The Long Way Home

Today’s the day… I’m coming home. I’m writing this in Mexico… but this afternoon I’ll be in US… HOME, with my family. I think I’ll keep this one fairly short… and I’ll probably only have one more entry before finishing this blog.
For the past two weeks I’ve been slowly making my way back to the States via Guatemala and Mexico. Traveling has been wonderful… there is a lot of beauty and diversity and lavishness in Guatemala and especially in Mexico which El Salvador simply doesn’t have.
And while I’ve been enjoying this trip and am seeing places I never would have dreamed of some two plus years ago… I feel as if I’m in a little bit of limbo too. El Salvador doesn’t feel that far behind… and home… still feels far away.
It’s probably going to be an intricate, and slow process to fully readjust. Just being here in Mexico with my uncle has started to show me that. I’ve had a lot of fun with him, but I also feel a little more detached. What I think I’m discovering… and we’ll see when I get home… is that the materialism, the superficiality, the wealth… that’s probably not going to be too overwhelming to readjust too. I’m sure picking out cereal in a grocery store will still be intense. But it’s the interpersonal… the relationships… people… connecting with people who at one instance know so much about me and so little too… that is what I feel will be the most difficult. I’ve lost quite a bit of relat-ability even with my closest friends and family…. And I might feel a bit lost coming back.
But of course, this is all presumptive and unsure. I think there will be so many lovely and fun moments ahead too. So let me quit complaining and add some commentary of my travels.
Guatemala:
I went to Lago de Atitlan, in the highlands. It’s completely gorgeous and rife with indigenous clusters. I stayed a night in a town in which the locals spoke a language that sounded like nothing I’ve ever heard of before. It was weird and exciting.
I went back to Antigua… which is so charming an unbelievable… we need a town like that in El Sal. But of course… its charm draws in several tourists, and fill it’s streets with gringos.
Mexico:
I met up with my Uncle Paul in Mexico City. Which is incredible. The architecture and the art and the life and the energy… it’s all intoxicating. We only spent two days there which wasn’t nearly enough. I have to go back someday and discover all of its beauties.
Then we flew over to San Jose del Cabo of Los Cabos of Baja. Beautifule beaches, incredible water. But holy cow is it resort town… and not to mention saturated with Americans. I kept feeling disoriented… so many white people and English being spoken. Other Mexicans call it “Gringlandia.” But many of them were nice and I can see why they’ve decided to go there. I really was craving some more morenos and más español by the end of it.
Now I’m leaving La Paz, which is on the gulf side up a bit north. Fewer gringos, more Mexicans, and a beautiful city…. Me gusta mucha. Paul and I traveled up to a beach with incredibly clear water and kayaked and snorkeled… it was a dream. Wonderful.
Something funny I’ve noticed though… as I’ve been coming North… I’ve been going to richer and richer places, finally ending up in the States. And of course, there’s an inverse relationship with kindness with richness. The people I’ve met are nice… but they aren’t Salvadorans.
I’ll add pictures later.
HOME:
Since writing that last part, I’ve just learned that my grandfather died. You know what… none of those silly complaints I had matter anymore. Now, I just want to go home and be with my family, that’s more important than anything right now. I love you Poppy.

800 Days in El Salvador

My dear Reader(s)- (Readers on a good day… if I’m lucky),

I’ve been painfully overdue for an entry, I know. Truth be told, these final weeks here have been something of a flash- and my blogging duties have been shelved a bit. I apologize.

I have actually wanted to write- many things have happened- so what I’ll try here is to blog 2 posts at once. The first I started writing a while ago, but didn’t come around to finishing till now. “The Road,” it’s entitled. If you’ve got time on your hands- I would recommend reading that one before this one… this one is all about leaving.

Yesterday (from when I wrote this entry, not when I posted it), April 18th, 2011… coincidentally my father’s birthday… for some reason also tax day this year… was the day I left Los Cimientos… for good. Yes my friends… after exactly 800 days, I am officially done being a Peace Corps volunteer.

As it always goes- I knew my final day was coming… I tried to prepare myself as best I could. And yet, when it came, it felt sudden and unexpected, and it almost didn’t feel real. In all my 800 days here, and all of the hardships and annoyances I’ve had, the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do was to say good-bye.

Boy was it hard. I knew I would probably cry, but pu-chica- I was an absolute wreck. I was like something out of a Nicholas Sparks novel. I was nervous beforehand, because Salvadorans are famously stoic and reserved… so I didn’t know how they would emote.

I went to say good-bye to Daysi, my friend, who always has more problems than any other 21 year-old should have. She started getting glossy-eyed, and as soon as she did my eyes swelled too. She’s someone I wish I could take away with me- someone I actually think could do well in the US… so leaving her felt like abandoning her; and it broke my heart.

Then I said good-bye to Mercedes, the spunky, fun, hip community leader who has always helped me here. She’s more controlled and not very emotional, but even she started to tear up… and as soon as she did it was waterworks all over again for me. What is that about crying? It’s more infectious than a bad cold.

But, of course, I saved the best for last: Mari and the girls. I had my last dinner with them and Helen, and then the three of them came over to my place to have a private moment.

I’m a fan of writing thoughtful letters, reading them aloud, and then leaving them with their recipients. As I did this, I tried to compose myself, but of course I could not, and I shakily read through it. When I finished, Sulma and Yessica pulled out their own letters (which I was not expecting), and that’s when I completely broke down. I’m telling you, I was a baby, sloppy and loud, sobbing uncontrollably… I probably looked like I was drowning in air. We all just held each other and cried for a very long time. It was, without a doubt, one of the, if not the, strongest emotional experiences I have ever had.

You know, two years ago when I left America, I was nervous and sad. I was nervous about living in another country, and sad to leave my friends and family and home. And now leaving here is making me feel those same feelings about tenfold. A lot of America is pretty foreign to me now, and I’m fairly uneasy about that adjustment. And although it was very hard to bid adieu to my family and friends in the States… it was harder to say goodbye here. This isn’t to say that I don’t love my American family and friends… but I guess it’s that I know I probably won’t ever see Mari, Yessica or Sulma again. I won’t tell you everything I told them, but I’ll share a couple of the sentiments so that they’re forever recorded in internetland.

Sulma: who is the perennial free spirit. She’s very special. She’s not like most youth here; she’s much more creative and spontaneous, and unafraid to try something different. I will miss her spark and her smile… and her constant affection; she is the best hugger in the world.

Yessica: who always thinks of others. She’s so smart and perceptive and kind. She is always doing favors for others, without being asked, and rarely thinks of herself first. She’s patient and helpful and very observant. I see a quiet inner strength in her… that I know will take her farther than even she knows.

Maribel: she is the kindest person I have ever known. She understands me like no other Salvadoran does. Whenever I feel as if people don’t know or understand me… she is always thoughtful and available, and I feel knows me better than any other person. I didn’t really feel like she was a mother to me, I felt like she was a friend, a very close friend, and probably the hardest person to leave.

I can leave Los Cimientos the place. It’s beautiful, and I love it… but I can leave it and be okay. But the people…my family here… leaving them is what’s crushing me. There are a few things I’m happy to leave behind, but there’s more I’ll take with me, and my love for those people will always be with me.

The things I’ll leave behind….
Yes… I am very much looking forward to saying good-bye to some Salvadoran quirks… thinks I’m pretty sure I won’t miss.
• Piropos!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! I can’t stand them!
• Most men
• Being stared at all the time
• Diarrhea
• Latrines in general
• Oil drenched food
• Lack of fruits and vegetables
• RATS!!!!!
• ROOSTERS! And chickens in general!
• Bad action flicks
• Bad comedies
• Bad acting in bad TV shows with bad plots and bad music
• The madrugaba (we don’t have a word for this in English… it means about 2-3 o’clock in the morning (let your imagination run wild)

The things I’ll take with me (or hope to anyways)…
• Patience
• Greater appreciation
• Listening more
• Letting go and being less anxious about things
• A lot more reading
• Spanish
• About 10 more pounds
• A newfound love for certain types of Latin music
• Ignorance of Twitter, i-pads, and most smart phones
• Ignorance of The Jersey Shore
• Ignorance of Justin Bieber
• About 15 more inches of hair
• The ability to kill and skin and prep a chicken
• Papusas
• Happiness
• A lot of love for a lot of people

And of course….

The things I am insanely excited to get back to…
• Friends and family
• Driving
• Good food
• Better food variety
• Milk
• Tofu
• Thai and Indian restaurants (you get the picture, right?)
• Non-Salvadoran men
• Paved roads
• Flushing toilets
• Hot water
• Micro-waves
• Sports other than soccer
• Dependability
• Going out after dark
• Old Movies

And the lists go on… Of course I am extremely happy to be going home… but it’s such a painful compromise because I have to leave here to do so.

And an added update… I am currently in Guatemala working my way up. A few days here and then it’s off to Mexico to see my Uncle Paul. And then in two weeks time… IT’S BACK TO THE STATES BABY!!!





Here are the girls, Mari, and I, and Mercedes out front.



The old volunteer and the new one.



Darwin, Felipe (the coolest old man in the worls}d), a dead Guatuza (I tried some, they aren't bad), Me, and Precedes, a sweet-heart.



Daysi's mom Juana, Daysi and me.



The last moments together.

The Road

Two roads diverged in a wood and I, I took the one less traveled by, and that has made all the difference. Well put Mr. Frost. I think I read that poem for the first time in eighth grade, and the message has always resonated. Well… the road that leads up Mt. Cacahuatique to Los Cimientos is probably one of the least taken roads in the country. Most days I am glad that I got to take the road less traveled… but after two years, I actually wish it were a little more taken.
The road up the mountain is by far the biggest impediment facing Los Cimientos. Many of the reasons are obvious and material… but others are more subtle and symbolic. It affects everything… and really, all of the other needs the community has are dictated by the road… it all comes back to the one god-damned road.
I hate to sound like a broken record (that phrase is becoming obsolete, isn’t it?), but the trip from my site and to civilization and back again is, quite frankly, ridiculous. I’ve written about it time and time again, but it is truly one of the strongest defining qualities of Los Cims. After two years, I have gotten fairly used to it… I can zone most of it out; but I’m reminded of its absurdity whenever I travel with someone who’s making the journey for the first time. I recently hosted a group of Engineers Without Borders, who came to do diagnostics for future projects (more on this later), and seeing their reactions to the truck ride up brought me back down memory lane. There were a lot of “Oh my Gods!” and “Holy Shits!”… and in retrospect, the truck wasn’t really that crowded.
The only types of vehicles that can make it up the road are pick-up trucks, semis, and dirt-bikes… no sedans or station-wagons here. In the community, there are 7 trucks which can cram up to about 20-25 people in the back (that’s without carrying anything either… it gets much more crowded later people have bought their supplies). That means that on a good day, only about 175 people can leave, and there are upwards of 1,200 scattered throughout Los Cims. But none of the trucks leave regularly anyways… it’s always at the whim and will of the driver. For the average Los Cimientonian… doing your casual shopping is an absolute pain. You have to leave at dawn, endure 4+ hours of uncomfortable travel, and leave caution to the wind.
We’re two hours away from any bank or grocery store, 1.5 hours away from the nearest high school and about 3+ hours away from the closest mall. The road cuts off access to outside world… and makes progress incredibly slow. In the rainy season… big semis can’t get up the road, so any big construction or other improvements can only be done for 6 months out of the year. Because we’re so far away from high schools, most kids can’t go. Our local school teaches up to 9th... but after that, the student needs to be lucky enough to have a family member or friend that lives near a larger village with a high school to live with during the school year. This is why from last year’s 9th grade graduates, only two are continuing on.
Yes lack of latrines is a huge problem; sure we could use a bigger and better clinic. But the road affects all of this. The road affects everything… it keeps resources out, and takes educated and capable people away. For those who have been educated, or are talented workers (masons, carpenters, electricians), they do not stay in Los Cims, there’s no work (well… actually, there’s a lot of potential work, but no money to pay for it). Instead they leave to find more gratifying work in a bigger city, and deprive Los Cimientos of their expertise. Yes, once again, the road isolates Los Cimientos from progress, and stamps it with its credo “out there.”
Not only do educated and skilled people leave, but professionals who do come in to work (teachers at the school, the doctors and nurses at the clinic) come from outside. The teachers come on Monday and stay through Friday, sleeping at various people’s homes throughout the week. Their burden is a hard one, and not one that I envy. But I think that the weight of it all is taxing on their teaching. Honestly, I don’t think the teachers are as invested or passionate here… they’re all just aching to get a transfer for a school closer to home. Which is why most of them stay for only a few years at best.
Think of the symbolic affect this has on the people here. If you want a good job… you have to leave… professionals who do work in the community come from outside. The teachers and medical workers who do work here don’t like it and are constantly looking for work elsewhere, as if some disease plagued the place. Many times when I would wait for a pick-up ride up the mountain in the small village at its base, people would ask me where I was going and be floored and confused by my answer. “You work there… okay, but where do you live?” They couldn’t believe that I would elect to live there too. People here in Los Cims are reminded time and time again that there’s nothing for them in the community, and the outside world seems very far away.
So this is my dream: one day… there will be a real road, a paved road, all the way to Los Cimientos. Mark my words, if I ever strike it rich… that will be what I do with the money.
All of El Salvador is very mountainous… it’s covered in volcanoes and rough ridges… it’s prehistoric looking in many parts. So although the location of my site is pretty remote comparitively, the geographic qualities aren’t particularly unique. I remember having an “Ahaaaa” moment when I visited a certain volunteer about a year ago. He lives on the side of another volcano (hmmm…. sounds familiar…), we took a bus to get to his site, and as we were arriving I couldn’t help but notice that the ridges and hills along the way were strikingly similar to those of Mt. Cacahuatique (Los Cims’s ex-volcano). When we got to his pueblo, I was amazed by how developed it was… there were all sorts of shops, and parks, and transport. Sure the sidewalks were steep… but there actually were real sidewalks. I couldn’t believe how many resources there were in the town, there were many cyber-cafes, and lighted basketball courts, and a youth center that had dance classes. I was blown away by how advanced this place was, especially for being in such a physically harsh location. And the biggest difference that distinguishes his site from mine: he has a real road, a lovely, smooth, paved, cement road… that goes all the way from a big village to his site.
If we had a real road… everything would change. The pace of life would, triple… quadruple even. We could start bringing in supplies and building things straight away… and it wouldn’t cost a fortune in time and money to lug up goods and materials. Latrine construction would be much easier, as would any other type of construction, really. Workers would be easier to hire, since getting to the community would be that much easier, and they wouldn’t have to stay overnight each day that they worked. With a real road, the outside world could come in, and certain things that seem so elusive and far away, like a cyber-café, would no longer seem so unattainable.
A paved road wouldn’t only let the outside world come in, but it would allow people in Los Cimientos access out. If there were a real road… I think that the commute that normally takes an hour and a half would take only about 30 minutes… and not just by trucks, but by dinky little cars, and BUSSES! Yes, if there were a real road, there could be a bus. A bus system would change everything. Not only could people leave more often and at their leisure… but kids could go to high school. With a paved road, by bus, my guess is it would take about an hour transport to get to school… which is still a lot, but kids would absolutely do it, especially if there were secure transport coming back in the afternoon. Right now with the transportation… drivers normally come back midday, and there’s little dependability in when they leave and how many they can take up with them. With a bus, kids could leave probably as late as 5pm and still get back before dark.
Just imagines the changes it would bring if kids could actually continue on through high school. The teaching and nursing jobs, few though there are, could be filled by people from the community, who would actually enjoy working in Los Cims, and not be counting the days to get away. Education is one of the biggest things Los Cims needs, and the lack of it is stifling. It’s a vicious cycle… kids want to continue with school, but the road prevents them from leaving to do so, and so they get stuck working poor paying farming jobs, which prevents them from ever leaving.
Ask any Cimientonian what the biggest problem facing the community is, and it always comes back to the road. I wish as a volunteer I could have done something more. I knew it was always a little out of my league… a project like that would probably cost a few hundred thousand dollars. But really… with what little I’ve actually done for the community, in the long run… I don’t think it will make much of a dent. For real improvements, a real change to catch Los Cims up to the present and guide them into the future… it always returns to the road.
So… guess what? I am done being a volunteer. Just writing that is so weird, it’s very hard to believe. I knew this day was looming… but now that it’s here it feels so foreign and unusual. I’ll write more about saying good-bye in my next entry, but allow me to sum up the final weeks of my life in Los Cimientos.
First and foremost, I got Helen! I mentioned her in my last blog, and I got her! Or I should say Los Cimientos got her. She is now officially the volunteer there. And I couldn’t be happier. She’s an incredibly kind and patient and strong person… and I really enjoyed her. We had about a month of overlap, which I thought would be much more awkward than it was. I really loved getting to know her over the few weeks, and I think we would be friends outside of the Peace Corps context. So although leaving Los Cims was unbelievably difficult… I felt good about leaving it in her hands.
And after over a year of corresponding and a lot of back and forth, a branch from New York City of Engineers Without Borders has finally decided to commit to a five year relationship to work on projects improving Los Cimientos. So about a week before my last days, four of them came out to stay with us and do tests and diagnostics. They did a lot of water tests… and as it turns out, the spring water I’ve been drinking for the past 2 years isn’t as clean as I thought it was. But after visiting many homes and holding a vote at big community meeting and talking with us volunteers and other community members… the decision they made was to start with a latrine project. Yes, they agree that the road is a bigger issue, but that’s out of reach for them too. And who knows what they might attempt… if the latrine project goes well. Having the engineers here was fun and refreshing. They were very resourceful and flexible (god knows you need that in Los Cims, what with the bucket bathing and sleeping in hammocks). For entertainment, I made sure one night we got to kill a chicken for dinner (a must when you visit here). They really liked Los Cims, and having their promised commitment for the next five years left me with a sense of hope.
Sure I would have liked to have done more. From my own nerves and procrastination, I’m sure I could have done a lot more than I did too. But I leave Los Cimientos knowing that there are brighter days in the future… and I know that… someday… there will be a real road.

Here are some choice photos of the road...







Here are the Engineers, Helen and I. From the left is Nathan, Jose, Davesh, Helen, and Rachel.



And of course, the blessed event.

Rx PEACE CORPS EL SALVADOR

If the Peace Corps were a prescription drug, it would come in a large bottle with only one pill. The directions would say: FOR ADULTS TYPICALLY BETWEEEN THE AGES 22-27: Take one pill, once in your life, and hold on. I could only imagine the range of designations the “uses” section would have. USES: To relieve minor American pains and reduce frustration from: general boredom, post-graduate anomie, not wanting to go back to school right away, looking aimlessly for a job in a precarious economy, over-saturation of American culture, going through “an experimental phase,” curiosity of how “others” live, fear of having an unimpressive resume, and for those who kid themselves with the nobility of “giving back.” The “warning” section would be pretty intimidating. WARNING: DO NOT TAKE IF: you are in a relationship, you are in any way unsure, if you can’t imagine life without regular internet access, if poop scares you, if you have a good job going for you, or if you are in your right mind. But what would really make the bottle big would be the “side effect” section… I mean, “anal leakage” puts it delicately and doesn’t even begin to hint what the hell you’re in for. I have been in this country for 739 days… I have 61 to go PU CHICA, I am almost there! But I thought I’d share some of the side effects, some good, some bad, of this pill I took over two years ago that’s just about to wear off.

Which brings me back to anal leakage. First off… I don’t think this should be regarded as a side effect; no no no, I’m pretty sure this is a DIRECT effect. Years from now, I know that when I think back of my life in El Salvador… visions of spending hours in a latrine with god knows what illness will dance in my head. Ay, por Díos… I feel like that charming Diarrhea song deserves another verse inspired by El Salvador. Let’s see: When you’re bouncing on a bus and you feel something gush, Diarrhea CLAP CLAP, Diarrhea CLAP CLAP. Yes, busses in those cases can be quite unpleasant, what with sharting as an all too common occurrence. And be careful about how hard you sneeze! That triple threat should be called something else… a shnart?

I very much am looking forward to NOT having to worry about whether a food will make me sick. I can’t believe how much I took this for granted before, nor how much stress this has caused here. Whenever you eat out, at a restaurant or at a neighbor’s, there’s always that nagging question in the back of your head: Will this make me sick?!? Since living on my own, I’ve gotten sick quite a bit less… but I’m no angel, I’ve still made myself ill a few times. And the way you get sick is so completely different here. Back in the States, on the rare occasion that you have bad diarrhea or even rarer, food poisoning… usually you just take some Pepto-Bismol and wait it out for the one day or so you anticipate it to last. Oh! If only it were that simple here! Here… after days of miserable diarrhea and vomiting, by which time you’ve crapped and puked away all of your energy, you have to drag yourself into a lab and leave behind a stool sample (check that off my list of Most Disgusting Things I’ll Do in Life). After said sample is analyzed, you are typically given an antibiotic or some other nuclear strength drug that in the long run will probably do more harm than good.

I guess an ironic “pleasantry” of the gastrointestinal adventures here, is how we volunteers bond over surviving the same illnesses: “You have amoebas! I have amoebas!” “You haven’t had a solid poop in over a month? ME EITHER!” But I’m afraid that celebrating the sicknesses you’ve had in common doesn’t exactly make up for all this shit… literally. Had I known that this Peace Corps pill was bound to cause stomach ailments to the depths of misery, there would have been a moment or two of hesitation before swallowing it down.

And now for something a little less macabre... communication skills, mainly, listening skills. Again, as more of a direct effect rather than a side one, the past two years of living here have improved my listening skills, inevitably, I think. With Salvadorans, I’ve had to listen a lot more than talk, and this isn’t just because of the language barrier. In all this listening, I’ve learned a thing or two from the Salvos, who have not only shown me a few of the follies we Americans have with communication. Salvadorans don’t try to force conversation, and endure awkward silences until they are no longer awkward. This might not sound exactly pleasant. But it has shown me how much of the constant talking we Americans do is rather self-indulgent, a bit manipulative, somewhat unnecessary, and many times, a game of control. There’s a lot of presumption when you try and force conversation, whatever your intentions may be. And a lot of times, however the person responds is much less an expression of their personality and much more a projection of your own ego. From being more reactive and observant, and from listening a lot more, I think I’ve gotten to see sides of people I wouldn’t have been privy to before. Every person has a story, and most like to share it if they are given the right platform. So even the seemingly shiest, most reserved person, likes to be listened to. And when things are relaxed, and casual, and not contrived, I get to.

As always, there is a bit of a downside to this little culturality. With all of this listening to others, I sure can miss being listened to. I guess I talk enough here, but I don’t exactly have those kinds of engaging conversations, the ones that that go on and on and you hardly notice the time, the ones that you can’t seem to stop. I don’t know how much is cultural relativity and how much is lack of education, but those kinds of conversations are a real rarity here… and I miss them. This blog helps… and so does seeing other volunteers, but I’m in my site 90% of the time. I recently hosted a Peace Corps trainee from the newest group named Helen for a few days in my site. I’ll mention more on this later. But one thing that was really nice about the whole experience was how much we got to talk… really talk. A perfect stranger hours before became a confidant as we talked about religion, politics, books, movies, sex… all the things I love talking about anyhow. Again, a lot of this is lost with Salvadorans since I have to tip-toe around religion, politics, and sex… not to mention that nobody here reads and the movies all suck. But the want to talk about these things is something that’s missing here too. I am truly excited to come home and have these kinds of conversations again… to not just talk but to really listen too. I’ve missed a lot, and I want to hear all about that. But I have a feeling that there will be a fair share of babbling along the way as well.

A corollary effect of all the listening I do is a deepened ability in something I’m not exactly sure I should brag about. I can zone out and go into another world like an LSD addict. I’ve talked to other volunteers about this, and have discovered that I am certainly not the only one. I think for all of us, having the same conversations over and over and over again has made day-dreaming a bit perfunctory. Seriously, if I have to talk about how hot it is just one more time…! Being surrounded by Spanish speakers who rarely talk about topics that interest me (ouch!) has caused me to visit La-La Land a LOT. In my case, another reason that really affects this is the transport up and down the mountain. Especially in coming up, it’s very helpful to zone out… because if you’re paying attention to how hot it is, how crowded it is, and how uncomfortable you are, the 2 hour pick-up ride seems a hell of a lot longer. This is going to sound silly, but I seriously will plan things to think about for the rides. If I have a charla to plan, or a letter or write, or a blog entry to concoct… the truck ride is a good place to think about it… pragmatic or neurotic? You tell me. Hopefully this “ability” will help be more helpful than harmful. The harm could manifest in me being spacey and detached. But the help of it I think is connected to another side effect of Rx Peace Corps El Salvador…

Patience, of course… the underrated virtue. Every one of us volunteers is more patient from this experience; I don’t know how you couldn’t be. The combining effects of a slower pace of life, letting go, loss of control, lower professional accountability, and virtually no i-phones has basically forced me to be more patient. I still think there are people far more patient than I, but I have absolutely noticed that I don’t get as frustrated by external factors (such as no dependability in transportation); and I think I am more accepting of personal flaws. The latter is a direct lesson from Salvadorans; as Mari has said often said, something to the effect of: “Everyone has their faults, love them anyways.” I hope this keeps. When I visited home last summer, the lack of patience on a general scale made an immediate impression on me. In our fast-paced and competitive world, it’s no wonder we’re so impatient. With a bit of luck, I should be starting law school in about six months or so. While I am very excited for this… thinking about the 80-hour work week and the cut-throat competitiveness is pretty intimidating compared to the life I live here. So while I imagine much of it will wear off, I hope I can still keep some of the patience I’ve learned here. I may be a dreamer, but I really do think for all of us that a little more patience could go a long long way.

Let me get out of Ghandi mode and back into Laura mode… which means it’s time to whine. This year’s Oscars is quickly approaching, and I am once again horribly unprepared… which made me think of another side effect, or rather side defect of two years in El Salvador. As a result of seeing tons of objectively AWFUL movies, which all have horrible acting (both by the actors themselves and by the voice actors who dub in Spanish), and no worthwhile plot, my taste in movies has inevitably and regrettably gotten worse. I still can’t get over how universally bad their taste is… sometimes it makes me question the proliferation of humanity. Since moving out on my own, I do watch fewer of these pathetic excuses for films, but one place I can’t avoid them is on busses. On the longer bus rides (whenever I go to San Sal), I get the unbelievable privilege of being shown a movie chosen by the cobrador (the guy who collects payment for the ride). Now, if you were every wondering what kind of people see movies like Halloween XXIV, or whatever new piece of crap Eddie Murphy prostitutes himself to star in, or another concoction in which Steve Austin attempts to “act”… well you definitely are underestimating the Salvadoran bus market. I can’t tell you how many Wayans Brothers’ movies I’ve seen… I think I’ve seen White Chicks at least seven times on a bus. And Jean-Claude Van Damme… I don’ t think I had ever seen one of his movies all the way through before I got here. But now I know that the “Muscles from Brussels” has starred in countless films… (well actually, they’re all pretty much the same film with a different title… and all seem to have a requisite Jean-Claude “ass shot” in them too). I am also surprised by their love of cheesy horror films. I mean, I’m not particularly queasy… but most of these flicks are totally gruesome… not to mention unfathomably stupid. But somehow the gente is desensitized to them I guess… even the little kids on the bus.

Strong evidence of my consequentially sunken movie taste showed itself a few weeks ago. On a bus to the capital, I was expecting yet another Rob Schneider comedy or Steven Segal flick, when instead they put on the movie Taxi. Remember that delightful comedy with the winning combination of Jimmy Fallon and Queen Latifah? I didn’t think so. Jeez… I remember seeing this in theatres in college (it wasn’t my choice) and wanting to walk out, it was so horrible. But somehow… this time, perhaps because it’s a fraction of a step up from Duece Bigelow Male Gigolo, or perhaps because the sight of Segal’s glare make my stomach curdle, I actually enjoyed it. I found myself laughing at parts that I know ARE NOT funny, and then feeling really depressed about this afterwards. I mean, discerning good movies has been a passion of mine for years… being a film critic would be a dream job for me. And now I’m watching a dubbed version of Taxi and thoroughly enjoying it!?!?! What the hell has this country done to me!!!! I am well overdue to watch great, award winning, old movies when I get back… and I am very seriously planning to do this. But I worry that the effects here will overflow when I return, and that when I watch something like Citizen Kane, I’ll be thinking: where’s the slapstick????
Am I glad I took this pill? Most days I am. Other days don’t fare as well. I’ve noticed many of the side effects it has had on me here, and I know I’ll notice many more when I return. But overall, not trying to be arrogant, this whole thing has made me a better person. I’m far from perfect, but being here has forced me to mature, to re-evaluate what’s important, to be more tolerant, to let go, to not take things so personally, and to be less selfish than I used to be. Hehehe… says she, the cranky and self-indulging blogger…

To bring you up to date on the work of my final weeks (GULP!) here: a project (my last big one) that has been a year and a half in the making is FINALLY coming into fruition. I applied to three different NGOs and solicited to a Salvadoran organization with the mayor here before I at long last got funding approved for a hammock workshop. Why hammocks? Well, every household has at least one if not 4, as they substitute beds for people who can’t afford them (most people here). So knowing how to weave your own hammock is hugely practical. Not all, but most of the participants are women, whom I wanted to target since this is an income generator for them and a job they can do at home. But getting people to successfully sell them afterwards might be a bit more of a challenge… we don’t have much of a marketplace here. At any rate, I am very excited and proud of this project for many reasons. One… it’s taken a blasted YEAR AND A HALF to do; and two, it’s organic. This idea came not from me but from members in the community… who have coordinated very well in finding an instructor, in providing a place to host the workshop, and who have all waited very patiently for it to arrive. Basically all I’ve done is gotten the money (which, let’s face it, is what PCVs do). It’s sustainable because it’s a skills training, which makes me very happy. Do I think that everyone in the workshop will use their new skill to the best advantage? No. But, even if just one can successfully start selling hammocks and/or teaching others, none of it will have been in vain. I'll get y'all picutres next time...

And lastly, back to Immersion Days. I don’t know if you remember... but two years ago, when I was a trainee yet, I visited a volunteer in his community to see what it was like and to see how life for a volunteer went. I fell in love with the site during my Immersion Days, and consequently, it became mine. Now, it’s my turn to pass it on. So I hosted a new trainee to show her the ropes and not so surreptitiously test to see how she liked it. I was honestly nervous beforehand. I think you either love Los Cimientos, or you hate it. And thankfully, Helen loved it here.
And I really liked her, though I only spent a weekend with her. This sounds cocky, but she reminded me of me two years ago… the way she reacted to things and her curiosity and her openness. She had very little pretense on what a site should be like, and I could tell immediately that she will be a great volunteer. It’s still premature and not set in stone, but I will be very happy to leave Los Cimientos in her hands. And if all goes well, I’ll be doing just that in two months time.

Relativity

Two years…. two whole years have gone by. Dios mío, it’s weird. Sometimes, it feels like it’s flown by and I can hardly believe so much time has passed. But other times, I feel like I’ve been here FOREVER and am more than ready to leave. Time is funny, isn’t it? What tricks me is that when I think back about my life in the US, I often picture how things were just as I left them, and imagine that things will be the same when I return. But they won’t be; life goes on. It doesn’t faze me how long I’ve been away until I really think about all the events I’ve missed: weddings, graduations, pregnancies, big birthdays. It took me a while to realize that I’ve missed my sister’s 30th, my father’s 60th, and I’ll probably be the only relative missing my grandfather’s 90th this February. YIKES. I have three months left, and although coming home seems so close, it also doesn’t seem real either.

We just had our COS (Close of Service) conference, in which we were given an exorbitant amount of paperwork we have to take care of before we go. But besides all the red tape, going to the COS conference made us all reflect and it all started to sink in. We’re almost done… we’re going back. This thought causes an array of emotions, from relief, to terror, to excitement, to sorrow, to happiness, to nostalgia… the works. Although I am looking forward to going home, I am really nervous too. At COS some RPCVs (Returned PC Volunteers) came to talk to us about the transition back, and how in many ways it is harder than the transition in coming here. From the stories I’ve heard, what commonly is the hardest in returning is trying to relate the experience here to people back home. The RPCVs said that when they mentioned that they were in the Peace Corps, most people were intrigued for a 1 to 2 sentence description of what it’s like and not much more… they don’t really care. I mean, I guess I’m realizing how hard it’s going to be to really reconnect with old friends and family. I’m sure there’s going to be so much that I’ll want to share and won’t be able to, so much that I’ll have to keep internal. And that’s okay... this whole experience is so personal anyway. But I figured… I have this blog… which is my point of view and entirely self-indulgent, so why not use it to vent now and hopefully relieve some of the frustration I’m bound to feel eventually? At least, I’ll use it as an attempt to explain what I feel now, and what I imagine I’ll be feeling in about three months.

So much of this experience has been tremendously humbling. Which is something I’ve really needed… keeping my ego in check is a matter I should always keep in mind. Witnessing abject poverty, starvation, death… genuine human suffering… easily puts things into perspective and makes you evaluate what is truly important and what is not. I do think I’ll come home appreciating many things I took advantage of before: good food, paved roads, trash collection, hot water, flushing toilets, sarcasm and wit, profound conversions, diversity... the whole nine yards. I’m sure I will delight in many things when I get back; and I hope I always keep in mind how life is here so that I can really be grateful for my life back home. But in this same vein, I have a feeling that I’ll be fairly stringent in my sympathy for others. It’ll probably drive me nuts to see how much people take for granted when I come home, and masking this bitterness might be difficult. I definitely noticed a bit of this when I visited last summer; the levels of impatience, complaint, frustration, and anger seemed so completely disproportionate to the “problems” they were related to.

Time and time again, I see people here dealing with devastating conditions that would warrant years of therapy and an amalgam of antidepressants by our standards. But here, they deal with their problems so pragmatically and objectively; it has left quite an impression. The general belief here is that: problems are par for the course… everyone expects that inevitably within a family there will be drama, bad blood, serious ailments, neglect, abuse etcetera. So they aren’t resentful when it comes to handling their predicaments. They are much more reconciled in the idea that life is not fair, and that so much in it is a craps shoot. So when I talk to children who have been abandoned by their fathers, or women who have been beaten by their husbands, or parents who have lost children to illnesses, and see how resolved they all are and how they are not at all bitter… it makes me realize how active a character we play in creating and solving our own problems. It’s a harsh claim… but I declare that many of our neuroses are self-created, unnecessary, and not really real.

Not that I think all therapy is bullshit and that people can’t really have huge breakthroughs for legitamate problems with psychiatric treatment and medication. In fact, there are a number of people here I think could benefit from some therapy. Mari for one… as incredibly sweet and nurturing as she is, she can also be cripplingly insecure. She’s fine around her family, but she folds in front of crowds, with strangers, or with someone she considers her superior. I think she has major trust issues with men… and I can easily see why. She doesn’t know her birth father, she was abused by her step father, and her husband lives a separate life from her and cheats on her. The love she shares with her daughters is meaningful and profound, but her inner-confidence and self-worth as an individual are very low. But for everyone here, professional therapy is a luxury… it doesn’t really exist. And people cope regardless. I don’t want to pull a Tom Cruise here… but the lack of professional psychiatric help here makes me discern how “first world” many of our afflictions are. Obesity is not a problem here… even with the food as unhealthy as it is, gluttony is rare. Hoarding is not a problem here… they can’t afford to collect much of anything in the first place. ADD is not a problem here… sure there are some kids who have short attention spans… but here, they call them CHILDREN. So, when I go back to the States and see a bunch of fat, lazy, chronically unsatisfied, Ritalin-addicted hypochondriacs, I have a feeling I won’t credit much sympathy to their issues.

In just reading back that last line it sounds harsh. I don’t want to come back and be completely unsympathetic and act superior and be too judgmental… I’m fairly judgmental already. But truth be told, it will probably be hard not to judge more severely after living here… my whole frame of reference has changed. However, understanding the relativity of everything and keeping it to myself, that will be the trial of it all. I hate arrogance; it’s the trait that turns me off the most. So, making sure I don’t indulge in this vice will be a goal of mine when I get home. I want this whole experience to enrich the relationships I have with people back home, not to alienate them.

Then again… while I might be scrutinizing the cons of our culture more austerely when I get back, I’ll probably also be enjoying the pros of it like never before. But relishing these comforts may take a bit of an adjustment. I was talking with another volunteer about going back, and she mentioned one thing she’s nervous about is socializing with American men again. How, after everything she’s witnessed and experienced with men here, there will probably be some residual nerves and angst that may affect how she acts around men when she returns home. This made me wonder… and worry.

Dealing with men here has been one of the hardest, most infuriating parts of this whole thing. After all of it, my general esteem for men has dropped quite a few notches… and it’s no big secret that it was never very high to begin with. Being stared at and getting constant piropos wherever I go has not gotten easier to handle over two years, it’s gotten harder. I don’t know how you get used to being disrespected without either becoming completely irate or losing all sense of worth. Characteristic of me, I’ve committed the former, not the latter, and probably will have contracted arthritis and TMJ by the time I return with all of the fist and jaw clenching I’ve done here. Two years of this garbage has really scraped away at my patience and tolerance. In recent weeks, I’ve lost both in instances and have yelled or confronted people… something I didn’t do when I first came here. By the way, getting angry doesn’t work; it just encourages the pigs even more. Jesus, just writing about this is getting me bothered.

And hence, I am a little apprehensive in how much of this irritation will overlap into my life when I get back. There are men here whom I respect and who respect me, men who are open and modest and confident. But these cases are so rare, that they almost seem like they are freak exceptions to the true nature of men. Honestly, seeing what seems to perennially motivate men here makes me question the innateness of it all. As if all communication men have with women is nothing more than a social conditioning that masks what it is they really want. This is fairly Freudian of me, and the sociologist inside doesn’t exactly want to believe it when I come home.

In all honesty, as I was when I visited last July, I’ll probably be refreshed and delighted with how much more respectful and courteous and un-creepy men are in The States. This is kind of funny in a sad way, isn’t it: that I might enjoy American men more when I get back just because they are so awful somewhere else? Ba pues… I guess I’ll take it. But of course, as charmed as I may be up front by men, I have a feeling that a nagging concern of whether to trust what’s underneath will be hard to shake off. This is all fairly presupposed and premature indeed… how am I to know how I will react to it all? But I guess I’m saying that two years of experience with men here is probably going to have deep and lasting effects on how I feel when go home.

I don’t know if all of this worrying is senseless or if it’s practical. Don’t get me wrong… I am very, very excited to return to my life back home. And really, after being here, I sure don’t worry as much as I used to. But I can’t expect the transition to be breezy and seamless, I know it won’t be. A sense of belonging, and consequentially, a sense of identity are things that probably won’t come easily. In my experience here, there are times when I feel so completely at home, times when I think: I am where I should be. But through it all there’s the intrinsic feeling that I am an outsider, and as much as I try, I don’t really belong here. Well, I’ll probably be feeling the same thing in America after I return.

What is that romantic Gertrude Stein quote, something like: “America is my country, but Paris is my home-town.” Well, though she words this delicately, there seems to be some kind of painful compromise in it. As if, the people in one place won’t ever fully understand the effect people in the other have on one person. As if, while there is a feeling of belonging in both, there is no true unity between them, and they both affect the person’s whole. As it is in my life here, there’s a big part of me I left back home that people here are unacquainted with. When I leave here, I know some part of me will stay behind and never leave, part of me that my friends and family at home will never know.





Here we all are... we lost 3 along the way.... but 27 made it the whole way through.

Let's Talk About Sex...

Baby… you know you want to. It’s a delicate subject, sure, but also incredibly fascinating. Comparing the sexual dynamics of an overly-religious, very repressed, over-populated country versus those of El Salvador should prove interesting. Just kidding. When it comes to sex, I’m glad I’m American. But I can see how both our sexual liberation and their sexual repression expose all the good things and the bad things that can be. I’ll try to keep this fairly restrained and not too graphic, but I should warn you now that this entry is not G-rated.

So let’s dive right in. Sex in El Salvador is full of ironies, not all of which I understand. In many ways it is more covert. People aren’t very open about their sexual conquests or experiences. You don’t see many people openly confessing whom they’ve slept with. So at first glimpse it seems more hidden. But it isn’t. Chambre (gossip) is infectious here. Somehow, everyone knows who is having sex with whom… secrets don’t last. So even if sex isn’t discussed in open circles, it is still discussed in private discourses. Thus an irony arises. People are too ashamed or embarrassed to talk openly with others about their sexual actions or desires; yet it’s all in vain because everyone talks about it anyway. It’s the white elephant effect: people feel there is something taboo or forbidden about sex, and yet they know it is prevalent and are drawn to talk about it anyway. And boy is it prevalent. Don’t let the repression fool you; the sexual voracity here is huge. It has to be with the birth rate here. People find their way to have sex early and often. A common event that follows suit to this irony: a young couple wants to have sex, but is too embarrassed to go to the clinic and ask for condoms for fear that the staff will tell and everyone will find out. A consequential pregnancy ensues… by which time everyone knows that they’ve started having sex in the first place. Yikes, when will they learn? There is a 13 year old girl this year (who looked to me like she’s 7) who got pregnant and left school. Her “novio” is this 18 year old schmuck who’s been seen spending time with many girls. Good riddance. I hope the best for them but am doubtful it will amount to much.

The spaces where sex takes place also exemplify the ongoing irony of how sex here is hidden… but not. Many homes have little to no division between public and private areas. A private master bedroom is a luxury here; many couples don’t much have the chance to put the kids to bed and then go crazy in their own room. I don’t really want to imagine it, but I do assume that there’s a fair amount of coitus in a shared room with the kids. So… while open conversations between parent and child about the birds and the bees aren’t particularly common, firsthand demonstrations in the hammock a few feet away probably are. Bleh! If the house isn’t available, the wide open outdoors offers a lovely alternative. Corn stalks and coffee trees provide adequate privacy and I guess set the mood to some eager young couples. If it’s raining? Well, a good old latrine should do the trick. I still have a hard time grasping this one. My tolerance of latrines certainly has grown after two years, but not nearly enough to have sex in one. I don’t know how one can stay aroused around such a horrific smell… but apparently they do. So again, the semi-private/semi-public irony rises. I guess a latrine and a hidden bend provide some privacy, but they certainly aren’t exclusive spaces. And in case you’re wondering, yes, I have accidently stumbled across some couples trying to have private time… or at least have heard some unpleasant noises while walking through our labyrinthine paths.

The reasons for having sex differ here as well. Not so much for guys… who seem to likewise extol the virtue of busting a nut and spreading their seed with as many partners as possible... Who would have thought? But for women… the want to have sex is affected by very different beliefs than our own. I honestly feel sorry for them, and thank my lucky stars that I live in a place where Sex and the City is celebrated. Religion certainly plays a part. For evangelical Christians, the sole purpose of a vagina is to serve as a receptacle for a penis in order to get pregnant and as a portal into the world when said pregnancy is complete. This means: no condoms, no tampons, no pap smears, and no masturbation (Christine O’Donnell would love it here). As you could understand, this cuts my work out for me… what with charlas about birth control, cervical cancer and less invasive forms of intercourse. But more than that… with these beliefs, women are fairly shortchanged, aren’t they? It seems there is little to no value of the female orgasm here; instead it’s considered a chance occurrence that just might happen on the way to baby making. Machismo fosters this conviction. Many men here believe it’s just great to receive oral sex, but to give it… HELL NO, that’s disgusting and degrading. Ungrateful bastards. So I get confused in comprehending why so many young girls jump into the sack early. I mean, sex, for them, really isn’t that rewarding. I think a great deal of them are pressured into it by guys, sensing that they’ll have security being a guy’s lover, and even more security if they get pregnant.

I’m sure there are women here who enjoy sex and are motivated by this desire to have it. But in all honesty, they are not very liberated sexually; indeed, they are oppressed. For example, another reason women don’t regularly get their pap smears, aside from the fact that it deviates from their vaginas’ objective, is that their partners don’t approve. Men apparently boast ownership to their women’s vaginas and don’t want anyone else, even if it’s a professional doctor, even if it’s a professional female doctor, meddling with their property. I think this deserves a WTF? Not having ownership over your own vagina? These women function as a tool to satiate their hombres’ sexual appetite, without much choice or enjoyment for themselves, and to pop out as many kids as they can along the way. I’ve done a lot of camps and other lessons with coming of age girls who seem pretty tepid toward sex, nervous for the fear that once they do it they’ll be subservient to their partner and his cravings, as if they have no choice in the matter. When rape is mentioned, their minds fill with visions of a horny drunkard attacking a solitary woman in the street. They don’t realize that most rape cases are committed by someone the victim knows, they don’t understand the concept of date rape, nor do they think that rape can happen by a boyfriend or husband. Honestly, it’s as if in having sex once with a guy they are signing away their bodies to be at their new lover’s disposal. That’s oppression in my book, and a damned shame.

Now, if I could be a man for a day and see the world through their eyes to try and gain some new perspective, I would. But, I can’t. So as an unabashedly biased woman, I know this next section about how men have sex here will be duly scathing. The rate of infidelity by men here is beyond compare. Actually I've read statistics that El Salvador has a higher rate than any other Central American country, which has a collectively high rate already. It’s so big that it’s shameless… people accept it as truth that men cheat, that they are supposed to cheat, and that to expect fidelity is just crazy. I’ve done several charlas in which I commend the benefits of mutual monogamy, but I usually end them with: But who are we kidding? Monogamy?!? Here?!? Hahahaha! Where a condom!!! Not that I’m mutual monogamy’s biggest defender. Personal opinions aside, what I find bothersome here is that the men are anticipated to cheat, while the women are expected to stay faithful. It’s the oldest double standard in the book and men here boast it about as often as Sarah Palin does to the phrase “small town principles.” It’s quantity, not quality here and every sexual conquest counts. In contrast to the vagina’s purpose, the penis is not applauded as the tool to impregnate; contrarily it is used to tally the number of partners a man can accrue. And it starts early. A girl’s virginity? Why it’s the most precious possession she has. A guy’s virginity? Well it’s the bane of his existence and proof of his weakness. So, if a young buck has reached a certain age and still hasn’t made full use of his loins, visiting a brothel to stage the blessed event is a common practice.

Of course I am making gigantic generalizations here. Not all men and women here conduct the kind of sexual behavior as I have written. But there’s enough of it about that stereotypes arise; and stereotypes don’t come out of thin air. It causes problems. For instance, certain men do not want to wear a condom because it makes them “less of a man”. Or, a man with a STD who wants to spread it to as many people as he can, because he certainly isn’t going down alone. Another volunteer here told me that in her community, an outbreak of Gonorrhea could be linked to one lothario who contracted it on a fun weekend in the city, and within a few weeks of coming back to his rural home, 18 others had caught it. Although it is more concealed from the naked eye, sex here happens often, with many partners, and in all sorts of forms.

Which brings me to my next topic: gay sex. Again, I’ll try to keep the terms here euphemistic and not graphic, but it’d be a shame to skip how Salvadorans approach homosexuality; I find it fascinating. In the rural setting especially, there is no open homosexuality, no “coming out” or having an open gay relationship. In urban spaces there certainly is more flexibility with this… in fact, many cities have open transvestites, which is completely out of the closet. But this doesn’t mean that gay sex doesn’t happen in all parts of the country. What’s ironic here is that men only consider it gay to receive, not to give. So, otherwise “straight” men (men who are married with children) regularly have homosexual sex but do not define it as such. Which, in a way, by not defining it as gay, it isn’t. I’m not sure the percentage of men who engage in this, but I bet it’s higher than what most people think.

It’s hard for me to talk about homosexuality here without feeling a bit culturally and morally presumptuous. I mean in a way, they have created a realm where gay sex can happen with little public stigmatization. But I can’t help but feel bad for homosexuals forced to put on a mask, forced to hide their inner desires and play pretend for the world. Not to mention, the gay volunteers who have come out back home, and are forced back in the closet here. Their task must be a hard one to bear. Once again in lockstep with the pseudo-covertness of sexuality here… many people suspect or know who is gay in the community, although openly discussing this does not happen.

Approaching sex here is a tricky task indeed. What I find, and this is emblematic of Salvadoran behavior on many fronts, is that in more personal settings people are remarkably open. I’ve been surprised at how frankly people talk about sex on an individual basis. But as soon as they’re in a public space, the pena seeps in and no one will talk about or admit to anything. I guess it’s something that they show up to the charlas in the first place, even if all they do is sit like vegetables. But warranting action afterwards, expecting people to actually start following some of the practices I advise, seems to be like wishful thinking.

I recently coordinated with a branch of Doctors Without Borders, who came through and gave a medical brigade. It was a big success in many ways. Tons of people showed up and received minor treatment for all sorts of ailments. The doctors were incredible, they were so open and flexible, and worked so efficiently with our unimpressive casa communal to set up different stations for various treatments.

Anywho, I specifically helped a group of female doctors who focus on women’s health. We quarantined any and all women, gave a separate charla for them in our warehouse space, and set up an improvised examination room for pap smears and breast exams using rope and blankets for curtains. The charla seemed to go pretty well… the women seemed receptive that cervical and breast cancer are serious, and that simple practices like the self exam could prevent a world of hurt. We described just exactly what the pap test is, attempting to absolve any fear that exists around it. I described how a pap smear takes about 5 minutes… and you only have to do it once a year. The Salvadoran nurses at our local clinic are very capable of doing the exam, though they rarely have any patients. A 5 minute sacrifice, once every year, that’s easy… right?!? Most of the women were open to this, and seemed to except in theory that doing your pap every year is good. But accepting this in practice is a whole different ballgame. I ended the charla with: Okay, so now we have many female doctors who have very kindly come all the way down here from New York to generously volunteer their time and expertise. So, guess what?!? Everyone is going to get their breast exam and pap!!! Sheesh… I might as well have burned the Bible in front of them for how scared they turned. Some women jumped on board and rushed to take advantage of the doctors, others tried to surreptitiously weasel out, and still others (ahem… Evangelicals) stood straight up and made for the exit. I literally had to guard the door and make sure that each woman got tested unless they could confirm that they had had their pap within the last year. I had to be a bit more calculating than I would have liked… but once the first few had done it and had broken the ice, the tension calmed and every woman got their test. There were women in their 60s, who had had heaps of kids, yet had never once had a pap smear or a breast exam. After they got it over with, all the women admitted that it wasn’t nearly as bad as they anticipated. No wonder… I mean, after having 8 kids, there can’t be enough traction left on that tire that a pap smear is going to bother it.

The point of this random and graphic tangent, is that while I was glad we were able to convince so many women to get checked this time, I am not so sure many will continue this practice on their own. I can’t be around and force them to get a pap every year, and medical brigades are a real rarity, so waiting for the next one to do anything is almost pointless. I had an AIDS workshop recently in which we all practiced putting condoms on cucumbers and bananas (a more than generous estimate for Salvadoran men)… and people loved it. We gifted almost 1,000 condoms to the community. BUT… will they actually use them???? That is the question.

Perhaps I’ve been able to change some minds, and I suppose that is something. There have in fact been some people who have come to me for condoms. And, for some guys with whom I have a great degree of confianza, I’ve opened their minds to think more selflessly about sex… convincing them that the whole experience is probably a lot better if each partner knows that the other is likewise enjoying it (subtext: RETURN THE FAVOR, ASSHOLES!). But until I can get a nationwide charla, with guest speakers: Hugh Hefner, Dr. Ruth, Bill Maher, Dr. Drew, Jenna Jameson, and musical guest Salt n Pepa… I think a sexual revolution in El Salvador will be years in the making.

The Moments

What is that saying? Life is not about the number of breaths you take, but the moments that take your breath away. A little cheesy I suppose, but it holds a certain truth no doubt. It is true that the strongest memories we have are usually of more monumental moments in life... whether they’re good or bad. I am 21 months into the Peace Corps chapter of my life, and I can tell that after I’m done, it will trickle down into a series of memories of the best and worst moments. Así es. This whole experience is such a crazy juxtaposition of the touching moments… the ones that you feel somewhere deep, the ones that stop you in your tracks and make you feel, even just for a second, completely happy… along with the other moments that crush you… the ones that frustrate and hurt you, the ones that make you feel almost betrayed. There are times when I feel entirely at home here; times when I think: this is right, I am where I should be. Other times are not so fortunate; the times when I think: what the hell am I doing here… I need to get out! While after 21 months, I am much more at ease with this mad dichotomy, it still can throw me through a loop. To enlighten better, I thought I’d share a few of the high moments and a few of the lows.
I think some my favorite moments I’ve had here are the ones that humble me. In my opinion, you can never have too many humbling moments. And in living with some of the poorest people on the planet, I’ve had them time and time again. I see people that have next to nothing, and not much hope for improvement, and yet are still, somehow, happy. I marvel at the… I don’t know if courage is the right word, but it’s the best I can think of right now. There’s this one family here, la familia Reyes, whom I love. Every member is always cheery and warm, and everyone is active in the community. They all are trying to make the best of what they have, and are slowly but surely setting the example and improving the community. The father and the eldest son are both health workers, who visit homes and do community charlas; they are both are very respectful and nonthreatening. Anyway, this past year the family experienced tragedy when the middle son Bernardo became ill. He’s been suffering what they think is bone cancer, but countless trips to the hospital still hasn’t procured a proper diagnosis. A few months ago, Nardo’s conditioned worsened, and without knowing exactly what his ailment is, he had to have his right leg amputated up to his thigh. He is sixteen years old.
I have two healthy legs and I still find it murder to get around here. I can’t imagine trying to do so with only one leg and crappy crutches. So, with the unforgiving roads and trails here, Nardo’s been fairly house-ridden. He’s had to drop out of school… which, from his house, is about a 35 minute uphill trek for a healthy person to do. But he’s been learning… he’s been getting out more, adjusting to his new slowness, walking around the community. I’ve seen him come to many soccer games, which must be hard for him to watch since he used to be a star player. Every time I see him I tremble a little. It’s so unfair. I would understand if he hated the whole world. But he doesn’t. Despite this heartbreaking misfortune, Nardo is probably one of the liveliest, most chipper kids I know. And his entire family, who know how awful and unfair their situation is, do not show even a whiff of wallowing. I see this and suddenly, none of my problems seem to merit pity. This case is rather extreme. But the truth is, so many people here have far worse problems than I, and yet seem to be much more contented and at peace with them. The restraint they show in the face of disaster is truly humbling. It reminds me time and time again that I should not complain, and that most of my problems, are not really problems at all.
And yet, as always, there is a flip side. The general temperament here is more reserved, it’s more even-keel. So while most people don’t reel in the depths of despair, they can also be hard to excite. Pena… shame or embarrassment… is absolutely suffocating at times. The difference of when you talk to people on an individual basis and when they’re in a group is tremendous. Some of the most candid and straightforward people become utterly invisible in a crowd. I teach a class to eighth and ninth grade at the school called Como Planear Mi Vida (Life Planning Skills) that really is a lot of fun compared to their other classes. The lessons vary from thinking about the future, to practicing good communication, to sex-ed; and what teenager doesn’t like sex-ed? And the way the lessons are taught are much more dynamic and fun…but they require participation to be so. I like teaching the class usually. But it’s heartbreaking at times. Some of these kids I know are much more open and expressive than they let on in class. There’s a pair of sisters, Yesenia y Evelin whom I hang out and joke with all the time. We regularly play music dance at Mari’s house together. They’re clever and cheeky… they drive me nuts sometimes… but crack me up as well. However, in the classroom, it’s as if they suffer multiple personality disorders. It’s really hard to get voluntary participation… so most times I have to call on victims. Most people answer… but some don’t. Yesenia and Evelin are masters at enduring awkward silences. I’ve had everlasting stare-downs with them far too many times. And it seems no matter what I do… they won’t participate… in anything. I’ve joked, I’ve placated, I’ve encouraged, I’ve disciplined… nothing works.
Yes there are other ways to get through to these kids, ways in which they show their true intelligence and individualism. Writing and art projects can be heartwarming. But it is so painful to plan a lesson that you think will be fun… a clever game, something funny and with prizes, something refreshing and new… and the kids just sit and stare. Last week I taught a fun class where I passed out different sexual terms… oral sex, testicles, breasts, and in groups the kids had to think of as many slang expressions for each. That’s FUN… right? (Interesting side note, Salvadorans call breasts apples not melons, and testicles eggs not nuts.) They did fairly well in their small groups, there was a lot of giggling; I could see that they enjoyed it. But afterwards, when I wrapped up the lesson and tried to lead the class in discussion… they were silent and self-conscious as always. I even had candy to pass out… but nothing. I got strict and said I can wait just as long as they can and said that no one could leave until someone answered me. Then I stood in front of a very penosa classroom for 5 minutes and no one said a word. The teacher Nuria finally interjected and forced someone to respond. I know that whenever dealing with teenagers, either American or Salvadoran, apathy and aloofness are rather par for the course. But there’s something cultural at hand here too. It’s ironic… because these same kids who are like statues in the classroom will run up to me in the street and excitedly ask when my next class is. Sí hombre, I believe the same forces that make them modest and reserved in times of emotional distress, are also the ones that cause them to disappear in a group. And in those moments when I feel that the individual is lost, captured by pena, it can be truly devastating.
I really do feel extremely lucky with the host family I got put with. Some volunteers get really unlucky and have very uncomfortable living situations. I don’t think I could have asked for a better family. Mari is perhaps the kindest person I’ve ever known… and I love Yessica and Sulma like they were my real siblings… and younger siblings at that, which has been a very fortunate and rewarding experience. I really do love them all… that was easy to do. There have been so many small moments when I feel… just… right with them, too many to write. I’ll share just one. The other day I was at their house watching a telenovela, and I started making fun of it, remarking how they are always so dramatic and passionate, and could they imagine if life were like that here? Then we all started joking, saying lines to each other like the novela stars…. “Yessica, I love you so much it hurts!” … “Laura, you betrayed me from the core! I hate you!” … “Sulma… I’m pregnant, with twins! One’s yours and the other’s Alexander’s!” Yessica spit-taked and Sulma fell on the floor laughing. Mari and I were in tears. When we finally calmed, Mari said “God will we miss you Laura.” And I almost lost it. In that small moment… everything was perfect. I don’t cry often… but I know for certain that I will be sobbing when I have to say goodbye to my family here.
But… then again, I’m reminded very often that I am a foreigner, and that no matter how I try, I’m never really a part of their family as I may want to be. Yes, they can be warm and friendly, welcoming me without pretense. And yet, they don’t endeavor for much depth in the relationship, and at times their lack of sentimentality can be harsh. A while ago I was with Mari and the girls when Mari said “I wish you were staying a year longer.” I thought this was extremely sweet… another tender moment… CHOKE! But then she continued with “That way you can get Yessica a scholarship for high school.” Oh... that’s why she wants me to stay. I’ve helped other students apply for scholarships, and of course I would like to help Yessica too. But she can apply for one whether there’s a volunteer here or not... and they know that. I can’t exactly blame Mari for wanting her child to continue school, of course not. But statements like that make me feel like not much more than a dollar sign. I notice things… like: I feel very welcomed when I visit people at their homes, but people rarely visit me, unless they want something… usually money. Can I buy them something or lend them money? I don’t mind small favors. I’m one of the only people in the community who has a digital camera, so I frequently take pictures and print out copies for people… copies that oftentimes are never reimbursed. As soon as I moved out of Mari’s house and into my own space, people immediately started asking me about what I’ll be doing with my furniture when I leave, hoping to snag my fridge, my bed, my stove as soon as I’m gone. Again… it’s hard to reproach people for this… if I were in their shoes, I’d most likely do the same. But every so often, just as I feel like I really belong here, I am reminded that I am different. And that to some people, I’m not much more than a blonde American with more cash than average and some nifty toys.
Ah yes… my white skin and my blonde hair… and my blue eyes I guess. It is unbelievable how much commotion these attributes cause. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t the least bit flattered by some of this attention. Every so often, there’s a community dance that coincides with a different event, like Mother’s Day, Independence Day, or graduation. And as much as sometimes I just gotta dance, the Salvadoran style of dancing is actually a bit of a letdown. It’s not the romantic Latin style you might have in mind… no Salsa or Meringue here. No no no. Ranchero, or rural music here, is accompanied by awkward dancing in which the couple stands in front of each other and more or less walks in place with little sense of rhythm. This is not exactly the dance party I’d be eager to join… except that the amount of attention I get at these things is unparalleled. To be honest, it is a bit uncomfortable… because only about 10% of the gente actually dance, and fewer women than men do (who I suppose are afraid of being tainted as rather promiscuous for dancing or something stupid like that). Everyone else just stands around and does what Salvadorans do best… STARE. But… my goodness… I indulge, because I truly do feel like the prettiest belle at the ball. These men surround me and tug at me, pleading with me for a dance. I’ll be dancing with one guy, and before the song is over, new guys circle around, pushing each other out of the way, to beg for the next dance. It is a bit awkward, and certainly unfair to the rest of the eligible female dance partners. But compared to their other behavior, the men in general are respectful when they dance. And hey… I might as well enjoy this kind of attention while I still can. Perhaps it is a bit gauche, but it is ingratiating nonetheless; and in these moments, I usually have on a blushing smile.
Ooooh, but prepare yourself for the other side of this coin. I might feel flattered on the dance floor… but in practically every other realm where men try to uh… “pursue” me, I feel nothing but absolute disgust. I’ve become fairly immune to the constant piropos (catcalls) I get; I have mastered the “blank ignore and walk away” maneuver. I sometimes do respond to piropos… especially when the guys attempt them in English: “Ai looove you!” Then I offer a snarky reply, again in English: “Oh really? What else do you know in English you pathetic waste of space who has nothing better to do than sit on your ass outside my home and wait for me to walk by!?!” …… To which is replied: “Qué……….?” It’s a feeble redemption, but it’s mine.
Busses are worse. Men take full advantage that I’m captive in the seat next to them for hours at a time to put on full douche bag mode. Now… I have to give credit where credit is due. I have had some pleasant conversations with men who have sat next to me, men who are really genuine and unthreatening. But more often, I’ve been tormented by pathetic pick-up attempts, patronized through extreme arrogance, or just disgusted by overall grossness. With my diminishing patience to men in general here, I have amused myself with just how rude I can be. Once, this fat ass who was probably thirty years my senior sat next to me and started flipping through a magazine. He found a picture of Scarlett Johannson, let out an audible groan of lust, and then turned to me and said I look just like her (yeah, right). I slowly swiveled my head toward him with my best “FUCK OFF” face, then dramatically grabbed my i-pod, put on music, and then very exaggeratedly turned away from him and pretended to sleep. He didn’t bother me for the rest of the trip. I’ve been working on the “FUCK OFF” face, and to my delight, it’s pretty effective. Recently on another bus, I was one of the first people to board, and I picked a seat in the middle. The bus was practically empty... and then this man (again old… WTF… they seem to get worse as they age) came on and began to sit down right next to me, opening a pickup line before his butt even hit the cushion. I darted the “FUCK OFF” face, aka “death stare,” quickly and unrelentingly. And this dude stopped mid-sentence and gaped in fear. Then he nervously grabbed his things and moved to a different seat.
Now… I don’t want to come home a complete man-hater, maybe 85% or so… but not totally. But JEEZ… for any of the meager breakthroughs or genuine connections I feel I accomplish with some men, there are triple the incidents of piropos, pickup attempts, “accidental” brush ups, or outright harassments. ARGHHHH… in these moments… I feel frustrated and repulsed, and want to get the hell away from these dismal muchachos.
Most days are not very exciting. Sometimes, I feel productive when I all do is my laundry that day (which indeed takes a very long time). But now and again there is a fleeting moment, whether it’s good or bad, which extends beyond the others, to be stored in memory always. I do think that overall, the memories I have will be more good than bad… but I keep learning how it’s impossible to have the high without the low. Perhaps it is one of those lessons in life we have to learn again and again.