Wednesday, February 3, 2010
Sunday, January 24, 2010
Having a Little Laugh
While our Haitian neighbors are still in a nightmarish catastrophic state, my town has returned to something close to normal. I have one of those unfortunate personalities that makes me want to suffer right along with victims but I know I have to override that feeling with logic. Someday I will grow out of all that guilt I choose to carry around and let taint every comfort and opportunity that I am lucky enough to have, someday. After a few days of hating myself for just being, I decided to stop the craziness and start laughing again along with my friends. Maybe it is you-have-to-be-there humor but I will try to explain some things I find funny.
A lot of the market clothes come from the U.S., household and Goodwill rejects. Most of those charity clothing drops, usually placed in far corners of grocery or drugstore parking lots, send the donations in tight plastic-wrapped blocks on ships headed all over the world. Upon arrival to developing countries, Haiti in this case, I don’t know what happens exactly but our pit stained, faded, unfashionable clothes, end up being sold from big heaps in street markets. I often recognize unfortunate fads from 2001 and occasionally I see people in clothes I used to own, a YMCA T-shirt or American Eagle tank top. The funniest views, however, are the English phrases that mean nothing to the wearer, big men in tops that say “Girls Kick Ass” or really old women sporting “Stop Staring” across her saggy chest. My favorite is a really elderly man in my town who is never without his fatigue bottoms and his rifle along the back of his neck (horizontally, snake taming style). Every once in a while he wears my favorite T-shirt that says in huge white letters “Stop Bitching, Start a Revolution”. Every time I see him meandering with rifle and T-shirt, I get a good smile and wish I had my camera.
I get really mad about the chickens in my business. They are always in my yard and I can’t start a garden before I buy surprisingly expensive chicken wire to put around and above any plants. If I sweep leaves into a pile, they have a chicken play party. They poop on my patio and I have to use precious water to clean it, they sneak into my house when I leave the door open and one even got on my bed and then tried to fly out of my shuttered window. While I already have been unknowingly eating fertilized eggs, I decided to take the next step, to start eating those little jerks. As a lifelong vegetarian, I won’t be cooking them myself but gifted chicken will be accepted. Last week I ate a chicken leg at a friend’s house and found that while it is tricky with the bones and very chewy, it’s kind of good. I wouldn’t be surprised if by the end of this, I eat all farm animals. Cows are okay, but pigs and goats are also innately annoying.
This month, I have started giving environmental education classes in the high school. I am now more comfortable with what works but my first class was like a bad joke. There was a lot I didn’t know, how class is usually a chalkboard copying lesson and that the students and teachers can leave class whenever they please. In nervous anticipation, I had over-planned games, activities and information when their class periods are only half an hour. I didn’t foresee the competitive streak that instigated kids storming out of class because they were wrong about what decomposition is or what paper is made. I also didn’t expect the kids from other classes peering in through the open windows doubling my audience. I was so red in the face as I packed up my visuals, I felt the blood would never disperse.
A lot of people think I am a nun and ask me confusing questions about church events and medicine distribution. There is also a whole band of one and two year olds who thought that my name was Maria for months. They would chant Ma-ri-a from their day care when I walked by until my really smart one year old neighbor finally got them all informed. Now I am a Jah-meen, Jah-meen, so pretty.
Some of the mannerisms can also be pretty funny. When it’s hot, people pull their shirt up to bare the stomach to catch a little breeze. It has become such a habit, I often look down while mopping or cooking and wonder when I pulled my shirt up. I try to keep from doing it out of my house but not everyone is of this persuasion and there will often be a group of men drinking beer in plastic chairs in the street confidently baring their bellies. Another is the lip-point, like a directional air kiss that substitutes our finger point. It is very useful while giving and receiving directions and while I still can’t do it, I won’t be giving up trying. The finger wag says “I don’t want that”. I use the wag frequently when it music is blaring and someone is trying to pour me a beer or when motorcycle taxis in the big town really want me to take a ride. I even think it is a little funny when little kids use it while they are crying at their parents giving them a cold bucket bath when it is chilly or making them leave a fun time.
I realize that these little everyday sights may only amuse me but if it comforts me to seek out a laugh, I don’t see anything wrong with it. Anyway, my latest update is that I am off to help with the Haitian relief in Jimaní, a Dominican border town. Organizations are working together there to aid earthquake victims and I will be volunteering with USAID mostly translating for American doctors and lending an extra hand. I have no idea what it will be like but I will let you know.
A lot of the market clothes come from the U.S., household and Goodwill rejects. Most of those charity clothing drops, usually placed in far corners of grocery or drugstore parking lots, send the donations in tight plastic-wrapped blocks on ships headed all over the world. Upon arrival to developing countries, Haiti in this case, I don’t know what happens exactly but our pit stained, faded, unfashionable clothes, end up being sold from big heaps in street markets. I often recognize unfortunate fads from 2001 and occasionally I see people in clothes I used to own, a YMCA T-shirt or American Eagle tank top. The funniest views, however, are the English phrases that mean nothing to the wearer, big men in tops that say “Girls Kick Ass” or really old women sporting “Stop Staring” across her saggy chest. My favorite is a really elderly man in my town who is never without his fatigue bottoms and his rifle along the back of his neck (horizontally, snake taming style). Every once in a while he wears my favorite T-shirt that says in huge white letters “Stop Bitching, Start a Revolution”. Every time I see him meandering with rifle and T-shirt, I get a good smile and wish I had my camera.
I get really mad about the chickens in my business. They are always in my yard and I can’t start a garden before I buy surprisingly expensive chicken wire to put around and above any plants. If I sweep leaves into a pile, they have a chicken play party. They poop on my patio and I have to use precious water to clean it, they sneak into my house when I leave the door open and one even got on my bed and then tried to fly out of my shuttered window. While I already have been unknowingly eating fertilized eggs, I decided to take the next step, to start eating those little jerks. As a lifelong vegetarian, I won’t be cooking them myself but gifted chicken will be accepted. Last week I ate a chicken leg at a friend’s house and found that while it is tricky with the bones and very chewy, it’s kind of good. I wouldn’t be surprised if by the end of this, I eat all farm animals. Cows are okay, but pigs and goats are also innately annoying.
This month, I have started giving environmental education classes in the high school. I am now more comfortable with what works but my first class was like a bad joke. There was a lot I didn’t know, how class is usually a chalkboard copying lesson and that the students and teachers can leave class whenever they please. In nervous anticipation, I had over-planned games, activities and information when their class periods are only half an hour. I didn’t foresee the competitive streak that instigated kids storming out of class because they were wrong about what decomposition is or what paper is made. I also didn’t expect the kids from other classes peering in through the open windows doubling my audience. I was so red in the face as I packed up my visuals, I felt the blood would never disperse.
A lot of people think I am a nun and ask me confusing questions about church events and medicine distribution. There is also a whole band of one and two year olds who thought that my name was Maria for months. They would chant Ma-ri-a from their day care when I walked by until my really smart one year old neighbor finally got them all informed. Now I am a Jah-meen, Jah-meen, so pretty.
Some of the mannerisms can also be pretty funny. When it’s hot, people pull their shirt up to bare the stomach to catch a little breeze. It has become such a habit, I often look down while mopping or cooking and wonder when I pulled my shirt up. I try to keep from doing it out of my house but not everyone is of this persuasion and there will often be a group of men drinking beer in plastic chairs in the street confidently baring their bellies. Another is the lip-point, like a directional air kiss that substitutes our finger point. It is very useful while giving and receiving directions and while I still can’t do it, I won’t be giving up trying. The finger wag says “I don’t want that”. I use the wag frequently when it music is blaring and someone is trying to pour me a beer or when motorcycle taxis in the big town really want me to take a ride. I even think it is a little funny when little kids use it while they are crying at their parents giving them a cold bucket bath when it is chilly or making them leave a fun time.
I realize that these little everyday sights may only amuse me but if it comforts me to seek out a laugh, I don’t see anything wrong with it. Anyway, my latest update is that I am off to help with the Haitian relief in Jimaní, a Dominican border town. Organizations are working together there to aid earthquake victims and I will be volunteering with USAID mostly translating for American doctors and lending an extra hand. I have no idea what it will be like but I will let you know.
Thursday, January 14, 2010
In a Time of Tragedy
There is no information I can give, a river width from Haiti and 60km from Port-au-Prince, that you can't get from the news sources online. In fact, I have been waiting all day to get online myself. We shook like a carnival ride, where you can see the road, parked motorcycles and street light poles swaying back and forth, stomach lurching, paradigm shifting, but everything standing. People were out in the street, laughing and panicking, excited and dizzy. We noticably shook a couple of other times before people started getting the news on TV. A hospital had collapsed in Haiti. As we kept shaking, it started to unfold. As more information was revealed, it looked worse and worse, unfathomable. The lack of communication to Haiti became excruciating for those with family in the midts of it. My friend's brand new baby and wife are in Port-au-Prince, another friends sisters, another's parents.
After a sleepless shakey night, Wednesday felt more sad. People started crossing the border to look for their families. Some crossed just to spread the news. As of yesterday, whole Haitian towns felt the shake but had no idea the epicenter or the impact. Without communication or news, they were, and maybe some still are, in the dark about the tragedy. It seemed impossible that you could be so close to worldwide news and have no idea.
My town sits here in somber, without our normal blaring music, waiting for news of loved ones and changes that might come. They are starting to worry about where the Haitians will go, or rather, if they will try to come here. Last night, watching the news with some neighbors, we saw footage so brutal, it looked like an action film. We volunteers are thinking about what we could possibly do but it seems like money is what Haiti needs. Money for medical aid, water and food. Eventually, for rebuilding one of the most dense, underpriviledged cities in the world. As we shake this very moment, I wonder how much it is shaking there and when it will end. When will all the horror cease?
On a personal note, I want my mom. I have never felt so homesick as in these past two days. Trying to be strong and composed, to keep myself educated and aware, all I really want is my family to give me bear hugs and tell me everything will be okay. Even though, I think we all know it won't.
After a sleepless shakey night, Wednesday felt more sad. People started crossing the border to look for their families. Some crossed just to spread the news. As of yesterday, whole Haitian towns felt the shake but had no idea the epicenter or the impact. Without communication or news, they were, and maybe some still are, in the dark about the tragedy. It seemed impossible that you could be so close to worldwide news and have no idea.
My town sits here in somber, without our normal blaring music, waiting for news of loved ones and changes that might come. They are starting to worry about where the Haitians will go, or rather, if they will try to come here. Last night, watching the news with some neighbors, we saw footage so brutal, it looked like an action film. We volunteers are thinking about what we could possibly do but it seems like money is what Haiti needs. Money for medical aid, water and food. Eventually, for rebuilding one of the most dense, underpriviledged cities in the world. As we shake this very moment, I wonder how much it is shaking there and when it will end. When will all the horror cease?
On a personal note, I want my mom. I have never felt so homesick as in these past two days. Trying to be strong and composed, to keep myself educated and aware, all I really want is my family to give me bear hugs and tell me everything will be okay. Even though, I think we all know it won't.
Tuesday, December 29, 2009
The Things I Like
The holidays here have felt far from typical. In fact, there was almost a total lack of the consumer craziness that has come to define Christmas in the states and a complete absence of cookies and sweaters. Right now, the big difference in Pedro Santana from any other time of the year has been the amount of people and cars here to visit their hometown and families. I don’t know the population right now but I can tell you it is far above the usual thousand. It has been fun for me because there are loads of people my age who have left town after high school for school and jobs in the capital. They come bumping in SUVs or Toyota Corollas, a Dominican favorite, with capital goods like boxes of cereal and sunglasses.
Their presence is like a little piece of home and makes apparent the things I don’t even notice are missing. I saw a baby being pushed in a stroller and had a moment of confusion, a lot like when you wake up and, just for a second, you don’t know where you are. Strollers are not necessary here and would surely turn into potentially dangerous toys for older siblings and I, therefore, totally support their absence. Less mesmerizing but surprising all the same, dog leashes, braces, and swimsuits have been popping into sight. Although I am admittedly enjoying all the material crap that reminds me of home and my new lively social life, I have realized what I really do like here that we don’t have in the states.
I like the apparent quality of resources. I had never paid much attention to where housing utilities come from or questioned their presence. Here, we have power for about half the time. When it’s on, the refrigerator gets cold, you can charge your phone and music is blasted through loudspeakers throughout town. When it’s off, life is a little more peaceful especially at night when candles light the house and the vivid stars give you that camping feel. Water, oh water. Apparently we are on to better water days but for now, it is pumped every second or third day from the river and runs through the aqueduct to arrive in faucets, dirty or clean. I have resorted to bathing in the river with natural soap because it’s refreshing and saves water at the house. The only other utility that I can think of is the propane for our stoves. I have a ten gallon tank and there is no way of knowing when I have used up the gas until it’s gone. I have asked a few people because I should be nearing the end but one day, surely in some horrible culinary moment, it will just run out without warning. I will have to wait and pay to send it on a truck to be filled an hour away. Maybe I’m not shedding the best light on this aspect of life here but I do like it because it isn’t confusing and I am forced to appreciate things that I only pretended to appreciate at home.
I also like aspects of family life here. Specifically, I think I can learn from the generosity without question that is illustrated in so many houses. One indicator is the food being sent to and fro to poorer grandparents, nephews and friends. More common questions than ‘where to you live’ are ‘where do you sleep’ and ‘where do you eat’. ‘Oh, I sleep with my cousin at my grandma’s house and I eat at my house, the neighbor cooks because my mom works.’ Another is the many hijos de crianza meaning children of belief. Many children are raised by relatives, godparents, or even seemingly unrelated community members. Because of our position on the border, there are Dominican families with Haitian children who have been raised since infancy and therefore speak only Spanish and are quick to correct their nationality as Dominican. Hijos de crianza, in my mind, demonstrate how much simpler and nicer things can be here. The messy yet supportive families here make development look like a monster that brings the difficult and messier foster care systems, adoption processes and custody battles.
Another cultural difference that I respect but I don’t see myself ever fully embracing is the bluntness of lifestyle and speech. You go girl, you wear those rollers in public! Put on pants so tight the fly won’t zip and let your love handles shine as your shirt is really a bathing suit and your bra is sticking out the top. There seems to be little problem with weight issues as I haven’t heard about eating disorders nor is there much of an obesity problem. Plus, in case you haven’t noticed, a little flub is attractive! Other aspects of the lucidity here are health and aging. Everyone’s health problems are chatted about and shown openly. Things like cataracts and missing teeth are left as is for the world to see. I honestly didn’t know so many people have these conditions because they are fixed or covered up. We are exposed to people getting older honestly without the means to worry about vanity and hide the signs of aging. Vocabulary here is also a lot clearer than what I am used to. Many nicknames are allusions to their appearance, blacky, whitey, little, fatty. It makes for embarrassing introductions as calling someone blacky is far from my comfort zone. I can’t count the amount of times I have asked who we are talking about to get an answer like, ‘You know, the ugly’, or ‘The fatty teacher with the red motorcycle’, or ‘Wait, are you talking about my black brother or my chubby brother’. I have gotten all sorts of questions and comments about my own appearance and so I learned how to say ‘That hurts my feelings’. I rarely use it because I am usually more amused than offended and as long as I’m not referred to as just plain ugly, I feel pretty lucky.
There are other things I like here and many I don’t like, that’s life. Also, most of these positive cultural qualities could never be translated literally in the states. I promise when I go back home I won’t turn off my power box, try to raise other people’s kids or refer to someone as the little fatty. I do hope, however, to take the idea of resource consciousness, generosity, and honesty that comes so natural to the Dominican lifestyle. Plus, maybe I’ll wear tighter clothes and be a little crass just for fun.
Happy New Year!
Their presence is like a little piece of home and makes apparent the things I don’t even notice are missing. I saw a baby being pushed in a stroller and had a moment of confusion, a lot like when you wake up and, just for a second, you don’t know where you are. Strollers are not necessary here and would surely turn into potentially dangerous toys for older siblings and I, therefore, totally support their absence. Less mesmerizing but surprising all the same, dog leashes, braces, and swimsuits have been popping into sight. Although I am admittedly enjoying all the material crap that reminds me of home and my new lively social life, I have realized what I really do like here that we don’t have in the states.
I like the apparent quality of resources. I had never paid much attention to where housing utilities come from or questioned their presence. Here, we have power for about half the time. When it’s on, the refrigerator gets cold, you can charge your phone and music is blasted through loudspeakers throughout town. When it’s off, life is a little more peaceful especially at night when candles light the house and the vivid stars give you that camping feel. Water, oh water. Apparently we are on to better water days but for now, it is pumped every second or third day from the river and runs through the aqueduct to arrive in faucets, dirty or clean. I have resorted to bathing in the river with natural soap because it’s refreshing and saves water at the house. The only other utility that I can think of is the propane for our stoves. I have a ten gallon tank and there is no way of knowing when I have used up the gas until it’s gone. I have asked a few people because I should be nearing the end but one day, surely in some horrible culinary moment, it will just run out without warning. I will have to wait and pay to send it on a truck to be filled an hour away. Maybe I’m not shedding the best light on this aspect of life here but I do like it because it isn’t confusing and I am forced to appreciate things that I only pretended to appreciate at home.
I also like aspects of family life here. Specifically, I think I can learn from the generosity without question that is illustrated in so many houses. One indicator is the food being sent to and fro to poorer grandparents, nephews and friends. More common questions than ‘where to you live’ are ‘where do you sleep’ and ‘where do you eat’. ‘Oh, I sleep with my cousin at my grandma’s house and I eat at my house, the neighbor cooks because my mom works.’ Another is the many hijos de crianza meaning children of belief. Many children are raised by relatives, godparents, or even seemingly unrelated community members. Because of our position on the border, there are Dominican families with Haitian children who have been raised since infancy and therefore speak only Spanish and are quick to correct their nationality as Dominican. Hijos de crianza, in my mind, demonstrate how much simpler and nicer things can be here. The messy yet supportive families here make development look like a monster that brings the difficult and messier foster care systems, adoption processes and custody battles.
Another cultural difference that I respect but I don’t see myself ever fully embracing is the bluntness of lifestyle and speech. You go girl, you wear those rollers in public! Put on pants so tight the fly won’t zip and let your love handles shine as your shirt is really a bathing suit and your bra is sticking out the top. There seems to be little problem with weight issues as I haven’t heard about eating disorders nor is there much of an obesity problem. Plus, in case you haven’t noticed, a little flub is attractive! Other aspects of the lucidity here are health and aging. Everyone’s health problems are chatted about and shown openly. Things like cataracts and missing teeth are left as is for the world to see. I honestly didn’t know so many people have these conditions because they are fixed or covered up. We are exposed to people getting older honestly without the means to worry about vanity and hide the signs of aging. Vocabulary here is also a lot clearer than what I am used to. Many nicknames are allusions to their appearance, blacky, whitey, little, fatty. It makes for embarrassing introductions as calling someone blacky is far from my comfort zone. I can’t count the amount of times I have asked who we are talking about to get an answer like, ‘You know, the ugly’, or ‘The fatty teacher with the red motorcycle’, or ‘Wait, are you talking about my black brother or my chubby brother’. I have gotten all sorts of questions and comments about my own appearance and so I learned how to say ‘That hurts my feelings’. I rarely use it because I am usually more amused than offended and as long as I’m not referred to as just plain ugly, I feel pretty lucky.
There are other things I like here and many I don’t like, that’s life. Also, most of these positive cultural qualities could never be translated literally in the states. I promise when I go back home I won’t turn off my power box, try to raise other people’s kids or refer to someone as the little fatty. I do hope, however, to take the idea of resource consciousness, generosity, and honesty that comes so natural to the Dominican lifestyle. Plus, maybe I’ll wear tighter clothes and be a little crass just for fun.
Happy New Year!
Monday, December 7, 2009
Thursday, December 3, 2009
Just Changing My Glasses
Life is always full of mountains and valleys wherever you are. It also always seems like events or conditions that alter your situation come in little bundles. You achieve some accomplishment, you get a message from a long lost friend and the weather turns fabulous all at the same time. The same goes for the valleys. Your car needs work, some social drama makes your stomach churn and then a bird poops on your head. These things seem to come in groups partly by coincidence and partly because you are wearing sunglasses, either rose colored or crap brown. Right now, I have to admit, I am in a bit of a valley and I am trying hard to change my lenses.
I came home from Thanksgiving with a detour including a lot of sitting at deserted intersections, an overheated bus engine, and a jerky driver who took my money and then left me short of my destination at a military checkpoint with no cell signal. I thought my foul mood could be washed off with a cold bucket bath and some juice when I got some unfortunate news. Over Thanksgiving weekend, there has been a group of criminals attacking people who are walking and riding motorcycles in the rural areas. They beat a teacher who lives near me almost to death with rocks and tried to suffocate him with tape. There have been three other attacks in which two died and some sightings of masked people with rocks. Maybe it is because of the masks, the difficult roads or because we have no police force but not one criminal has been caught. Everyone is instructed to be on guard and not to travel alone, “That means you can’t walk like you do, no. You hear me Jazmín?”
As a Peace Corps volunteer, we theoretically have project partners or a supportive group that we are working within. In reality, every situation is different and I have no official project partner or amazingly helpful group. I work in a little rural school doing environmental and art activities that I will start doing in the bigger town school in January. I am working with the school director to propose and implement a literacy promotion project to get these kids reading. I am also working with youth to reduce waste and collect plastic bottles for a water project in Haiti. While some of this is in the pueblo, my favorite days are going up to the rural school, an hour and a half walk from town.
Hiking and running in the area also keeps me going, a must that I can’t imagine forgoing. Being told that I can’t walk alone is like telling someone who has a car that they are not allowed to use it. It is not a perfect analogy because at least you might have other transportation options. I often have little other than my feet to get me around and I don’t see how my life is going to function for the next year and a half if I really cannot travel solo. I realize that it is petty to complain about not being able to walk or hike alone while people have lost their family members and I don’t want to disrespect the weight of the crime here. It is truly tragic. Such brutal beatings for motorcycles and pocket money are a disgusting manifestation of poverty and greed that I will never understand.
I guess this negative entry should not continue for long so I will finish with my bundle of events that define my current slump. While I was gone, someone stole my bananas and plantains off of my trees in my fenced yard. I have an eye infection that I can’t seem to get rid of after purchasing two very expensive medicated drops. I am continually avoided by a water engineer who should be responsible for a broken aqueduct in a community I am trying to work with, vehicle troubles, my ass! It is also apparently ant season which means that ants march into my house through the windows like a parade and find their home under things like my shortwave radio. I am letting them control my life by my avoiding cooking or dishwashing inside and even having trouble in the bathroom with toothpaste and other toiletries. I planted some basil that sprouted and then was promptly eaten by chickens. I am afraid to ask my landlord if I can make a vegetable garden and compost and even more afraid of the quantity of chicken wire I will have to buy to protect them.
And now I take off my shitty sunglasses and say some nice things. I am swimming in the river and doing a lot of art in my free time with and without kids. Christmas lights are popping up in town, hoo hoo. Red Cross is working on our town aqueduct which means that maybe starting in January, water will come everyday or almost everyday, yeah baby! (There may be a period in December with no water as they are making the switch and I have a secret plan to flee to the capital.) See, my rose colored lenses are coming right on! I hope everyone is doing well and that December brings lots of cookies and family fun!
I came home from Thanksgiving with a detour including a lot of sitting at deserted intersections, an overheated bus engine, and a jerky driver who took my money and then left me short of my destination at a military checkpoint with no cell signal. I thought my foul mood could be washed off with a cold bucket bath and some juice when I got some unfortunate news. Over Thanksgiving weekend, there has been a group of criminals attacking people who are walking and riding motorcycles in the rural areas. They beat a teacher who lives near me almost to death with rocks and tried to suffocate him with tape. There have been three other attacks in which two died and some sightings of masked people with rocks. Maybe it is because of the masks, the difficult roads or because we have no police force but not one criminal has been caught. Everyone is instructed to be on guard and not to travel alone, “That means you can’t walk like you do, no. You hear me Jazmín?”
As a Peace Corps volunteer, we theoretically have project partners or a supportive group that we are working within. In reality, every situation is different and I have no official project partner or amazingly helpful group. I work in a little rural school doing environmental and art activities that I will start doing in the bigger town school in January. I am working with the school director to propose and implement a literacy promotion project to get these kids reading. I am also working with youth to reduce waste and collect plastic bottles for a water project in Haiti. While some of this is in the pueblo, my favorite days are going up to the rural school, an hour and a half walk from town.
Hiking and running in the area also keeps me going, a must that I can’t imagine forgoing. Being told that I can’t walk alone is like telling someone who has a car that they are not allowed to use it. It is not a perfect analogy because at least you might have other transportation options. I often have little other than my feet to get me around and I don’t see how my life is going to function for the next year and a half if I really cannot travel solo. I realize that it is petty to complain about not being able to walk or hike alone while people have lost their family members and I don’t want to disrespect the weight of the crime here. It is truly tragic. Such brutal beatings for motorcycles and pocket money are a disgusting manifestation of poverty and greed that I will never understand.
I guess this negative entry should not continue for long so I will finish with my bundle of events that define my current slump. While I was gone, someone stole my bananas and plantains off of my trees in my fenced yard. I have an eye infection that I can’t seem to get rid of after purchasing two very expensive medicated drops. I am continually avoided by a water engineer who should be responsible for a broken aqueduct in a community I am trying to work with, vehicle troubles, my ass! It is also apparently ant season which means that ants march into my house through the windows like a parade and find their home under things like my shortwave radio. I am letting them control my life by my avoiding cooking or dishwashing inside and even having trouble in the bathroom with toothpaste and other toiletries. I planted some basil that sprouted and then was promptly eaten by chickens. I am afraid to ask my landlord if I can make a vegetable garden and compost and even more afraid of the quantity of chicken wire I will have to buy to protect them.
And now I take off my shitty sunglasses and say some nice things. I am swimming in the river and doing a lot of art in my free time with and without kids. Christmas lights are popping up in town, hoo hoo. Red Cross is working on our town aqueduct which means that maybe starting in January, water will come everyday or almost everyday, yeah baby! (There may be a period in December with no water as they are making the switch and I have a secret plan to flee to the capital.) See, my rose colored lenses are coming right on! I hope everyone is doing well and that December brings lots of cookies and family fun!
Friday, November 27, 2009
Oh the Holidays!
Sometimes I cannot even imagine being in the states. I think about myself driving around with a big cup of tea and a bran muffin listening to American music and it looks like someone else. Lately my thoughts about being home have gotten more frequent because many of my volunteer friends are going back for the holidays. They will be pulled out of this world to the Christmas madness, hot showers, carpets, and real bread that constitute the American dream. I am confident in my choice to stay here for the holidays especially because some of the family is coming to visit in February, woohoo! Thanksgiving was a breeze. There was a big Peace Corps party where we had a run, sports, dancing and food binging to the point of sickness, just like home!
I will spend Christmas in my site which may or many not give me a hint of what I am used to. From what I hear, the town fills with cars of family members who have moved away. There are very few people here with private vehicles and none that are not trucks so the presence of cars marks any big special time in town. Other than a large dinner on the night of the 24th involving goat meat, I think Christmas is just a chance to get together and drink and dance bachata and merengue. There is no custom of cutting down trees or gift giving, two traditions that I am sincerely not sorry to miss. Christmas cards, however, I am unwilling to forgo. I started chatting with people about this and realized immediately that card giving in general is a foreign concept. I decided to facilitate a Christmas card making session with poster board, old magazines, crayons and glitter.
I invited a bunch of high school kids and encouraged them to bring anything they had around the house. When they showed up empty handed, they told me that they didn’t understand what we were doing. Who were the cards for, what were they supposed to look like and why hadn’t I showed up with models for them to copy. We started with scrap paper and pencils and many sat waiting still looking over a friends shoulder. My little fifteen year old friend informed me that I needed to teach them how to draw first and we spent the entire allotted time talking about creativity, the thought that counts, and my usual babble about reusing material. No one completed a card nor wanted to work on it at home so I rescheduled for today. I am equipped with more recycled paper, and a few example cards (probably a mistake but well varied and difficult to copy) and more maybe more explanation about the thought that counts.
While I was a little worried about starting too early before Christmas or using materials that you have to buy for kids who could not buy them themselves, I think introduction of art outweighs these preoccupations. We will see how the session today fares but I am excited about being a creativity pusher. The lack of expression is also apparent with the little kids. I have eighteen pictures of houses from kids who come over to color, color a little house with two windows and a flag that apparently they learn in school, and then won’t take their pictures home. Like many things in this country, I don’t understand the fear of doing a little original art or of taking things home but I am not afraid to be that weird white girl pushing kids to color outside the lines. Plus, I could use a little glitter in my life!
I will spend Christmas in my site which may or many not give me a hint of what I am used to. From what I hear, the town fills with cars of family members who have moved away. There are very few people here with private vehicles and none that are not trucks so the presence of cars marks any big special time in town. Other than a large dinner on the night of the 24th involving goat meat, I think Christmas is just a chance to get together and drink and dance bachata and merengue. There is no custom of cutting down trees or gift giving, two traditions that I am sincerely not sorry to miss. Christmas cards, however, I am unwilling to forgo. I started chatting with people about this and realized immediately that card giving in general is a foreign concept. I decided to facilitate a Christmas card making session with poster board, old magazines, crayons and glitter.
I invited a bunch of high school kids and encouraged them to bring anything they had around the house. When they showed up empty handed, they told me that they didn’t understand what we were doing. Who were the cards for, what were they supposed to look like and why hadn’t I showed up with models for them to copy. We started with scrap paper and pencils and many sat waiting still looking over a friends shoulder. My little fifteen year old friend informed me that I needed to teach them how to draw first and we spent the entire allotted time talking about creativity, the thought that counts, and my usual babble about reusing material. No one completed a card nor wanted to work on it at home so I rescheduled for today. I am equipped with more recycled paper, and a few example cards (probably a mistake but well varied and difficult to copy) and more maybe more explanation about the thought that counts.
While I was a little worried about starting too early before Christmas or using materials that you have to buy for kids who could not buy them themselves, I think introduction of art outweighs these preoccupations. We will see how the session today fares but I am excited about being a creativity pusher. The lack of expression is also apparent with the little kids. I have eighteen pictures of houses from kids who come over to color, color a little house with two windows and a flag that apparently they learn in school, and then won’t take their pictures home. Like many things in this country, I don’t understand the fear of doing a little original art or of taking things home but I am not afraid to be that weird white girl pushing kids to color outside the lines. Plus, I could use a little glitter in my life!
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