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.