wonders how the corn would know if I brought a bottle of water, or that his wife is pregnant, or what espiritu malo, bad spirit, would bother presiding over such a specific circumstance. Nevertheless, I abided by the rule because I don´t need the guilt of a failed corn harvest on my shoulders. I made a mental note not to plant any more rice or corn with Hernando until his wife has the baby. A hotter day could result in some serious dehydration.

In four hours. the five of us planted the whole parcel. Just as we finished, the rain started to pour, and we slid down back to his house to enjoy another meal-- stewed fish and plantains. Hernando stopped by a couple of days ago to report that the corn had sprouted nicely. He attributed this to the restraint we showed with regard to staying hydrated, and the good graces of the spirits.

The view from the ridge:

On our way down, we passed one of my favorites, Marvin who had been sent down to get some groceries.

Fiestas Patrias

November is a holiday. Panama separated from Spain in 1821 on the 28th. It separated from Spain in 1903 on the 3rd. Flag Day is the fourth. Bocas was founded on the 16th, Changuinola was founded on the 17th. The Uprising of Los Santos happened on the 10th. Panamanians celebrate each and every holiday, and for that reason, there is little more to do in November than attend parades, school activities, and other patriotic events.

On the 16th a parade was held in Bocas town to celebrate the province's founding. Dozens of delegrations from junior and high schools marched in the parade. Quebrada Pastor's marching band was among them. I have been hearing them practice since July, and have supported all of their various fundraising events, so I had to be there to see them make their big debut.

I woke up at 5:30 and by 6:15, boarded a bus filled with parents, students, teachers and drums. We arrived at the docks in Almirante just before 7 a.m. There are two ways to get to the island. One is the water taxi-- which costs $4 for each half-hour trip. The other is the ferry, which takes 2-and-a-half hours as it trudges across the bay, but only costs $1.

By 8, we were all aboard the ferry, where we stood for the duration of the journey until pulling past all the gringo yachts into the port on Bocas Island. For most of the kids, it was their first time there, and they all felt particularly special to be arriving for such an official purpose.

Whenever I go to the island, I get culture shock. High prices, tourists everywhere, people who speak English. Bocas Island is an international tourist destination. On the 16th, traveling with everyone from my community, I got to see it through their eyes. They are used to Almirante and Changuinola, run-down frontier towns filled with other Ngobes. Bocas is more polished-- fresh paint, nice restaurants, rich people who eat at them.

It was a hot day. No clouds, little breeze and bright, beating sun. The kids marched for three hours, dressed in breathless polyester uniforms. Parents and siblings who were lucky enough to go along followed faithfully along the parade route. Street vendors sold meat sticks, ice cream, slushes, and cold drinks. No one had any money to buy any of it. They budgeted all their money on the ferry fare, with maybe a dollar or two left over to buy a big jug of water.

That day, to me, Bocas didn't seem like a tourst destination. It looked imaginary. From my community, it's only 90 minutes, but it seems like a different world.

But we marched.

1) First-grader Deisy bravely leads the baton twirlers.

2) The tiniest drummer, a third-grader among all the junior-high drummers. Wearing a traditional sombrero and shirt

3) A seventh-grader dressed in the traditional Panamanian pollera outfit.

4) Some gringa on the ferry who met some boys from Finca 30.

Frankly, my dear

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

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

¨Just wondering. How much?¨

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

¨What!!?!?!¨ Julio falls backwards.

¨Why, what did you think,¨ I asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

My first year of medical school (updated)

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

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

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

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

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

Other Asuntos Varios on the health front:

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

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

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

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

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

So what exactly is it that you are doing?

Up until now, I have written mostly about the relationships I´ve formed and the cultural adjustments I´ve made since arriving in site. Our first three months are dedicated to an in-depth community analysis and building trust and friendships within the community. This is an essential part of Peace Corps service and sustainable development. Communities must be able to think critically about the resources they have, what they need, and how they can acheive it for themselves. Decades of paternalism and the delivery of ¨projects¨ for which they neither had to work nor plan end only in more dependence on government agencies and NGOs to bring villages what they need. When people participate and work for something, success rates are much higher.

The cornerstone of Peace Corps and sustainable development revolves around the idea that I teach as I go along, and that the community participates, plans, and manages its own project with my help. If they do this, when I leave, the knowledge and skills they have gained will stay, and the can continue forward in the future.

It´s a great idea, but it´s harder than it sounds. There are plenty of people in my village who believe all gringos are bad guys, who still don´t invite me in when I come to pasear. Many children and adults alike thought I came to take their kids back to the United States to be sold. Some think gringos eat people. A fellow volunteer lives in a community where everyone thought she was a spy and didn´t want to share anything with her for fear of where the information was going.

I´ve come a long way in my community since I arrived at the end of October, but you can see why the first step of building relationships is so important. We are up against a lot of ugly history, cultural boundaries, and foundationless fear and rumors. The first step of our Environmental Health project framework is to motivate and organize community members. To help them form committees, understand how to run meetings effectively, and to get people to actively participate in their own development. People in my community rarely attend meetings, and those who do are the same people over and over. Most of these people view ¨the community¨as only the 30-ish houses nearest the road, and ignore the remaining 65 that are spread out over hills, across rivers, and as far as two hours or more from the street. To advise every house of a meeting requires at least four days of walking. The disperese nature of the community, and the overall lack or motivation and organization will be one of my biggest challenges.

Such work is the first goal of the Environmental Health framework. The other two revolve around water and sanitation. Depending on the needs of a community, EH volunteers may educate existing water committees about the maintenence of an aqueduct, basic aqueduct theory, trouble shooting, waterborne diseases and better managing of time, funds, and meetings. This is a huge felt need in QP, where broken pipes go unfixed for weeks, some houses connected to the aqueduct have been without water for months, and for the fun of the ick factor, our water reserve tanks have crabs and sometimes worms inside of them.

I attended my first water committee meeting this past week, and while it was an experience that was at times frustrating, and I still battle with Getting People to Listen To Me, it is also heartening because I know I have the ability and resources to help them in many important and sustainable ways. EH volunteers also help to plan for and design other water systems, be it aqueduct lines or rain-water catchment. About 70 percent of my community is without running water in their homes, and use springs, creeks or wells (many of which are extermely dubious) for drinking, cooking and wash water. I am still thinking about what can be done for these homes. They are all so spread out, it is impossible that one water system could serve them all, and they also lack organization of any kind. They tell me they want water, but they haven´t come to meetings, or done anything other than voice their need. Beginning to work with some leaders in small committees and planning for a future project, or at the least, rain-water catchment systems is something I hope to do as well, though as I see it now, it cannot be my first priority.

Santitation is the other element. EH volunteers educate about fecal-oral transmission pathways, and essentially, promoting the construction, proper use and maintenence latrines. In Bocas, living in an indigenous community, this is another element where cultural understanding is key. Most of our technical sanitation training revolved around building and promoting compositng latrines. In my community, only about 10 percent of houses (generous estimations) use latrines, and those are full or poorly maintained. All of them are pit latrines, and most of them have buckets of wash water to clean with after use. Toilet paper is used by only a few families, and the others have no interest in it becasue they feel cleaner using water.

Which is a problem for composting latrines, which must be kept dry. It is also a problem because so few houses have a nearby water source, so they are extremely unlikely to use composting latrines if they could just go to the creek, or in the woods, and wash afterwards. I am realistic about the fact that, right now, I know of only about five families who would properly use and maintain a composting latrine. For most, pit latrines are a better option. In time, many will be ¨ready¨ for composting latrines, but as of right now, few people have identified them as a priority.

I am running into a small problem because my counter part solicitied PC for the specific purpose of a compositing latrine project. He knows they are better for the environment, last longer, and of course produce a fabulous compost for the finca. I think he is unrealistic about the scope of a project we could undertake in QP, as he is comparing our situation to one in a nearby community where 35 latrines were built by a PC volunteer. But this is my job: assessment, and then education and promotion. I have plenty of time to gauge genuine interest (and not just what he claims when he went around and told everyone I was coming to work on composting latrines) and feasibile success rates. Many volunteers have built latrines in Bocas that went unused or were unfinished. I would hate to do that.

So that, in short, is what EH volunteers will do, and as I wrap up my community analysis, what I am imagining for my time here in Panama. As always, leave me questions in the comments.

We never know what the other will say

One of my volunteer friends Anita once asked me how my community was responding to my sense of humor. She knew me well enough to know that this could possibly spell disaster. She asked back in December, and I could only say that I was never very funny in site, and the thought hadn´t crossed my mine. I was still trying to navigate more smoothly through conversations and cultural norms, and wasn´t thinking of making many jokes.

But in the last month, my sense of humor has started to trickle back into my interactions. Attribute it to more facility with language, better confianza with my community, frustration with routine conversation. I call it dumb because the last things folks here understand is sarcasm. Bear witness to my failures and please laugh with me because they certainly didn´t when the following things happened.

1) When I lived with Roberto alla arriba, many of my friends liked to make a big fuss about how far I had to walk and what an injustice it was that they sent the gringa to live so far away. They were horrified to think about me walking alone and fighting with the hills, mud and snakes on a daily basis. After such a remark while visiting at my now-neighbor´s house, I leaned toward their seven-year-old daughter and said ¨So, when are you going to come with me?¨She grinned sheepishly and I continued talking. At some point, she got up and changed into what I can only describe as a first-communion dress. I finished talking with her parents, and went next door to my soon-to-be house to drop something off. As I came through the gate, ready to leave, she was outside on a bench. Her hair was done, she had her boots on, and an overnight bag on her back. She was ready to come with me.

I had to kindly explain that I was just joking? I had said similar things before and no one had ever outfitted their child for the overnight journey. I told her maybe another time, because Roberto´s house had 7 kids in it, a pregnant wife, and of course a gringa. There was little space to spare. She took the news well, but her older sister told me a few days later she back to her house and wailed.

Oops.

2) I am surprised this family still talks to me, because the following incident happened with their son. One day when he came over, I was tickling him, and his legs were flailing into my table, on which I had a kerosene lamp. I promptly stopped ticklng him, and said, as seriously as possible, ´´If you break my kerosene lamp, I will break your bones.¨ It just sort of came out. I was also having a not-so-good day that day, so maybe my tone of voice was less than playful. It was meant to me one of those ´´Quit it or I´ll smack you into next Tuesday¨ lines that everyone knows are said just for the fun of the threat. He didn´t look especially horrified, so I assumed he knew I was joking.

Another neighbor, who was also present, looked at me soberly and said, ¨Cati, and if he dies?¨
I quickly replied, ¨Oh no one ever dies from a broken bone!¨

In retrospect, I read this situation terribly and didn´t realize everyone thought I was serious, and frankly, was quite afraid of me, until he came back the next day and inquired about what exactly I meant by that threat. I apologized profusely, explained again it was all in fun, and he said, ¨Oh you were just joking with us?¨

I felt really bad about that.

3) But still not enough to learn the lesson for good. Last week I was visiting at one of my favorite houses where my favorite old man lives with his daughter and her five (soon to be six!) children and hubby. Her 5 and 7-year-olds were leaving to go bathe in the quebrada and they invited me to go with them. I said I wanted stay in the house and talk, so they ran off, all smiles and giggles. As they scurried away, I yelled ¨Bring me five shrimp!¨ More giggles erupted, and they disappeared down the hill. At least an hour passed before they came back to the house and delivered into my hands five extremely large and still very living shrimp.

It is dificult to catch shrimp with bare hands, and I was embarassed that they must have spent so much time trying to collect exactly the right number for me.

Lesson learned: Don´t be sarcastic in your Ngobe village. Stick to slapstick, hyperbole, and falling in the mud, and you will have a sufficient laughtrack. Sarcasm leads to crying, paralyzing fear, and handfuls of aquatic creatures you didn´t really want in the first place.

The Ngobe Cookbook

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Gone fishing

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Um, where are we going?"

"We´re going fishing!"

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

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