As a Prison Tourist

Choosing to join the Peace Corps or any other stint of "voluntary poverty" is a little like going to prison for a stay in a cell where they put the lifers. You, however, can leave whenever you want and bring any food or accessory you want in with you. It is like asking people to understand that you, with your ipod and reeses' peanut butter cups, are nothing to bat an eyelash at. You are just doing it for the experience, maybe to do some education for the deprived inmates and get some professional experience. It is asking the inmates to not be jealous of your true freedom and to please not ask you for things. It is also asking them to trust you and to view your choice of a prison vacation as normal. I realize the similarities of those in poverty and those incarcerated is farfetched and even off-color but the feelings of the scenario are pretty comparable.

Here we volunteers are with our American look, backpacks and Chaco sandals, exercising for fun and drinking as much milk in our coffee that we want. We teach classes, promote environmental responsibility and proper health practices. We work with businesses or community groups and manage projects like improved cook stoves or latrines. Then, we hop on a bus for a weekend of pizza, desserts, beer and maybe even a white sandy beach because, you’ll understand, we’re not here to suffer. We come home and clench our teeth through cheek kisses when people lay on some guilt and ask what we brought them. It is like the penitentiary occupant coming back to their cot tanned and tired with oreos and a hangover. Why isn't she sharing the oreos? Why didn't she bring enough to share? It's an exaggerated metaphor, but it's not entirely off.

Last Sunday, I woke up with a start because it was light. My normal regimen involves a 5:45 cell phone alarm wake up but I later realized that my dependable phone clock was 12 hours off. The disconcerting beginning epitomized the rest of the day. I got ready for a nine o’clock date with my project partner to hike around town preaching hygiene and water treatment. This is the result of two failed attempts of giving a presentation to the beneficiary families of our latrine project. The first workshop, we cordially invited everyone, stressed its importance and it rained so hard, I almost didn’t blame everyone but two little old women for not coming. We moved the date and ignorantly expected word of mouth to be sufficient. It drizzled and after one hour and a new plan, the same two ladies were just arriving.

On Sunday at nine, I was prepared with copies of a sheet I worked on for way too much time. We were to visit the houses, give the basic information and take pictures, an embarrassing aspect of grant-funded projects. At ten to nine, I called my compañero to wake him up and he immediately changed the time to ten, fine. I bought soap made from the Dominican tree Cuava, naturally antibacterial and cheap, and was on my way.

We started with the greeting, kissing, and the obligatory, “Yeah, it’s hot. This sun is so strong.” I then went into my practiced babble about the hygiene, how many illnesses can be prevented by hand washing, when it’s extra important to wash hands and teeth brushing is good too. I went over the ways to treat water if you can’t afford to buy it and once again, wash your hands and your kids hands! Increased hand washing is one of the most effective changes in preventing sicknesses in the developing world so why not hand out informational sheets like candy? It is only fair to note that they already know. It is not a presence of ignorance but a lack of facility. There is no sink with running water or soap dispenser. There is a friend pouring a bit of precious but very contaminated water on your hands as you splash them together, reach for a bar of soap if you have it and repeat. I went over a method of hanging a bottomless two liter bottle and unscrewing the cap for a gravity faucet. No one had a bottle to demonstrate nor will be likely to try it.

While most were receptive and openly grateful, I also got responses like: “Give me another bar of soap for my sister because she’s poor too.”, “Water is difficult, you know.”, “Oh my love, I don’t have any teeth and I can’t read but I’ll give this to the kids.” As our beneficiaries are some of the poorest families in the community, many of the adults never learned to read. I made the info sheet with this in mind, drawings of people coming out of the latrine, washing baby butts and eating (with a hand washing visual in between). However many pictures and arrows one puts on a poster, people unaccustomed to reading probably won’t bother looking.

There I was, hiking around to the poor handing out soap and hygiene drawings and bitching about the heat. My project partner is whispering to me about who has four wives and innumerable kids and the women with no one but a nice neighbor, sick with malnutrition. I am a white tourist visiting with poor prisoners without respite. I went home and chugged water and thought about crying but decided not to. Instead I ate my scrambled eggs with tomato, avocado and no cheese because sometimes, it’s hard for rich Americans to show their face and buy something so extraneous. When I finally looked in the mirror, I saw the two dead bugs stuck on my face with sunscreen and sweat. I drank more water, had coffee with sugar and powdered milk and thought I was free to read and take a bucket bath before church.

How I was mistaken when the kids came a calling! I stuck to my one rule that we don’t do art in my house anymore because I am in session with the art classes. We looked at the map, some pictures and my pretty mini-fridge. I gave them refills of water, little candies and sent them on their way. The wrench in my plan was that they wouldn’t leave and I was reluctant to be rude. I told them about my plan to bathe and it only became hostile when they wanted more candy and therefore more visiting and I politely refused through thick exhaustion and maybe some hurt feelings. A four-year-old yelled through my very open windows, “You are bad with the poor, Yasmin!” I told her she had no idea and nearly laughed at my own self pity.

On my way to church, the four-year-old apologized, a friend ran up asking for a six dollar loan, and I lied about a Peace Corps rule that we can’t lend money. Although I am not Catholic, I hold an impressive church attendance because I like it. The hungry walk home was with neighbors and I prepared dinner as the house was dimming without electricity. When it came on, I almost cringed because it meant a more lively night. I did my walking around town, shouting goodnights to people sitting outside their houses. I sat with the woman I used to live with and chatted mostly about the heat. On my way home as man hissed, gave me a kissy face and a compliment. This is relatively routine in the machismo culture but strikes a different chord depending on my mood. While I will normally acknowledge a compliment with at least a sarcastic remark, I did nothing at first and then, upon repeat, shook my finger violently to signify a serious no thank you and made for home, almost running. I later climbed in my mosquito net with so much enthusiasm, you would think something better was waiting for me than a headlamp and a book.

Living here is wholly my choice and my freedom is pretty thorough. I have a cell phone that can text the states and has free minutes within Peace Corps. Every day I have four or five opportunities to ride a bus to the capital, a little America complete with malls and fast food. I have my $300 per month stipend plus my credit card from home. I could treat myself for a fancy night if I wanted it or buy any clothes or food I desire with only the limits of my own practicality and guilt. Simultaneously, I have to respond when people whose ribs are showing ask me for money. I have to kick children out of my house just because I don’t feel like having them there. I have to choose whether I want to be honest when I come home from eating, dancing and swimming. The difference between the people who live here and me is ugly and obvious. I am here temporarily for fun but they are here involuntarily for good.

This is not just me; it is volunteering or working in a developing country. We are visitors in the penitentiary, half in and half out, clearly different. Sometimes I am shocked that I have friends here. I guess through the confusion and unfairness, there must be some mutual kindness. Maybe I should just make a sign that says “It hurts my feelings when you ask me for things.” That’ll work as well as my hygiene promotion.