When I first came to the Village, in May, I remember being completely overwhelmed by all the names I was going to have to learn. I have never been particularly good at remembering names, they seem to just goo in one ear and out the other. In the village this was complicated by most everyone having long Spanish names that were completely unfamiliar to me. Also, everyone in the village has a nick-name: putz, moot, pech, juney, na kax, miss, dego, kush, lor, push push, berto, R, lu, judge, rasta, ninja, ton, bird and so on. These nick-names were easier for me to remember. I am still at a loss when people are addressed by their real names, but this happens very rarely.
In the beginning I wondered if I would ever get a nick-name. That, I thought, would be a great sign of integration and friendship. Yes, for the rest of my life I could site the name given to me by my villagers as the title I prefer. A mysteriously intriguing sounding new name that would convey the essence of strength, bravery, cunning, and utmost respect. What less does any man dream of when trying to come up with his own alter-ego? But alas, just as no ones nick-name, outside of cheesy 80's hacker movies, is Viper, my nick-name would leave a lot to be desired.
It seemed like it would never happen. My choosing to go by my full given name of Matthew (which I learned in Ghana is easier for people to remember, from the bible, than Matt, which turns into Pat, Nate, etc.) and not the more locally common Spanish version of Matio seemed to be a nick-name im and of its self. Because there is no “th” sound in the Maya Mopan language, it comes out as “Matchu.” It seemed strange enough to them to last the entirety of my two years here, and formally it always will. However, as I started to go to the farm, and hang out with the younger, ruder, guys more another name began to catch on. It was cemented at Global Hand-washing Day, when a shop owner called out to me on the other side of the field, in front of a lot of the community with a loud and commanding “yeah Chuku Wah!” Laughter roared through the crowed because he had just addressed me as “hot tortillas.” Thats right, my mysterious new Mayan name is the equivalent of “hot cakes.”
At first I was crushed. I felt embarrassed about my language ability, and insulted as a new member of a group. However, as I reflected on the situation more, I realized that this was the sign of friendship I had hoped for. No group of guys ever give one of their own a cool nick-name, and none of the nick-names in the village were cool: cat (in its G rated version), Hen, Fats, Catfish. None of these are “cool” names. This is evident by no one telling me their own nick-name. I always learned what to call them by hearing it in conversation, or someone laughing and saying “we call him ___.” My name does not mean “that guy who cant speak Maya” but “that guy who loves to eat the Maya food.”
I am still “Matchu” most of the time, but amongst the group of guys I play futball and farm with, “Chuku Wah” is used most often. I have grown accustom to it, and hope it catches on to the point where people actually bring me hot tortillas. Is has made me feel more apart of life here. The people here laugh at each other, just like people do everywhere, and I am glad now to have crossed that line of being an outsider that you most always be polite to. I'm not that guy. At nearly six months in the village now, my life has hit a stride, and I can honestly say there is not one other place I would rather be.
Friday, November 26, 2010
Global Hand-washing Day: Clean Hands Saves Lives
On Friday, October the 15th, individuals, governments and NGOs in over 70 countries took part in festivities for second annual Global Hand-washing Day. The guiding vision of GHD is to raise awareness of the importance of washing your hands with soap and water before eating and after using the latrine. It may seem like a silly day to celebrate at first, but ingraining hand-washing after latrine use as a habitual behavior is difficult. This is not just in developing countries either. Does anyone remember that Seinfeld when the chef comes out of the toilet to find Jerry at the sink, tells him he is going to make his meal personalty, and then leaves without washing? Hilarity in-sued.
This issue, however, does complicate in a developing nation, where resources are limited and traditional behaviors are hard to change. While many people will use water to wash away the visible dirt, without soap it is just not enough. Anther problem is faced when there is no running water for households, and many individuals will wash in the same basin of water. In fact, the United Nations reports that more than 3.5 million children under the age of five die each year from diseases preventable simply by washing your hands with soap. Therefore, this intervention could save more lives than any single vaccination or medical intervention.
I am happy to say that Santa Elena Village, Toledo, took part in this worldwide day of health awareness. The teachers and principal of the village school and myself planned an variety of educational presentations and games. We had the children paint signs to put near the latrines to remind people to wash their hands, a germ spreading demonstration with glitter, presentations on the path of germs, a competition for the best hand washing song or poem (to sing while washing hands), and a hand washing relay race with tippy-taps that the upper division students built.
As I said, one of the big issues with washing hands in developing nations is the lack of running water, and my village faces this same problem. It is custom that there is just a bowl of water on the the floor that everyone washes their hands in as they enter a house for a meal. While it is good that the habit of washing hands before meals is present, the dirty water in the bowl is not doing much good. To solve the problem of no running water, some people have come up with the idea of the “tippy-tap.” There are many different ways to make one, but we made ours with: 4 length of stick, string, a large empty cola bottle, and two nails. We set the two long sticks in the ground about 3 feet apart, nailed another stick to the top of these two. Tied the empty cola bottle just under the cap (the cap had small holes poked in it) and tied the back end with a sting that went up over the top stick and tied to anther stick on the ground. We set it up so that each 3 foot stick U had a pair of washing stations (two cola bottles and step sticks)
The way it worked is that when you step on the stick and push it down, it pulls the string attached to the back of the cola bottle and lifts the back end up. This sends the water in the bottle to the now downward facing cap and out the holes. Shabang! You have running water to wash you hands. We then cut off the bottom of a small soda bottle (12 oz) poked a hole in it near the top, strung it to the middle of the top (horizontal) stick, and used it as a soap holder. It had a few kinks we had to work out. For one the string was to thin . It frayed greatly going over the top stick. We made it work for the relay raced though, and the kids had a blast. A lot of the community came out to watch, laugh, and inquire about the strange water device. It was definitely the highlight of the day. We made make a few changes to the tippy-taps to make them more durable, and then set them up outside the latrines at the school. Then the students will have their days when they are responsible for making sure the bottles are filled. My hope is that the kids find it handy, and it spreads to the homes.
The first annul Global Hand-washing Day was a fun, informative day for all. Next time you wash your hands you can sing our song:
Wash wash wash your hand, wash them fore' you eat! Use some soap, lots of soap, to wash the germs away!
Two times through with the soap on your hands and you'll be all clean. I still hear the kids singing the song loudly at the “tippy-tap” so I think the day can be called a success.
This issue, however, does complicate in a developing nation, where resources are limited and traditional behaviors are hard to change. While many people will use water to wash away the visible dirt, without soap it is just not enough. Anther problem is faced when there is no running water for households, and many individuals will wash in the same basin of water. In fact, the United Nations reports that more than 3.5 million children under the age of five die each year from diseases preventable simply by washing your hands with soap. Therefore, this intervention could save more lives than any single vaccination or medical intervention.
I am happy to say that Santa Elena Village, Toledo, took part in this worldwide day of health awareness. The teachers and principal of the village school and myself planned an variety of educational presentations and games. We had the children paint signs to put near the latrines to remind people to wash their hands, a germ spreading demonstration with glitter, presentations on the path of germs, a competition for the best hand washing song or poem (to sing while washing hands), and a hand washing relay race with tippy-taps that the upper division students built.
As I said, one of the big issues with washing hands in developing nations is the lack of running water, and my village faces this same problem. It is custom that there is just a bowl of water on the the floor that everyone washes their hands in as they enter a house for a meal. While it is good that the habit of washing hands before meals is present, the dirty water in the bowl is not doing much good. To solve the problem of no running water, some people have come up with the idea of the “tippy-tap.” There are many different ways to make one, but we made ours with: 4 length of stick, string, a large empty cola bottle, and two nails. We set the two long sticks in the ground about 3 feet apart, nailed another stick to the top of these two. Tied the empty cola bottle just under the cap (the cap had small holes poked in it) and tied the back end with a sting that went up over the top stick and tied to anther stick on the ground. We set it up so that each 3 foot stick U had a pair of washing stations (two cola bottles and step sticks)
The way it worked is that when you step on the stick and push it down, it pulls the string attached to the back of the cola bottle and lifts the back end up. This sends the water in the bottle to the now downward facing cap and out the holes. Shabang! You have running water to wash you hands. We then cut off the bottom of a small soda bottle (12 oz) poked a hole in it near the top, strung it to the middle of the top (horizontal) stick, and used it as a soap holder. It had a few kinks we had to work out. For one the string was to thin . It frayed greatly going over the top stick. We made it work for the relay raced though, and the kids had a blast. A lot of the community came out to watch, laugh, and inquire about the strange water device. It was definitely the highlight of the day. We made make a few changes to the tippy-taps to make them more durable, and then set them up outside the latrines at the school. Then the students will have their days when they are responsible for making sure the bottles are filled. My hope is that the kids find it handy, and it spreads to the homes.
The first annul Global Hand-washing Day was a fun, informative day for all. Next time you wash your hands you can sing our song:
Wash wash wash your hand, wash them fore' you eat! Use some soap, lots of soap, to wash the germs away!
Two times through with the soap on your hands and you'll be all clean. I still hear the kids singing the song loudly at the “tippy-tap” so I think the day can be called a success.
Sunday, September 26, 2010
Only to me
Ever feel like some thing would ONLY ever happen to you? That how I feel being the new gringo in my village. To start things off, my fist time participating in the communal chop of the village just a week after arriving and my first chance to meet all the men ill be living around for the next two years, my machette slips out of my hand (because of the excessive amounts of sweat pouring from every inch of my body) and goes singing about twenty feet through the air. Thank god it did not hit anyone, but everyone in the village had a laugh at the white mans first chop. However, when we all set down to rest two guys sat down next to me and gave me a few lessons on chopping, so I made new friends.
Then while playing my first football game (I mean both in my life as well as in my village) my host brother lets loose with a cannon kick to launch the ball in to the goal, but I stop it...by it hitting my right in the family jewels. Once again the entire community was on had to witness.
Next, While hiking through the bush, chopping the boundary line between our village and the next village over we came to a mud wall about eight feet high. I throw my machete to the top of the hill to use both hands and climb up easier. When I get to the top the other men in the group are standing around a hole laughing. As it turns out when I tossed my machete it sailed right down to the bottom of a muddy twelve foot deep hole, and I had to hobble my way down in to get it and back out.
Finally, after enjoying a hefty bowl of kaldo for a young girls birthday party, some of the guys invited my to go to the bridge to play around. I had never hung out with this group before so I excitedly agreed, but as we were walking out of the village I felt a nasty grumble in my belly. Way to much Roman Noodles and beans the previous day I'm sure. The guys sensed I did not feel good but I said I was fine and kept going. We stopped at a family's house I had never really meet before when zero hour hit. Noone like to blow up on someone elses thrown, but some times in life you just have to look the old women you just met two seconds ago in the face and say hey “Wa tak in ta, Tuba a toilet paper etel latrine?” --- “I gotta poop, where is the toilet paper and latrine?” Laughter broke out in the crowded room, I think mostly it may have been them all knowing the condition of the “latrine” in which I was about to have this unfortunate BM. It was a concrete hole with literally a sheet hung on one side. The laughter carried over the thin sheet.
Im glad I did not just go home, because once you cross that line of embarrassment nothing can really bother you anymore. I also had a blast fooling around at the bridge. Swing from the supports of the new tall bridge, and having feats of strength on the old sunken bridge. No better way to get to know your village chairmen than to body slam him off a bridge. Everything just keeps on going, good or bad, and all you can do is smile and sit back for the trip. Try not to make the same mistake twice, and remember that jumping in head first is the best way to confront the unknown.
Then while playing my first football game (I mean both in my life as well as in my village) my host brother lets loose with a cannon kick to launch the ball in to the goal, but I stop it...by it hitting my right in the family jewels. Once again the entire community was on had to witness.
Next, While hiking through the bush, chopping the boundary line between our village and the next village over we came to a mud wall about eight feet high. I throw my machete to the top of the hill to use both hands and climb up easier. When I get to the top the other men in the group are standing around a hole laughing. As it turns out when I tossed my machete it sailed right down to the bottom of a muddy twelve foot deep hole, and I had to hobble my way down in to get it and back out.
Finally, after enjoying a hefty bowl of kaldo for a young girls birthday party, some of the guys invited my to go to the bridge to play around. I had never hung out with this group before so I excitedly agreed, but as we were walking out of the village I felt a nasty grumble in my belly. Way to much Roman Noodles and beans the previous day I'm sure. The guys sensed I did not feel good but I said I was fine and kept going. We stopped at a family's house I had never really meet before when zero hour hit. Noone like to blow up on someone elses thrown, but some times in life you just have to look the old women you just met two seconds ago in the face and say hey “Wa tak in ta, Tuba a toilet paper etel latrine?” --- “I gotta poop, where is the toilet paper and latrine?” Laughter broke out in the crowded room, I think mostly it may have been them all knowing the condition of the “latrine” in which I was about to have this unfortunate BM. It was a concrete hole with literally a sheet hung on one side. The laughter carried over the thin sheet.
Im glad I did not just go home, because once you cross that line of embarrassment nothing can really bother you anymore. I also had a blast fooling around at the bridge. Swing from the supports of the new tall bridge, and having feats of strength on the old sunken bridge. No better way to get to know your village chairmen than to body slam him off a bridge. Everything just keeps on going, good or bad, and all you can do is smile and sit back for the trip. Try not to make the same mistake twice, and remember that jumping in head first is the best way to confront the unknown.
On hunting, farming, and fishing
The wet season is here in full force. My rain jacket is constantly stuffed in the outer net of my back pack, mostly because remembering to pack it ensures a sunny day. The dirt road that runs through my village, from the border of Guatemala to Punta Gorda, is a river of mud and rock. The buses are running slower, taking about 45 minutes longer now to reach town. Once, after a steady night of rain, when returning to my village on the 6 a.m. bus that was to go to the border, all 10 of us aboard got dropped off in San Antonio (about 7 miles from my village and 16 from its original destination) and had to hitch a ride about an hour later the rest of the way. As tends to happen though, an annoyance turned into a blessing, as the man I flagged down was actually in charge of water systems for my part of the district, and someone I had been going to contact.
I spent the rest of the day tired and covered in mud as I shadowed him on his stop in my neighboring village to arrange for the installation of the new motor and pump for their water system, pushing the truck out of the mud after each time we stopped. He was very friendly, and taught me a lot about how to run an effective water board and how the water systems themselves work. Before we parted ways he stopped by my village and speak with the Alcalde about coming out this dry season to dill in the hopes of finding a water table large enough to sustain a pipe water system, so the inconvenience of the morning was truly worth while.
For the first three months after swearing in as a PCV, you are meant to take time to meet your neighbors and do the things that they do with them. For me, this means hunting, fishing, and farming. I come from rural Indiana. If you asked me on any given day three things that I did NOT want to do I would say: hunting, fishing, and farming... well maybe fishing. But here, things are different. There seems to be a pureness to these acts. A simplicity. A logical shared understanding, rooted in necessity. Something I guess I never noticed back home.
I wake before the sun on the days I will go hunting. I always think about saying I feel sick just to go back to my comfortable sting bed, but as I make tea and brush my teeth on the back steps of my cabin the first rays of the morning sun, rising over the lush green mountains fills me with life. I lace up my boots, and sharpen my machete. If I am hunting with my neighbor he will usually send his youngest daughter over with a large plate of food for breakfast. Then we set off. Each man walking, carrying a machete, followed by a pack of mangy dogs. Different animals will be found in different places, but usually we head on a main trail towards the family farm. Many animals are attracted this time of year by the newly budding corn. We reach the farm as the sun is beginning to dominate the sky, dissipating the low clouds hiding as fog in the valleys. The scene is surreal. With the fog hanging over the vast farm stretching out into the jungle beyond with mountains on the horizon. So many different shades of green. The smell of life all around you. And a heat so mixed with moisture you can taste it as you suck a deep breath to fill your lungs, remembering that you could be in an office right now.
The dogs dominate the hunt. For the entire walk through the jungle they will go out into the bush and smell out an animal. You never know when they will start their barking, but when they send up the call we rush through the dense virgin forest as fast as we can. It all happens so fast I am just trying not to lose sight of the man in front of me. We run to where the dogs have either cornered on animal in a cave, chased it into water, or gotten a hold of it. Anyway it happens this is where they grab it and kill it. If possible it is best to kill it by blunt force to the head it seems. This is done with the dull side of the machete. I imagine it is done in this way so whoever has to throw the kill over their shoulder and back it home, is not covered in blood. Although I have never personally had my act together enough to be the one that kills the creature, while digging for a armadillo with a respectable yet aggravating will to survive, my machete was used by the man digging after him to end its life.
The kill is always carried by the youngest able son relative to the weight of the animal. I will sometimes volunteer to carry the kill for a number of reasons: The youngest son is usually my friend who helps me in many ways around the village, learn simple things that all men in the community know how to do, show I am not grossed out, and (most importantly) secure that I will receive a meal containing part of the tasty animal. So far while hunting we have found, armadillo, gibnut, and peccary. I hope to learn the way to trap a ground-mole as soon as the rain lets up. All are quite delicious when made into a Kaldo soup and served with freshly baked flour tortillas, but I would say gibnut is the best.
Sometimes we will be hiking through the forest for 6 or 7 hours, but I don't ever really feel the time go by. It is all just blur of chopping bush, running after dogs, waiting on dogs to come back after they lost an animal, and talking with the other men. Once, as we were going along in the jungle, all of a sudden we came to a clearing. We were on a hilltop south of the village. All I could see for miles around was endless waves of green mountains stretching out all the way to Guatemala. In the middle of this sea of green was a few building of the village: the library, an old church, my neighbors thatch roof, and my house. The old cabin was just sitting there, wooden windows blowing back and forth in the breeze. That is where I live. Theres my home, in the middle of this rain-forest. I took a picture, but it didn't come out the same. You cant capture the way it felt. All I could do was feel amazed and walk on after a moment. Just another memory. Another great reason to be alive. If in my old age I am lucky enough to slip, with dementia, into only the memories of my life, I shall die peacefully with a smile from ear to ear.
Farming too requires me to wake early. I lace up my boots and walk with the family to the farm. The farming plot to slashed and burned forest. Each family in the village has their own plot they are responsible for, and after a spot is used for two seasons it will sit for 15-20 years. Assuring that all the plants grow back, giving the soil the nutrients needed to plant again. The trees on the plot will serve as firewood. To be cut and hauled to the home by horseback Each family must also cut a farm road through the bush from the main road to haul the harvest out. Over all the hills and valleys this is no easy task.
Without the hassle winter, people are able to have two planting seasons. This enables them to have crops growing year round, which is important when some families will eat nearly 100% of their income. May and November are the planting months. Harvest time differs depending on the crop. Planting is done with large sticks cut from the surrounding bush which are used to make a hole about six inches deep. Deep enough that the birds can't eat the seeds, but not to deep that the sun cant reach the seeds. The farms are very large and you often have to plant on a steep hillside. It is hot and thirsty work, but a days work in the farm is always repaid with a hot bowl of chicken Kaldo with fresh tortillas. A food you eat a lot here, but can never get sick of.
Fishing has been one of my favorite pass times, and I was happy to hear that people fish even more in the coming dry season. It is an activity that the men will do on days that they do not have any work to do at the farm. A fun way to spend the day and put some different food on the table. With all the rain lately we have not fished in the flooded river that runs behind my house. Instead we hike a ways into the mountains and find a fresh water stream that is always clear. From here we walk upstream with our lines in the water, little bits of masa (milled corn that tortillas are made from) on our hooks. We stop in spots to set a net that has worm-stung wire running across its middle to lure small fish in.
My favorite way to fish however is definitely with the rubber band projected spear. This is a iron rod about the length of my forearm that is sharpened to a point on one side, and is attached to a rubber band on the other. You loop the rubber band around you thumb and grasp the spear just below its tip. It is now armed to fire, and all that is needed to to open you grasp and it will shoot out, fast as a bullet. This is used with a diving mask to dive under the water, see a fish and spear it. The first time the I dove underwater, in this stream deep in the forest, with a old diving mask, and a home made harpoon in one hand, I knew that I would forever measure events in my life as before and after that moment. Although I failed to find any fish to spear it was still an invigorating experience.
My friend we call “Juny” and I have plans to hike a day up river into the mountains, build a raft out of forest materials, sleep the night, and then spend the next day rafting back down the river, fishing all the way. A true Huck Fin Adventure.
I spent the rest of the day tired and covered in mud as I shadowed him on his stop in my neighboring village to arrange for the installation of the new motor and pump for their water system, pushing the truck out of the mud after each time we stopped. He was very friendly, and taught me a lot about how to run an effective water board and how the water systems themselves work. Before we parted ways he stopped by my village and speak with the Alcalde about coming out this dry season to dill in the hopes of finding a water table large enough to sustain a pipe water system, so the inconvenience of the morning was truly worth while.
For the first three months after swearing in as a PCV, you are meant to take time to meet your neighbors and do the things that they do with them. For me, this means hunting, fishing, and farming. I come from rural Indiana. If you asked me on any given day three things that I did NOT want to do I would say: hunting, fishing, and farming... well maybe fishing. But here, things are different. There seems to be a pureness to these acts. A simplicity. A logical shared understanding, rooted in necessity. Something I guess I never noticed back home.
I wake before the sun on the days I will go hunting. I always think about saying I feel sick just to go back to my comfortable sting bed, but as I make tea and brush my teeth on the back steps of my cabin the first rays of the morning sun, rising over the lush green mountains fills me with life. I lace up my boots, and sharpen my machete. If I am hunting with my neighbor he will usually send his youngest daughter over with a large plate of food for breakfast. Then we set off. Each man walking, carrying a machete, followed by a pack of mangy dogs. Different animals will be found in different places, but usually we head on a main trail towards the family farm. Many animals are attracted this time of year by the newly budding corn. We reach the farm as the sun is beginning to dominate the sky, dissipating the low clouds hiding as fog in the valleys. The scene is surreal. With the fog hanging over the vast farm stretching out into the jungle beyond with mountains on the horizon. So many different shades of green. The smell of life all around you. And a heat so mixed with moisture you can taste it as you suck a deep breath to fill your lungs, remembering that you could be in an office right now.
The dogs dominate the hunt. For the entire walk through the jungle they will go out into the bush and smell out an animal. You never know when they will start their barking, but when they send up the call we rush through the dense virgin forest as fast as we can. It all happens so fast I am just trying not to lose sight of the man in front of me. We run to where the dogs have either cornered on animal in a cave, chased it into water, or gotten a hold of it. Anyway it happens this is where they grab it and kill it. If possible it is best to kill it by blunt force to the head it seems. This is done with the dull side of the machete. I imagine it is done in this way so whoever has to throw the kill over their shoulder and back it home, is not covered in blood. Although I have never personally had my act together enough to be the one that kills the creature, while digging for a armadillo with a respectable yet aggravating will to survive, my machete was used by the man digging after him to end its life.
The kill is always carried by the youngest able son relative to the weight of the animal. I will sometimes volunteer to carry the kill for a number of reasons: The youngest son is usually my friend who helps me in many ways around the village, learn simple things that all men in the community know how to do, show I am not grossed out, and (most importantly) secure that I will receive a meal containing part of the tasty animal. So far while hunting we have found, armadillo, gibnut, and peccary. I hope to learn the way to trap a ground-mole as soon as the rain lets up. All are quite delicious when made into a Kaldo soup and served with freshly baked flour tortillas, but I would say gibnut is the best.
Sometimes we will be hiking through the forest for 6 or 7 hours, but I don't ever really feel the time go by. It is all just blur of chopping bush, running after dogs, waiting on dogs to come back after they lost an animal, and talking with the other men. Once, as we were going along in the jungle, all of a sudden we came to a clearing. We were on a hilltop south of the village. All I could see for miles around was endless waves of green mountains stretching out all the way to Guatemala. In the middle of this sea of green was a few building of the village: the library, an old church, my neighbors thatch roof, and my house. The old cabin was just sitting there, wooden windows blowing back and forth in the breeze. That is where I live. Theres my home, in the middle of this rain-forest. I took a picture, but it didn't come out the same. You cant capture the way it felt. All I could do was feel amazed and walk on after a moment. Just another memory. Another great reason to be alive. If in my old age I am lucky enough to slip, with dementia, into only the memories of my life, I shall die peacefully with a smile from ear to ear.
Farming too requires me to wake early. I lace up my boots and walk with the family to the farm. The farming plot to slashed and burned forest. Each family in the village has their own plot they are responsible for, and after a spot is used for two seasons it will sit for 15-20 years. Assuring that all the plants grow back, giving the soil the nutrients needed to plant again. The trees on the plot will serve as firewood. To be cut and hauled to the home by horseback Each family must also cut a farm road through the bush from the main road to haul the harvest out. Over all the hills and valleys this is no easy task.
Without the hassle winter, people are able to have two planting seasons. This enables them to have crops growing year round, which is important when some families will eat nearly 100% of their income. May and November are the planting months. Harvest time differs depending on the crop. Planting is done with large sticks cut from the surrounding bush which are used to make a hole about six inches deep. Deep enough that the birds can't eat the seeds, but not to deep that the sun cant reach the seeds. The farms are very large and you often have to plant on a steep hillside. It is hot and thirsty work, but a days work in the farm is always repaid with a hot bowl of chicken Kaldo with fresh tortillas. A food you eat a lot here, but can never get sick of.
Fishing has been one of my favorite pass times, and I was happy to hear that people fish even more in the coming dry season. It is an activity that the men will do on days that they do not have any work to do at the farm. A fun way to spend the day and put some different food on the table. With all the rain lately we have not fished in the flooded river that runs behind my house. Instead we hike a ways into the mountains and find a fresh water stream that is always clear. From here we walk upstream with our lines in the water, little bits of masa (milled corn that tortillas are made from) on our hooks. We stop in spots to set a net that has worm-stung wire running across its middle to lure small fish in.
My favorite way to fish however is definitely with the rubber band projected spear. This is a iron rod about the length of my forearm that is sharpened to a point on one side, and is attached to a rubber band on the other. You loop the rubber band around you thumb and grasp the spear just below its tip. It is now armed to fire, and all that is needed to to open you grasp and it will shoot out, fast as a bullet. This is used with a diving mask to dive under the water, see a fish and spear it. The first time the I dove underwater, in this stream deep in the forest, with a old diving mask, and a home made harpoon in one hand, I knew that I would forever measure events in my life as before and after that moment. Although I failed to find any fish to spear it was still an invigorating experience.
My friend we call “Juny” and I have plans to hike a day up river into the mountains, build a raft out of forest materials, sleep the night, and then spend the next day rafting back down the river, fishing all the way. A true Huck Fin Adventure.
Bush Doctor
For the first several months I was in country, I got very lucky as far as health issues go, but some things are just a matter of time. I guess what started all of it was the onset of the wet season, which mean more bugs. My legs looked like they had been caught in machinery they were so tore up from bug bites. I would fight scratching them, but then awake in the night to myself trying to rip off my flesh to replace the itch with pain. Something more mentally tolerable. It wasn't until I went to the farm one day with my neighbors to gather pumpkin seeds that I noticed my boots rubbing a spot on my leg. Each time I took a step I would wince in pain. For miles we hiked to the farm. I tied to find a way of stepping that didn't hurt, twisting my ankle in many different angels as I put my weight down, but nothing worked. I just limped on.
The work that day got interrupted by a midday thunderstorm, so we took refuge in the camp. An open air thatch structure. Everyone had brought something to eat with them, except for me. As we all sat in a circle each person shared some of their food and drink with me. So, thanks to their giving, I laid back on a bag of corn with a full belly and fell asleep to the sounds of the thunder and rain mixed with conversation in Mayan. My leg felt better after resting a bit, and I rolled up my pant leg to find a big, red swollen lump on my calf. In the center was a black spot around the cut. I was planning on going to town the day after next, so I figured id take care of it then. As time went on though, the pain grew worse. By the time we reached home I collapsed in my hammock. I cleaned it the best I could and rested the next day. I caught the bus to PG on Friday. I showed my sore, which had now spread to another cut down my leg, to some of the other volunteers. They said it looked like staph, all the diagnosis I need, so I called the nurse. PC mailed me down some meds and I proceeded to enjoy spending time with friends that I don't usually get so see.
A lot of people were in for our friends thirtieth birthday party, so the walk all the way across town to the airport to pick up my medication when It came in that night seemed like a task that would be far better to do in the morning. In my stupidity I carried on with the spirit of the night. I kept feeling worse as the night went on even though I was trying to ignore it and have a good time. By the time I went to bed that night it was three in the morning, my leg ached with pain, my head swimming with fever, and my friends were robed. Twice. Which included my phone.
In the morning I thought I was on my deathbed. I walked to get my medication right away and took a double dose, per docs orders. My temperature was 101 and my leg was swollen from knee down, red as a tomato, with nasty black spots at the center of my cuts. My buddy Dan helped me hobble to a cab so I could get to the hotel. I was a mess, and in the cab was a nice boy and his grandmother going to church.
After a few days in the hotel getting chastised by the doctor for not starting my meds right away I though I was feeling better, and my wounds were all healed. However, not a week after returning to my village however, I noticed that I had a two new spots that looked like the others had before they got to bad. This time I was on the bus into town the next morning. Started taking my medication straight away and rested plenty. My legs were not really any better, still had two large red bumps, that may have been the infection turned into boils, but I decided to go home and just come back if it got worse.
Days later when my antibiotics ran out, and the hot compresses were doing nothing I told my neighbor I would return to PG to see the doctor. “No Matchew” he said “I will give you a medicine that works wery good.” He returned to my door about an hour later with a bowl full of cut up leaves mixed with water. At least that's all I think was in it. I figured it couldn't hurt, so I soaked a cloth in the mixture and applied it liberally to the infected areas a few times that day. By the time I went to sleep that night the swelling had gone down noticeably, and kept going down as time went on. I never did go back to town to see the doctor, and a week later there was not even a mark left where the infection was. I thanked him for helping me, but now I have a very hard time telling anyone that I am a “health” volunteer.
The work that day got interrupted by a midday thunderstorm, so we took refuge in the camp. An open air thatch structure. Everyone had brought something to eat with them, except for me. As we all sat in a circle each person shared some of their food and drink with me. So, thanks to their giving, I laid back on a bag of corn with a full belly and fell asleep to the sounds of the thunder and rain mixed with conversation in Mayan. My leg felt better after resting a bit, and I rolled up my pant leg to find a big, red swollen lump on my calf. In the center was a black spot around the cut. I was planning on going to town the day after next, so I figured id take care of it then. As time went on though, the pain grew worse. By the time we reached home I collapsed in my hammock. I cleaned it the best I could and rested the next day. I caught the bus to PG on Friday. I showed my sore, which had now spread to another cut down my leg, to some of the other volunteers. They said it looked like staph, all the diagnosis I need, so I called the nurse. PC mailed me down some meds and I proceeded to enjoy spending time with friends that I don't usually get so see.
A lot of people were in for our friends thirtieth birthday party, so the walk all the way across town to the airport to pick up my medication when It came in that night seemed like a task that would be far better to do in the morning. In my stupidity I carried on with the spirit of the night. I kept feeling worse as the night went on even though I was trying to ignore it and have a good time. By the time I went to bed that night it was three in the morning, my leg ached with pain, my head swimming with fever, and my friends were robed. Twice. Which included my phone.
In the morning I thought I was on my deathbed. I walked to get my medication right away and took a double dose, per docs orders. My temperature was 101 and my leg was swollen from knee down, red as a tomato, with nasty black spots at the center of my cuts. My buddy Dan helped me hobble to a cab so I could get to the hotel. I was a mess, and in the cab was a nice boy and his grandmother going to church.
After a few days in the hotel getting chastised by the doctor for not starting my meds right away I though I was feeling better, and my wounds were all healed. However, not a week after returning to my village however, I noticed that I had a two new spots that looked like the others had before they got to bad. This time I was on the bus into town the next morning. Started taking my medication straight away and rested plenty. My legs were not really any better, still had two large red bumps, that may have been the infection turned into boils, but I decided to go home and just come back if it got worse.
Days later when my antibiotics ran out, and the hot compresses were doing nothing I told my neighbor I would return to PG to see the doctor. “No Matchew” he said “I will give you a medicine that works wery good.” He returned to my door about an hour later with a bowl full of cut up leaves mixed with water. At least that's all I think was in it. I figured it couldn't hurt, so I soaked a cloth in the mixture and applied it liberally to the infected areas a few times that day. By the time I went to sleep that night the swelling had gone down noticeably, and kept going down as time went on. I never did go back to town to see the doctor, and a week later there was not even a mark left where the infection was. I thanked him for helping me, but now I have a very hard time telling anyone that I am a “health” volunteer.
Saturday, July 10, 2010
From Swearing in to moving in
A lot has changed over the last 2 months, and I don't know if I can get it all across on here, so I will just start writing and we will see what happens. The most notable change of coarse is that I am now officially a Peace Corps Volunteer.
I left my wonderful host family in San Martin for a new host family in the village that will be my home for the next two years. It is a remote village about 30 miles west from Punta Gorda called Santa Elena. It is nestled in the rolling, jungle covered hills of the Maya Mountains about 11 miles from the Guatemala border. The population is somewhere between 180 and 250 people. The vast majority of the people speak the Maya Mopan language that I studied in training, but there are a few families that speak another dialect of Maya known as Q'uechi. The people are strong, hard working, determined, and intelligent, even if not well educated. At first it is easy to mistake the their weathered faces as a sign of hostile feelings toward an outsider, but nothing could be further from the truth. It is just the centuries that they show in their eyes, and the long days in the field that narrows their brows. All the people that I have meet are warm, welcoming, jovial individuals that are shy at first, but as they become comfortable they love to share their story and joke around. Most of the men farm on plots of land near the village. The land is reservation land so each village has its section for each family to select its plot from for the year. The jungle is slashed and burned to clear the land. Then crops are planted by hand using a long stick with a pointed end to make a hole in the soil for the seeds. Corn, rise, beans, and punkin are most common, but some people also plant coffee, sugar cane, cacao, mahogany trees, and ceder trees. It all depends on a families resource level whether they plant only the essential crops (corn and rice), or if they can make the investment in more complicated and time consuming crops (cacao and timber). A few of them men work as both skilled and unskilled laborers at resorts in the tourist hotspot of Placencia which is only a 2ish hour bus ride away. The women stay home and tend to the cooking, cleaning, child rearing, and other typical gender typical activities you would expect from a physical labor based cultural dynamic.
There is no electricity, running water, or paved roads in the village. Most all of the houses in the village are thatched roofed with wood sided, and nearly everything used in construction is gathered from the surrounding forest. I helped erect and thatch a house the other day, and it is a fascinating thing to be apart of, and it made me miss dearly all my friends at Lowernine.org. There is a primary school that has about 60 students. It is divided into lower, middle and upper divisions, so each of the three teachers is teaching multiple grade levels simultaneously. The principal is a wonder sweet women who I'm sure I will work with a lot in my next two years here. All of the teachers commute in from other places. The library was established a few years ago with the help of a Japanese volunteer, and it has a surprisingly wide collection, and ever more surprising following. Kids are always going to trade in their books, and often come read on the floor of my house so they can ask me what big words mean.
My host family now was really great, but because I was living the the villages previous chairmen, who lived set back from the village, there was a lag in my felling like I was apart of the village. The family was wonderful though, and I had a great time getting to know them by going to the farm, or cultural dances, or just playing with my little host brother and sister. The weight of what was going on stuck me the first night I stayed with them as we were sitting in the dark room only lit by an oil lam that cast dull yellow light across everyone faces. My host dad told me that I should not be worried because I was home now, and that I should do as I pleased. He told me about the history of the village and said that he was very happy that I had come. He said that he had heard of Peace Corps in other villages and that because I was the first one in Santa Elena it was a historical moment that he was happy to be apart of. In the dark he told me that even though we had only met a few hours before he could tell that I was “the correct man for the village” and that he was sure I would help the village get the things it needed.
I returned to Belmopan for swearing in for a great week of“Bridge to Service” and got a chance to see all the trainees again. For the trainee talent show a few of us created a completely ridiculous interpretive dance set to “Circle of Life” form the movie “The Lion King.” I never thought I would be apart of a choreographed dance number, but we all thought the talent show was mandatory so we had to do something, and it was pretty damn good if I do say so myself. As the week went on more and more volunteers showed up for the big swearing in day. They ceremony was nice, even though it did rain a little bit. It was strange to see everyone dressed in nice cloths, and I was really happy that I packed at least one good outfit (thanks mom). When they called my name to receive my certificate I thought about when I was in a van, driving across the African night, Tabitha asleep on my shoulder as I looked at all the stars spread out across the seemingly endless sky. It was that moment when I decided that I'd apply to Peace Corps when I got home. In the few seconds it took me to walk to the front all the changes of the last year and a half flashed in my consciousness. I still don't know where I'm going, but I know I don't want to be anywhere else. It was all followed up by an amazing dinner and reception at the Ambassadors house. I got a chance to speak with him awhile and he is a great, down to earth guy that had a lot of fun with all of us that night.
After a lot of time in my host families hammock reading, a painfully annoying practice consolidation to Belmopan, and a rained out lobersterfest beach weekend I finally moved out on my own on the first of July. I am living in the teachers house, which is next to the school up on a hill. It is a zinc roof, with tongue in grove wood sides and floor. Its very basic but everything I need, including lots of windows that let in a wonderful mountain breeze. I have a rain water collection tank that is fed by a gutter off the roof, and there is a pipe going right into my house, so its as if I have running water (at least during the wet season). I have a table top stove, fueled by a gas tank to cook my meals. My cooking is still very much in the experimental phases, but im sure ill get the rhythm soon enough, and to be honest I eat with other families most meals anyway. Im right in the middle of the village now so It feels much more like im apart of the goings on, and people stop by and visit now so its starting to feel like real life. I now bath in the Rio Blanco river that is just behind my neighbors house. Its a beautiful, wide river and I can't think of anywhere that would be better to get clean. Who wants to be trapped inside a box of a shower anyway? It is indescribable how much better it is to just dive and soap up after a hot day. Whenever I go to bath the neighbor kids always come running after, stripping down to their underwear to come join, even the father comes sometimes for a nice chat while we are soaping up. The women are usually doing the laundry or dishes at the bank, so seems more like a day at the beach then bath time. There is a place where you can jump off the bank and fall about 10 feet before you hit the water, a big tree that has vines hanging down that you can swing off of, and a really strong current in the middle that makes a game of head tag pretty fun. To make it even better, the jungle is dense around you in every direction, I don't think there is a better place to bath anywhere in the world. You can have all the fancy hot water showers, just give me the river and a bar of soap. Here it is much more common for the children to say “Ko osh bashiel Ha” or “lets go play in the water” than “ko osh itch kill” or “lets go bath” when referring to bath time, and I feel right at home.
About a twenty minute walk from my house is the Rio Blanco National Park. It is a nature preserve the has nature trails, a cable foot bridge over the river and a massive waterfall with a twenty foot jumping cliff on the very same river that I bath in. Working with the park is one of the possible secondary projects, but what my role with it will actually be is still a mystery. There is a grant in the works right now that would get the schools of the two villages that share control of the park (Santa Cruz and Santa Elena) five computers. Then I would step in and teach basic computer literacy classes with both the school children and any interested adults. This would also make it possible that more kids went to secondary school and also the secondary school kids would have the ability to do their computer related homework.
On the work front everything is going great as well. While Peace Coprs heavily emphasizes not starting any projects for the first 3-6 months you are at your site in order to focus on building understanding and relationships, there are many good opportunities for things I will do. First and foremost would be working with the village council to lobby the Social Investment Fund for the means to instal a water system. At the moment the entire village relies on two hand pumps that occasionally get contaminated, or dry up during the dry season. Another project is to establish a heath post in the village. There is a heath worker in the village that has had the basic training of treating common illnesses, and has the power to dispense some medicines. If there was a heath post then it would be a secure place that he could keep is medicine and see sick people. Also, If there were privet rooms it would give the mobile clinics a place to privately interview the pregnant women when the come. One idea is that maybe we can convert one of the two empty churches in the community into a heath post for a fraction of the cost and labor of building a new building, and it would be easy to modify a building to meet the few needs presented by the village council. Then there is working with the school when classes start up again in the fall. Giving preventive health presentations on common diseases and whatever HIV awareness the Roman Catholic school will allow. I will also be working with the school garden to promote healthy eating and income generation through home gardens with an emphasis on composting organic waste. If the computers come like planned, I will teach computer classes. I also had the idea to implement a reading program with the local library for the school kids, and maybe setting up some sort of program through the library so the books students need for secondary school would be more affordable. In addition to all of this, there is is the chance to start an after-school program for the kids, and possibly a summer camp. The local football team has also asked me to work with them to get uniforms and boots. So I think that I will have a fairly busy, busy fun couple years of living in the village.
So, things are going pretty well, and it was on this natural high that I went to PG town to meet some other volunteers and celebrate the 4th of July. To my surprise when I checked my email I found out that I had become an uncle three times over while I ate breakfast that morning. My oldest brother, Neil, and his wife, Heather, had triplets on the 4th of July. For the first time since I have come to Peace Corps I wished that I could have gone home for just 24 hours to drink a beer with my brothers, one of whom is now a father, and my dad, who is now the worlds coolest grandfather. I was in London for his wedding and Belize for the birth of my nieces and nephew, a pattern that I have a feeling, I'm sorry to say, is going to continue throughout my life. But as I work here in this small village, and as I play with the children in the river, I will keep these newest members of my family in my mind, awaiting the day, years from now, when I will meet them for the first time. Congratulations Neil and Heather.
I left my wonderful host family in San Martin for a new host family in the village that will be my home for the next two years. It is a remote village about 30 miles west from Punta Gorda called Santa Elena. It is nestled in the rolling, jungle covered hills of the Maya Mountains about 11 miles from the Guatemala border. The population is somewhere between 180 and 250 people. The vast majority of the people speak the Maya Mopan language that I studied in training, but there are a few families that speak another dialect of Maya known as Q'uechi. The people are strong, hard working, determined, and intelligent, even if not well educated. At first it is easy to mistake the their weathered faces as a sign of hostile feelings toward an outsider, but nothing could be further from the truth. It is just the centuries that they show in their eyes, and the long days in the field that narrows their brows. All the people that I have meet are warm, welcoming, jovial individuals that are shy at first, but as they become comfortable they love to share their story and joke around. Most of the men farm on plots of land near the village. The land is reservation land so each village has its section for each family to select its plot from for the year. The jungle is slashed and burned to clear the land. Then crops are planted by hand using a long stick with a pointed end to make a hole in the soil for the seeds. Corn, rise, beans, and punkin are most common, but some people also plant coffee, sugar cane, cacao, mahogany trees, and ceder trees. It all depends on a families resource level whether they plant only the essential crops (corn and rice), or if they can make the investment in more complicated and time consuming crops (cacao and timber). A few of them men work as both skilled and unskilled laborers at resorts in the tourist hotspot of Placencia which is only a 2ish hour bus ride away. The women stay home and tend to the cooking, cleaning, child rearing, and other typical gender typical activities you would expect from a physical labor based cultural dynamic.
There is no electricity, running water, or paved roads in the village. Most all of the houses in the village are thatched roofed with wood sided, and nearly everything used in construction is gathered from the surrounding forest. I helped erect and thatch a house the other day, and it is a fascinating thing to be apart of, and it made me miss dearly all my friends at Lowernine.org. There is a primary school that has about 60 students. It is divided into lower, middle and upper divisions, so each of the three teachers is teaching multiple grade levels simultaneously. The principal is a wonder sweet women who I'm sure I will work with a lot in my next two years here. All of the teachers commute in from other places. The library was established a few years ago with the help of a Japanese volunteer, and it has a surprisingly wide collection, and ever more surprising following. Kids are always going to trade in their books, and often come read on the floor of my house so they can ask me what big words mean.
My host family now was really great, but because I was living the the villages previous chairmen, who lived set back from the village, there was a lag in my felling like I was apart of the village. The family was wonderful though, and I had a great time getting to know them by going to the farm, or cultural dances, or just playing with my little host brother and sister. The weight of what was going on stuck me the first night I stayed with them as we were sitting in the dark room only lit by an oil lam that cast dull yellow light across everyone faces. My host dad told me that I should not be worried because I was home now, and that I should do as I pleased. He told me about the history of the village and said that he was very happy that I had come. He said that he had heard of Peace Corps in other villages and that because I was the first one in Santa Elena it was a historical moment that he was happy to be apart of. In the dark he told me that even though we had only met a few hours before he could tell that I was “the correct man for the village” and that he was sure I would help the village get the things it needed.
I returned to Belmopan for swearing in for a great week of“Bridge to Service” and got a chance to see all the trainees again. For the trainee talent show a few of us created a completely ridiculous interpretive dance set to “Circle of Life” form the movie “The Lion King.” I never thought I would be apart of a choreographed dance number, but we all thought the talent show was mandatory so we had to do something, and it was pretty damn good if I do say so myself. As the week went on more and more volunteers showed up for the big swearing in day. They ceremony was nice, even though it did rain a little bit. It was strange to see everyone dressed in nice cloths, and I was really happy that I packed at least one good outfit (thanks mom). When they called my name to receive my certificate I thought about when I was in a van, driving across the African night, Tabitha asleep on my shoulder as I looked at all the stars spread out across the seemingly endless sky. It was that moment when I decided that I'd apply to Peace Corps when I got home. In the few seconds it took me to walk to the front all the changes of the last year and a half flashed in my consciousness. I still don't know where I'm going, but I know I don't want to be anywhere else. It was all followed up by an amazing dinner and reception at the Ambassadors house. I got a chance to speak with him awhile and he is a great, down to earth guy that had a lot of fun with all of us that night.
After a lot of time in my host families hammock reading, a painfully annoying practice consolidation to Belmopan, and a rained out lobersterfest beach weekend I finally moved out on my own on the first of July. I am living in the teachers house, which is next to the school up on a hill. It is a zinc roof, with tongue in grove wood sides and floor. Its very basic but everything I need, including lots of windows that let in a wonderful mountain breeze. I have a rain water collection tank that is fed by a gutter off the roof, and there is a pipe going right into my house, so its as if I have running water (at least during the wet season). I have a table top stove, fueled by a gas tank to cook my meals. My cooking is still very much in the experimental phases, but im sure ill get the rhythm soon enough, and to be honest I eat with other families most meals anyway. Im right in the middle of the village now so It feels much more like im apart of the goings on, and people stop by and visit now so its starting to feel like real life. I now bath in the Rio Blanco river that is just behind my neighbors house. Its a beautiful, wide river and I can't think of anywhere that would be better to get clean. Who wants to be trapped inside a box of a shower anyway? It is indescribable how much better it is to just dive and soap up after a hot day. Whenever I go to bath the neighbor kids always come running after, stripping down to their underwear to come join, even the father comes sometimes for a nice chat while we are soaping up. The women are usually doing the laundry or dishes at the bank, so seems more like a day at the beach then bath time. There is a place where you can jump off the bank and fall about 10 feet before you hit the water, a big tree that has vines hanging down that you can swing off of, and a really strong current in the middle that makes a game of head tag pretty fun. To make it even better, the jungle is dense around you in every direction, I don't think there is a better place to bath anywhere in the world. You can have all the fancy hot water showers, just give me the river and a bar of soap. Here it is much more common for the children to say “Ko osh bashiel Ha” or “lets go play in the water” than “ko osh itch kill” or “lets go bath” when referring to bath time, and I feel right at home.
About a twenty minute walk from my house is the Rio Blanco National Park. It is a nature preserve the has nature trails, a cable foot bridge over the river and a massive waterfall with a twenty foot jumping cliff on the very same river that I bath in. Working with the park is one of the possible secondary projects, but what my role with it will actually be is still a mystery. There is a grant in the works right now that would get the schools of the two villages that share control of the park (Santa Cruz and Santa Elena) five computers. Then I would step in and teach basic computer literacy classes with both the school children and any interested adults. This would also make it possible that more kids went to secondary school and also the secondary school kids would have the ability to do their computer related homework.
On the work front everything is going great as well. While Peace Coprs heavily emphasizes not starting any projects for the first 3-6 months you are at your site in order to focus on building understanding and relationships, there are many good opportunities for things I will do. First and foremost would be working with the village council to lobby the Social Investment Fund for the means to instal a water system. At the moment the entire village relies on two hand pumps that occasionally get contaminated, or dry up during the dry season. Another project is to establish a heath post in the village. There is a heath worker in the village that has had the basic training of treating common illnesses, and has the power to dispense some medicines. If there was a heath post then it would be a secure place that he could keep is medicine and see sick people. Also, If there were privet rooms it would give the mobile clinics a place to privately interview the pregnant women when the come. One idea is that maybe we can convert one of the two empty churches in the community into a heath post for a fraction of the cost and labor of building a new building, and it would be easy to modify a building to meet the few needs presented by the village council. Then there is working with the school when classes start up again in the fall. Giving preventive health presentations on common diseases and whatever HIV awareness the Roman Catholic school will allow. I will also be working with the school garden to promote healthy eating and income generation through home gardens with an emphasis on composting organic waste. If the computers come like planned, I will teach computer classes. I also had the idea to implement a reading program with the local library for the school kids, and maybe setting up some sort of program through the library so the books students need for secondary school would be more affordable. In addition to all of this, there is is the chance to start an after-school program for the kids, and possibly a summer camp. The local football team has also asked me to work with them to get uniforms and boots. So I think that I will have a fairly busy, busy fun couple years of living in the village.
So, things are going pretty well, and it was on this natural high that I went to PG town to meet some other volunteers and celebrate the 4th of July. To my surprise when I checked my email I found out that I had become an uncle three times over while I ate breakfast that morning. My oldest brother, Neil, and his wife, Heather, had triplets on the 4th of July. For the first time since I have come to Peace Corps I wished that I could have gone home for just 24 hours to drink a beer with my brothers, one of whom is now a father, and my dad, who is now the worlds coolest grandfather. I was in London for his wedding and Belize for the birth of my nieces and nephew, a pattern that I have a feeling, I'm sorry to say, is going to continue throughout my life. But as I work here in this small village, and as I play with the children in the river, I will keep these newest members of my family in my mind, awaiting the day, years from now, when I will meet them for the first time. Congratulations Neil and Heather.
Thursday, April 29, 2010
Training Day's
As the heat grows more intense with the ever-present anticipation of the coming summer, we sit day after day in our resource center that is directly next to what we had thought was a restaurant, but in reality turned out to be a whorehouse, that plays that Black Eyed Peas song “Iv got a feeling” at least 100 times a day at full volume. We are all slowly learning Maya, but it is with much frustration that we sit all day on hard wooden chairs, our brains melting in the heat, and attempt to unravel the still mostly mysterious noises making up the ancient language of our not-so-distant future. We can however, now proudly inform each other in Mayan “Wa tak in ta” or “I have to poop” or even more literally “its coming, my poop.” The importance of this knowledge can not be underestimated in humor nor necessity.
My host family is great, and carries on the same basic conversations with me on a daily basis so that I can get more comfortable listening for the few words I recognize. This mostly revolves around eating time, an activity that can some days be more of a chore than anything. I find that I mentally pace myself through meals of pig tail like a marathoner would during a race. “you can do this, come on, just a few more bites.” There are two easy yet dependable solutions to being served any food that is questionable: ik and wah. Ik is a dried and ground red pepper mixture that gives any food a delightful balance of heat with lots of flavor. Combine this with wrapping the burnt pig fat in wah (corn tortillas that are used in place of silverware) and you can power through anything that is set in front of you with a smile. Most days however it is just delightful beans and tortillas for each meals,which I got sick of for about a week, but now crave if I go a day without.
Since classes started I don't have nearly as much time to just sit and slowly discuss the day going by with my host family. It seems like I am always just saying hello before going to class, study, PC office, or bed. However, the other night was my host dad's birthday, so we all sat around, and had fun. It was a great night. Andres (my host dad) told us about how beautiful his long ago childhood home of El Salvador is. How he was once a great football player, but got his ankle injured (Achilles tendon most likely) during a game, and now is a tailor that has trouble walking some days. Pablo (my host grand-dad) told us about his days as a child living in the jungle of rural Toledo. About his life growing up, and the differences between the elder generation and his own. He was once a talented electrician that worked with the British Army, and held a certificate from London. I came to find out that he did the wiring for the church in one of the possible sites I will end up at and he swears that if I ask, people will know him by name. Then he told us about how when he was a young man he would go into PG town with his friend, drink for a week straight, until his skin turned green as he says, and then return to his women in San Antonio. We doubled over in laughter as he talked about all the strip bars he would go to, with all the detail and enthusiasm one would expect form a reading of Shakespeare. Then they asked me about America, and if it was true that rich people would give their brand new car to a bum if they disliked a single detail about it. I told them about America. About how it was not the promise land they had always heard, that the streets were not paved in gold, and that rich people did not give their cars to bums. How so many worked so hard for so little, and how so few had more than they would ever need. I said how amazing it was that just like in Belize, there is a greatly diverse people that make up one country and that there is not one color, creed, or idea that represents all the people. I told them about my family, and what it was like growing up in Indiana. Even all about my life on the road, all the far out characters I had meet along the way, and how beautiful all the different parts of America are, and how everything is so different, yet so the same.
That night was cool, and I was woken up by a horrible pain in my left eye. I sat up and in my comatose confusion and realized that I had forgotten to take my contacts out before going to sleep. I took them out immediately, but when I came to in the morning, my eye was nearly swollen shut. I have slept in my contacts many times, so I am convinced that a bug of some sort, got into my eye during the night somehow, but I have no idea what happen. I went through half the day constantly pouring tears out of my red, swollen eye (much to the confusion of my host family who are completely unable to comprehend the idea of tiny glasses that you put directly on your eyes). At lunch I went to see the nurse, who gave me a Zyrtec pill for allergies. Now, I love our nurse and I in no way mean to undermine her medical expertise, but even my dumb ass knows that allergies don't hit you like a bullet in the middle of the night in one eye without any history of them. The next day though she had an appointment for me with the eye doctor in Belize City. So with my one good eye got on a bus to Belize City, arrived without incident, hobbled my way to a taxi, and then meet the most laid back doctor in the world. After about 10 minutes of examination he rummaged around on his cluttered desk and handed me some drops with a Spanish label and Said:
Dr. “ uh, yeah, here ya go, this should work. Use it a few times a day.”
Me. “Okay, so one drop three times a day until gone?”
Dr. “uhhh yeah, you know, a couple drops every couple hours.”
Me “so 2 drops every 2 hours?”
Dr. “sure that should work”
Me “so whats wrong with my eye”
Dr. “I don't know, It doesn't look like an scratch, Probably a inflamed iris”
Me “oh, okay, so these drops are anti-inflammatory?”
Dr. “Yeah, Oh and if it gets worse you need to call me right away, some people have a really bad reaction to that stuff.”
Me “Alright well it's already feeling better, thanks Doctor”
When I got pack to the Nurse she took the Spanish mystery drops away from me and gave me some sort of PC certified drops. Either way, my eye is better and he was probably the coolest doctor I had ever meet.
I returned to The City the next two days, first for meetings with the whole HC group followed by an afternoon by the pool at “Crock-land” which as far as I know, may or may not contain any crocodiles at all. Then on Friday for the rest of the weekend as part of the PCV visit. If you have ever been to mid city New Orleans, add open sewers, crabs that live in the sewers and a higher murder frequency and you get Belize City. It was a pretty chill couple days. There wasn't to much to do in the city, but we did go to a great restaurant before we caught a water taxi out to Caye Caucker on Sunday, and spent all day waist deep in the most crystal blue water you can imagine. It was the greatest re-energizer anyone could ever as for. I know I wont be spending much time floating carelessly in paradise over the next two years, but as I gazed out into the endless horizon all I could think was “there has to be worse places to be a volunteer.”
I returned home to the find that my host grand-dad Pablo had made the trek back to his home in the next village, complaining of the lack of breeze and constant noise from the children. I can't blame him. The last few days have been the hottest we have felt since arriving in county. My host grandma tells me its been in the high 90's that feels like 109 with humidity. There is no escaping the sweat, that covers my body from head to toe all day and night. A good bucket bath keeps me clean for about as long as it takes to walk the fifteen feet back to my room. The last few nights have been sleepless ones for most of the people in my family, including myself. This seems to make everything move at a wonderfully slow pace as the days pass by in a dreamlike daze. It's too hot to be in a rush, and your brain cant move fast enough to hold complicated thoughts or care about most anything, so you take your time doing anything.
One month had already passed by, and 26 more at least remain. I will be leaving my host family in 2 weeks to go to Toledo, and as much enjoy them I can't help but look forward to the mystical place down south that I have heard so much about. My feet have began to itch, and I sometimes miss my free days of living out of my rucksack with no home or plan in front of me. The days before the Peace Corps told me where to be and when, however once training ends, so does my set schedule. Then I no longer have to spend long days sitting in a classroom, and can start to really learn.
My host family is great, and carries on the same basic conversations with me on a daily basis so that I can get more comfortable listening for the few words I recognize. This mostly revolves around eating time, an activity that can some days be more of a chore than anything. I find that I mentally pace myself through meals of pig tail like a marathoner would during a race. “you can do this, come on, just a few more bites.” There are two easy yet dependable solutions to being served any food that is questionable: ik and wah. Ik is a dried and ground red pepper mixture that gives any food a delightful balance of heat with lots of flavor. Combine this with wrapping the burnt pig fat in wah (corn tortillas that are used in place of silverware) and you can power through anything that is set in front of you with a smile. Most days however it is just delightful beans and tortillas for each meals,which I got sick of for about a week, but now crave if I go a day without.
Since classes started I don't have nearly as much time to just sit and slowly discuss the day going by with my host family. It seems like I am always just saying hello before going to class, study, PC office, or bed. However, the other night was my host dad's birthday, so we all sat around, and had fun. It was a great night. Andres (my host dad) told us about how beautiful his long ago childhood home of El Salvador is. How he was once a great football player, but got his ankle injured (Achilles tendon most likely) during a game, and now is a tailor that has trouble walking some days. Pablo (my host grand-dad) told us about his days as a child living in the jungle of rural Toledo. About his life growing up, and the differences between the elder generation and his own. He was once a talented electrician that worked with the British Army, and held a certificate from London. I came to find out that he did the wiring for the church in one of the possible sites I will end up at and he swears that if I ask, people will know him by name. Then he told us about how when he was a young man he would go into PG town with his friend, drink for a week straight, until his skin turned green as he says, and then return to his women in San Antonio. We doubled over in laughter as he talked about all the strip bars he would go to, with all the detail and enthusiasm one would expect form a reading of Shakespeare. Then they asked me about America, and if it was true that rich people would give their brand new car to a bum if they disliked a single detail about it. I told them about America. About how it was not the promise land they had always heard, that the streets were not paved in gold, and that rich people did not give their cars to bums. How so many worked so hard for so little, and how so few had more than they would ever need. I said how amazing it was that just like in Belize, there is a greatly diverse people that make up one country and that there is not one color, creed, or idea that represents all the people. I told them about my family, and what it was like growing up in Indiana. Even all about my life on the road, all the far out characters I had meet along the way, and how beautiful all the different parts of America are, and how everything is so different, yet so the same.
That night was cool, and I was woken up by a horrible pain in my left eye. I sat up and in my comatose confusion and realized that I had forgotten to take my contacts out before going to sleep. I took them out immediately, but when I came to in the morning, my eye was nearly swollen shut. I have slept in my contacts many times, so I am convinced that a bug of some sort, got into my eye during the night somehow, but I have no idea what happen. I went through half the day constantly pouring tears out of my red, swollen eye (much to the confusion of my host family who are completely unable to comprehend the idea of tiny glasses that you put directly on your eyes). At lunch I went to see the nurse, who gave me a Zyrtec pill for allergies. Now, I love our nurse and I in no way mean to undermine her medical expertise, but even my dumb ass knows that allergies don't hit you like a bullet in the middle of the night in one eye without any history of them. The next day though she had an appointment for me with the eye doctor in Belize City. So with my one good eye got on a bus to Belize City, arrived without incident, hobbled my way to a taxi, and then meet the most laid back doctor in the world. After about 10 minutes of examination he rummaged around on his cluttered desk and handed me some drops with a Spanish label and Said:
Dr. “ uh, yeah, here ya go, this should work. Use it a few times a day.”
Me. “Okay, so one drop three times a day until gone?”
Dr. “uhhh yeah, you know, a couple drops every couple hours.”
Me “so 2 drops every 2 hours?”
Dr. “sure that should work”
Me “so whats wrong with my eye”
Dr. “I don't know, It doesn't look like an scratch, Probably a inflamed iris”
Me “oh, okay, so these drops are anti-inflammatory?”
Dr. “Yeah, Oh and if it gets worse you need to call me right away, some people have a really bad reaction to that stuff.”
Me “Alright well it's already feeling better, thanks Doctor”
When I got pack to the Nurse she took the Spanish mystery drops away from me and gave me some sort of PC certified drops. Either way, my eye is better and he was probably the coolest doctor I had ever meet.
I returned to The City the next two days, first for meetings with the whole HC group followed by an afternoon by the pool at “Crock-land” which as far as I know, may or may not contain any crocodiles at all. Then on Friday for the rest of the weekend as part of the PCV visit. If you have ever been to mid city New Orleans, add open sewers, crabs that live in the sewers and a higher murder frequency and you get Belize City. It was a pretty chill couple days. There wasn't to much to do in the city, but we did go to a great restaurant before we caught a water taxi out to Caye Caucker on Sunday, and spent all day waist deep in the most crystal blue water you can imagine. It was the greatest re-energizer anyone could ever as for. I know I wont be spending much time floating carelessly in paradise over the next two years, but as I gazed out into the endless horizon all I could think was “there has to be worse places to be a volunteer.”
I returned home to the find that my host grand-dad Pablo had made the trek back to his home in the next village, complaining of the lack of breeze and constant noise from the children. I can't blame him. The last few days have been the hottest we have felt since arriving in county. My host grandma tells me its been in the high 90's that feels like 109 with humidity. There is no escaping the sweat, that covers my body from head to toe all day and night. A good bucket bath keeps me clean for about as long as it takes to walk the fifteen feet back to my room. The last few nights have been sleepless ones for most of the people in my family, including myself. This seems to make everything move at a wonderfully slow pace as the days pass by in a dreamlike daze. It's too hot to be in a rush, and your brain cant move fast enough to hold complicated thoughts or care about most anything, so you take your time doing anything.
One month had already passed by, and 26 more at least remain. I will be leaving my host family in 2 weeks to go to Toledo, and as much enjoy them I can't help but look forward to the mystical place down south that I have heard so much about. My feet have began to itch, and I sometimes miss my free days of living out of my rucksack with no home or plan in front of me. The days before the Peace Corps told me where to be and when, however once training ends, so does my set schedule. Then I no longer have to spend long days sitting in a classroom, and can start to really learn.
Monday, April 5, 2010
Easter Weekend
After a whirlwind 24 hours in Texas, followed by a week of sessions in Belmopan on everything from diarrhea to development, I finally arrive at my home for the next 5 1/12 weeks. I was one of three PCTs assigned to learn Maya Mopan, one of the dialects of the Maya Indians, which is primary spoken in villages around the Toledo District, the southernmost district of Belize. I have heard that is a hard language to learn, as it does not share many similarities to English in pronunciation or grammar, but what the hell, it means Ill be going to rural Toledo, and it will be cool to learn a language that only about 20,000 people in the whole world speak.
As far as host families go, I think I hit the jackpot. I am in a small village not far from Belmopan, but worlds apart. My host mom is very funny and welcoming, always telling me to feel at home. My host dad is from El Salvador and therefore wants to teach me Spanish. They are married by common law and have one seven year old boy and a 14 year old girl who are both shy but wonderful. My host grandfather is a wise old man that walks with a cane and spends the entirety of his days laying in his hammock, taking every opportunity to speak with me in Mayan. I sit at night with my notebook on a stool next to him, scribbling as fast as I can to write all of the words he tells me. Repeating them back to him until he he finally says "Aha!" in a satisfied voice, and then I know that I have pronounced the word correctly. My host great grandmother also lives here. She is a great shy old women, who is constantly working on preparing food or doing launddry all day until she falls asleep on the couch at night. She was embarrassed beyond belief when the silly gringo (me) was hanging her dresses on the line to dry after the wash. My host grandmother is a strong Mayan women who is as good at making perfectly round tortillas as she is at effortlessly breaking a chickens neck for caldo. She is always teaching me about the old ways of the Mayans, what they ate when there was no meat, how to wrap a fish in a certain leaf and then how long to but it in the fire and ect. My favorite time of the day may be sitting with the old women at the fire heart (Mayan stove) and stumbling through my words as they correct all my attempts to name the things I see around me. My 14 year old host uncle is a smart, polite young man that takes me on walking tours of the village and informs me of where to avoid the drunks and gangsters in town.
Children are always coming and going, and even they enjoy asking me what I am doing or what my name is in Mayan so they can giggle and correct my broken speech, but they obey instantly when one of the women lets lose with a deep growl of words that I hope I never understand. There is no questioning who is in charge in this house. Life is constantly moving, but in a wonderful relaxed manner. Everyone is so warm and kind, after just a few days a feel right at home. They make me promise that after I move down south I will come see them whenever I make it to Belmopan, as if I could ever pass up a free meal so close to town.
Seemingly advanced for some of the houses in the area, we enjoy electricity, running water (meaning a pipe in the yard that you don't have to pump) and even wireless internet, that we get from the University of Belize, that is directly behind the house. Even the latrine is much better than I was expecting, although I have to hunch over and turn sideways to get through the door because I seem to be about 2 feet taller than most Mayans. I have a nice room that locks, because as my host mom is always telling me "you can not trust anyone out there!"
This weekend was the Easter Holiday, so my first weekend here we all just hung out, cooked, ate, and talked. When I get tired I lay in the hammock in the open air side room and recite the few words I know in my head until I fall asleep. To be awaken by either the sounds of children playing or being called for a meal. It has been a great way to start training.
Today, our language professor was kind enough to take out for a relaxing day of swimming in then sun. Mallory, Dan and I all piled in the back of his truck and headed southwest along the stunningly beautiful Hummingbird highway. None of us were sure where we were going, but the sun was shining and the dense, jungle covered hills wrapped around us, soaking us in its moist heat, so no questions where asked. As we speed along the winding road I was in awe of how perfect life can be at times, and how lucky I am to be doing what I am, when there is so much pain in the world. It was a moment when everything makes sense, and is at peace. Just like in Ghana, and New Orleans, my mind is at peace, and I am more than ready to get to work.
This gave way to our arrival at the river. A large river with a high bridge passing over it. There were people doing laundry, bathing, and playing in the cool water all around. We were surrounded by high hills and lush green jungle. We swam up stream and rested at a shallow point where a stream met the larger river, watching people lives go on in front of us. Taking in the this snapshot of life in Belize
On the way back home we stopped at Blue Hole National Park. A small limestone sinkhole in the middle of the bush. We rested and snaked on the wah that my host grandmother prepared for me. She wrapped them in a large leaf, saying that this is how the Mayan would transport food for lunch long ago when out in the fields all day, and that now that I am Mayan this is what I will do. We then swam in the pristine still waters of the Blue Hole, which gives off an eerie blue glow at the spot that sinks down so deep that I could not dive to the bottom. I floated on my back and gazed up at the sun peaking through the think canopy and felt the stillness and oneness of the world. A painful sunburn on my face and neck are my souvenirs of the day, but it was well worth it.
Classes Start early tomorrow morning, and then it will a long, hard haul of language and technical training until swearing in at the end of May. All of the things on the schedule seem really interesting though, and I am anxious to begin, and to be one step closer being a PCV.
As far as host families go, I think I hit the jackpot. I am in a small village not far from Belmopan, but worlds apart. My host mom is very funny and welcoming, always telling me to feel at home. My host dad is from El Salvador and therefore wants to teach me Spanish. They are married by common law and have one seven year old boy and a 14 year old girl who are both shy but wonderful. My host grandfather is a wise old man that walks with a cane and spends the entirety of his days laying in his hammock, taking every opportunity to speak with me in Mayan. I sit at night with my notebook on a stool next to him, scribbling as fast as I can to write all of the words he tells me. Repeating them back to him until he he finally says "Aha!" in a satisfied voice, and then I know that I have pronounced the word correctly. My host great grandmother also lives here. She is a great shy old women, who is constantly working on preparing food or doing launddry all day until she falls asleep on the couch at night. She was embarrassed beyond belief when the silly gringo (me) was hanging her dresses on the line to dry after the wash. My host grandmother is a strong Mayan women who is as good at making perfectly round tortillas as she is at effortlessly breaking a chickens neck for caldo. She is always teaching me about the old ways of the Mayans, what they ate when there was no meat, how to wrap a fish in a certain leaf and then how long to but it in the fire and ect. My favorite time of the day may be sitting with the old women at the fire heart (Mayan stove) and stumbling through my words as they correct all my attempts to name the things I see around me. My 14 year old host uncle is a smart, polite young man that takes me on walking tours of the village and informs me of where to avoid the drunks and gangsters in town.
Children are always coming and going, and even they enjoy asking me what I am doing or what my name is in Mayan so they can giggle and correct my broken speech, but they obey instantly when one of the women lets lose with a deep growl of words that I hope I never understand. There is no questioning who is in charge in this house. Life is constantly moving, but in a wonderful relaxed manner. Everyone is so warm and kind, after just a few days a feel right at home. They make me promise that after I move down south I will come see them whenever I make it to Belmopan, as if I could ever pass up a free meal so close to town.
Seemingly advanced for some of the houses in the area, we enjoy electricity, running water (meaning a pipe in the yard that you don't have to pump) and even wireless internet, that we get from the University of Belize, that is directly behind the house. Even the latrine is much better than I was expecting, although I have to hunch over and turn sideways to get through the door because I seem to be about 2 feet taller than most Mayans. I have a nice room that locks, because as my host mom is always telling me "you can not trust anyone out there!"
This weekend was the Easter Holiday, so my first weekend here we all just hung out, cooked, ate, and talked. When I get tired I lay in the hammock in the open air side room and recite the few words I know in my head until I fall asleep. To be awaken by either the sounds of children playing or being called for a meal. It has been a great way to start training.
Today, our language professor was kind enough to take out for a relaxing day of swimming in then sun. Mallory, Dan and I all piled in the back of his truck and headed southwest along the stunningly beautiful Hummingbird highway. None of us were sure where we were going, but the sun was shining and the dense, jungle covered hills wrapped around us, soaking us in its moist heat, so no questions where asked. As we speed along the winding road I was in awe of how perfect life can be at times, and how lucky I am to be doing what I am, when there is so much pain in the world. It was a moment when everything makes sense, and is at peace. Just like in Ghana, and New Orleans, my mind is at peace, and I am more than ready to get to work.
This gave way to our arrival at the river. A large river with a high bridge passing over it. There were people doing laundry, bathing, and playing in the cool water all around. We were surrounded by high hills and lush green jungle. We swam up stream and rested at a shallow point where a stream met the larger river, watching people lives go on in front of us. Taking in the this snapshot of life in Belize
On the way back home we stopped at Blue Hole National Park. A small limestone sinkhole in the middle of the bush. We rested and snaked on the wah that my host grandmother prepared for me. She wrapped them in a large leaf, saying that this is how the Mayan would transport food for lunch long ago when out in the fields all day, and that now that I am Mayan this is what I will do. We then swam in the pristine still waters of the Blue Hole, which gives off an eerie blue glow at the spot that sinks down so deep that I could not dive to the bottom. I floated on my back and gazed up at the sun peaking through the think canopy and felt the stillness and oneness of the world. A painful sunburn on my face and neck are my souvenirs of the day, but it was well worth it.
Classes Start early tomorrow morning, and then it will a long, hard haul of language and technical training until swearing in at the end of May. All of the things on the schedule seem really interesting though, and I am anxious to begin, and to be one step closer being a PCV.
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