For the last fourteen years Belize has been home to a monster of a canoe race called “La Ruta Maya.” I have heard that it is the 5th longest canoe race in the world. Or was it the 5th hardest? Both or neither may actually be true, but it is a four day, 170 mile trek that spans the entire width of the country. From San Ignacio in the west, to downtown Belize City in the east. There are always some confused Peace Corps Volunteers that decide to put a crew together, and it took about three seconds after hearing about it for me to sign on.
I must admit that I did not know entirely what I was getting myself into. Although back in the States I did canoe and kayak quite a bit in the summers, this usually involved a case of beer, swimming breaks, and a cookout at the end of the day. I figured this experience was sufficient, and began assembling a team.
For this I did not have to look to far. My fellow Maya Mopan training friends Dan and Mallory were as excited as I was for the challenge. The only problem was that Dan and I both live in remote villages, and usually only see each other a couple times a month when our market days happen to coincide. Thankfully Mallory took charge of arranging absolutely about the race, and did a great job (In reality she is the best person for the task. I mean she has been interviewed for TV more times than Obama, single handedly runs an entire government organization, and hell someone she met half a dozen times named his granddaughter after her. I hear talk that she is even in the running for Prime Minister. This is clearly the person you want in charge of your PR). I didn't know anything about the race except that it was long. She found our canoe, paddles, life jackets, sponsor (WIN Belize) set up our trainings and arranged our support crew. It is not an exaggeration to say that we would not have made it to the race if not for her. When pressed by a skeptic about doing everything for our team she simply replied “I'm getting us to the starting line, and they [Dan and I] are getting us to the finish line” words of a champion.
Finding time to train was difficult because of our busy schedules, and while we were taking it seriously, it was very much secondary to why we are actually here. Being away from the village a lot to practice paddling just isn't possible, even though everyone in the village was pulling for us to win and have a big party. However, feeling intimidated by another Peace Corps team that was allegedly practicing multiple times a week, and receiving warnings of how hard the race would be, we did find the time to practice a bit in the weeks leading up to the race.
The race was set to begin on Friday at seven in the morning, so Thursday we were to all meet in San Ignacio (where the race would start) in the afternoon. We wanted to practice in our race canoe (which we had not even seen yet) and take care of all the last minute things before the start. This is when the curse began.
First, Dan and Mallory didn't show up with the boat until around 7:30 p.m. So there goes practice. Apparently they were waiting all afternoon on the guy with our boat. To make things worse, it turns out the BDF (Belize Defense Force) gave us a lemon. This boat was a POS. For starters it was not a racing canoe. This thing was wide and deep. Also, it has a huge dent in the front right side, which made it almost impossible to turn to the right. The front seat was even held on by thin wire on one side. I did not see it until about an hour before the race, but my first thought was the we got screwed with the bad canoe, BDF had several other, nicer, canoes in the race. Let’s call it a gringo tax.
Whatever, we can still do this. We are not quitters, let’s just get in the water. Thirty minutes until race start. “Where are the life jackets?” I can’t remember who told us they had them for us, maybe the same guy from BDF, but we got screwed again. Now it’s a mad dash to find jackets so that we can even get in the boat. Thankfully minutes before the race was to begin Florence, our wonderful sponsor from WIN Belize (Womens Issues Network) begged some from the Coast Guard team. “All you owe is your first born child” she tells me as we crawl in the boat, relieved and nervous. You can have it, now let’s do this.
The start is completely insane. We try to get a feel for our canoe on our short paddle to the starting line under the large suspension bridge, but we notice that it is not responding as easy as the one we trained in. We don't have any time to focus. There are about one hundred boats around us, and in a few minutes the starting horn is going to go off. The first team to get to the small wooden bridge about 1,000 feet downstream wins a couple thousand bucks, the horn sounds.....madness ensues.
Instantly the water goes from a gentle current to a class three rapid. We shoot forward the best we can, screaming information about the boats smashing into each other and tipping over all around us. Somehow we weave in and out of the mess of people, paddles, and overturned canoes. Boats are crashing into our sides, the banks are lined with screaming onlookers, and fog is just staring to life off the water as we plunge chaotically downstream. We crash through the low wooden bridge as we are assaulted by canoes on all sides.
People are gathered in clusters on the bank cheering the racers along. We begin to notice that people are yelling “Go Taliban!” at us, along with “Go Bembes!” which means “strong women” in kriol, and is the name of our team (as well as stenciled on the side of the boat). Apparently Dan's massive Jew-fro (which he has draped with a bandanna and secured with a sweatband) and bushy terrorist beard made him look like a Muslim extremist. I wonder if it is a sly comment of Belizeans opinion of America's war on terror that they were cheering “Go Taliban!” and not boo Taliban? Probably not. Dan just looked silly, and as if he was on Jihad. I on the other had look like a border patrolmen with my plain black hat with badanna tucked in back, dark sunglasses, and big bulky life jacket. Our boat was a utopia. A symbol of how women, terrorists and hillbillies can all work together. If only the world would listen...
An indeterminate amount of time goes by in a flash. An hour? A year? The mess of boats begins to thin out, but the morning sun is still hanging coyly just below the trees. We are attempting to learn how to control the boat and sink into a rhythm as Mallory sings our chorus. “One, two, one, two, one, two.” “Why can't Dan guide the boat? Damn this boat!” We are unable to get into the same rhythm we had in training; me in front setting pace with Mallory in middle following suite, and Dan in the back guiding us along. The boat just won’t listen. If we would have only been able to accomplish that pace in the race.
We have to make a whole new strategy. We will all have to continually be thinking about the boats direction and work to correct it together. It is big and dented, and we all have to paddle hard on the left for it to even inch right. The curse. All of a sudden I am on the floor of the canoe. The seat which was held together with wires gave way. I try to paddle on my knees for a while, but grow sore quickly and am forced to turn around in a crouch and try to twist the wire back together. I do. It holds, but it is obvious that it is only a matter of time before it snaps for good.
Moments later the unimaginable happens. As I am paddling on the left side of the boat, my paddle snaps in two in my hands. I am angry, very, very, angry, I turn around screaming that this whole thing is cursed, holding the broken paddle above my head. Dan and Mallory can only laugh at the ridiculousness of the entire morning. “one, two, one, two.” We go on, me using my half of a paddle. When we see a boat that we have chatted with some before (they commented that they have had our boat before and could not be paid to get back in it) that only have two people we ask if they have an extra paddle we can use for the day. Thankfully they do. We are off. After a switch of me and Dan (so that I am now in back and Dan is in front) we are on our way to getting in control of the massive crippled boat and the beat goes “one, two, one, two.”
The day drags on and the sun rises in the sky. We manage to stay mostly in control of the boat, but it is heavy and slow. The seat breaks on Dan. He spends the day balancing on the front part or kneeling. A tougher crew I could not have asked for. There is no one I would rather be in the canoe with me. Mallory is able to give the count after hours of paddling. I still hear it in my head. My dreams. Hear it as I see the river winding, turning endlessly into the unknown, chasing what is always disappearing just beyond. Into the mist. Boats glimmering in the distance. Keep putting the paddle in the water. Dig. Harder. “one, two, one, two.....” Go. Harder. Nothing existed before. Nothing is after. Just go. “one, two, one, two” Boat coming up behind. “Mallory stay right.” Don't let it get to you. Catch the boat just in front on you. You can get them. Don't listen to your aches. It's too early to hear. “Everybody on the left.” How can we move faster? More rhythm. Get in sync “one, two, one, two.” It's a long race, better go somewhere else, leave this body to its work. No need for the mind to stay here. Where to go? The song. “one, two, one, two.”
Hours go by. Our support crew drops us water and food as we yell to them that we need a new seat and paddle. A whole new canoe if they can manage. More time disappears as we paddle endlessly. We see signs and know that we are in Belmopan. Not far from Banana Bank where the camp is the first night. We get a second wind and dig in for the last hour of the day. Then we see it. The big sign that says “FINISH” stretched out on a rocky island. We bring out all that we have left. 49 miles on day one. We left everything we had on that river. Our support crew isn't there yet. Turns out that we are faster than the two other Peace Corps teams, and the Peace Corps team WIN sponsored last year. I flop down into the cool water and float away as Dan and Mallory make up from the day’s quarrels. Thirty minutes later the next Peace Corps team comes in as we cheer them on.
In camp that night we eat as much as we can hold and get “icy hot” massages that are out of this world. All paddlers and support crews trade stories and advice for the next day. We are in bed early for the 6:30 start the following day. 55 miles, the longest stint of the race, and the day the curse hits the hardest.
Day two. Up before dawn. Great left over pasta for breakfast (I love non breakfast foods in the morning). We are down by the river by six. No luck finding a paddle that we can use the rest of the race, but thankfully Collin, who lent us the paddle the previous day on the river, says his third person isn't showing up until day three, so we can use his again for the day. Miles is at work attempting to rig the front seat up for the day until he can get to a hardware store and properly fix it. His solution is an empty beer create and some parachute string. It is the best we can do. We will have to make it work for the day.
We are in the water by a quarter after and try to find a spot in the middle of the pack. We finished with about 16 boats behind us the day before, so we want to be behind all the canoes we know we can’t compete with so that that don't slam into us as they fly by, but in front of the people who are in boats almost as bad as ours. Mallory is fiercely competitive, and after all the work she has done to get us here, Dan and I fear castration if we don't beat as many people as we can, given the circumstances.
The sun is still hiding behind the hills, and there is a thick fog hanging over the river that lends a profound eeriness to the morning. Mixed with this strangeness is the anticipation of another intense start that will commence the longest day of the race. We try to stay in our spot, but the current is moving all the teams forward, past the starting line. We all have to back up before they will give the horn. As everyone tries to reverse against the current it becomes evident that this will be a difficult start. Paddles are knocking into each other and boats are separated by mere inches. Finally the horn blows and again the water surges madly. Everything begins just where it left off the following day. Over the shouting of directions, Mallory sings the chorus, and the curse of the Bembes wakes bitterly from a bad night’s sleep.
As soon as we leap forward we see that there is a problem. From my view in the back it is terrifying. Each time Dan paddles on the left the boat tips hard in that direction, bringing the top ridge of the canoe within an inch of the water. The crate and string are still leaning to the left, causing Dan’s weight to be constantly tilted. Not good in a boat that already pulls to the left. We make a point to keep conscious about our balance, but it is going to be a very long day.
Not twenty minutes after the start we encounter a hard turn, with fast moving water and rocky banks, to the left. As we enter the turn we try to keep our weight to the right side of the boat, but it is futile. We are in the water. As we pop up we try our best to push the canoe to shore to dump out and start again, but it was a horrible place to turn over. The shore is jagged rocks, and the current is moving fast around the narrow turn. We are able to get the boat upright again and we all craw back in, but as I push us off and jump in the back the strong current of the narrow turn pushes us to the right, causing our weight to shift slightly to the left. This is all it takes for the crate to slide, and for us to be over the left side for a second time. Worse this time. We lose our bag of food, my sunglasses, and Dan loses his bandana and sweatband. There goes the cheers of support of the Jihad. Dan has to swim hard across the current to be kept from being swept away (a mental image that after the fact still makes me laugh). Back in the canoe again after seeing all the other teams float by, but this time we are on our way again. We are dead last, but dig in hard for the next couple hours to regain our position from the previous day. One by one we pass the other boats, powering through the whole morning.
By midday we are alone. No canoes can be seen ahead as we come onto long straightaways, and no one can be seen behind as we turn off of them. The rhythm of Mallory's “one, two, one two” fades on and off into conversation. If not for the painful chaffing burn on my stomach and arms from the bulky life jacket we could just be out for a nice day of paddling in the rain-forest. Dan even throws out the idea of stopping for a little swim, but thankfully he gave a disclaimer of “I know you guys are gonna say no, but.....” so that Mallory didn't knock him out cold with her paddle.
As we come onto a long straightaway we decide to take advantage of the idle time and get our pee out of our system. As we pass around the bail one person stops to pee and the other two keep paddling (This is our system for eating and drinking as well, except that when eating you paddle while you chew). As we are finishing up with this we are at a wide right turn, so we lazily turn the boat broadside facing right to allow the easy current to push us around the bend. We see a stick in the water, but it turns out to be attached to tree and not just floating as it appeared. No big deal. We are barely moving. Mallory even reaches out her hand to push us off it. Sadly our out of balance canoe gets us again. We gently hit the obstruction, but because it strikes the bottom left side of the boat we are in the water scrambling for the third time of the day. The bank is muddy but we are back on our way in a few minutes, digging hard, and laughing that Dan got his wish of a nice afternoon dip.
Things are going steady now. Making up for some lost time and getting ever closer to ending the longest day. Seeing the day’s drop point raises our spirits. The drop goes smooth, but we had to get all the way over to the right bank. As we are screaming all the information to our crew we get caught broadside on a downed tree only a few feet downstream of the drop point. This is where we broke the curse.
We were caught broadside with the tree on the right hand side of the boat. We all throw our weight to the right to keep from going over. For a minute we are unsure of what to do. If we go straight out the fast current could dump us out just like it did when after we recovered this morning. I think maybe we should try to push our way through the web of limbs behind us and go over the whole mess out of the current. Dan tries to chop the huge fallen tree with his carbon-fiber paddle. Finally we decide to just go for it. There is a big branch hanging low over the boat that we each have to bend down for as we go out, preventing us from entering the current with any power. We take turns lying down in the canoe as we sneak forward. We do it. This time we conquer the curse of the Bembes, and it dies for good. A boat shot by us while we were stuck on the tree and we dig hard for the next hour to overtake it.
A little while later we hit the rapids we were warned about the night before. We maneuver through them perfectly and use the white water to gain speed. Proof that the curse is gone. The finish line appears a couple hours later after a curve and it looks even sweeter than the day before. We burst across the line relieved to see our friends ashore. Miles gets to work on properly fixing the seat as the next Peace Corps team comes in, just five minutes behind us.
More great food and massages help us unwind from the day. Our worst day is behind us, and tomorrows 40 miles seem doable now that 104 lay conquered to the southwest. Our crew managed to borrow a paddle from the BDF that we can use the rest of the race. Another early night to bed as we hear a party raging not far away. No beer tonight, motionlessness is all I crave. As I try to fall asleep I feel the ground tipping to the left.
Day three was wonderfully uneventful. The curse had been broken, and Miles had fixed the seat perfectly. No longer did we have to worry about our weight leaning to the left. We had worked out our new strategy for guiding the boat, and were communicating well with each other. Everyone was beginning to feel the miles however, and the start time of eight in the morning still put us on the water during the hottest part of the day. The river was very windy, but we were able to maintain about the same position in front of more than a dozen boats. BBQ sandwiches for lunch gave us a second wind, and Dan hardly noticed that Mallory dropped his in the dirty water of the bottom of the boat (some things don't need to be known until you’re on land again). When we finally see the finish we yet again leave all we have on the river. I am so relieved to be done with all but the last day that as soon as the front on the boat is grabbed by out crew I roll out and lay face down in the cool water. I am joined shortly by my team, and minutes later we cheer in the next Peace Corps team who join us in our submerged celebrations.
Camp is much the same that night as always. We get a hot shower in a nearby hotel that some friends are staying at. All the paddlers with Peace Corps secure bed space for themselves in the air conditioning. Sleeping on the ground and paddling is what I signed up for, so I stay in camp. Too bad for me that the partiers that follow the race were not as polite on the last night. I am woken up regularly by the drunken yells. At one point someone even fell on my tent.
Morning comes and so does the last start, and it is as crazy as all the rest. By now we are accustomed to it and go hard to secure our same position for the day. Going hard every day has killed my shoulder muscles, but now they are past being broken and have adapted to their new role. I feel great. The river runs by the road almost all day, so people are contently cheering us on. We know that we are near the sea when we see dolphins jump from the water ahead of us. Thankfully none knocked over our boat.
We reached the canal that is about an hour from the finish far sooner than we thought we would. It led us narrowly through mangroves and trees and resembled the swamps of lower Louisiana. We emerge from the channel and start our mad dash to the final finish line. We give everything we have as Mallory continues the chorus “one, two, one, two.” Then we can see it off in the distance. The people, the bridge, the finish sign. We start to howl and call like animals possessed, paddling furiously as we close the final feet of the 170th mile. We have seen every inch of this river from Cayo to Belize and now it is almost over. We push past the finish line to the sound of the cheering crowd and the blow of the horn.
Total relief. We are done. Dan and I raise our paddles and scream in our 65th place victory. We nearly simultaneously hit Mallory in relief, victory, joy, and love who moans sharply. We come to land near the bridge in a spot that smells worse than a garbage dump, trash littering the murky water that is crystal clear 170 miles upstream. All of our friends are there and it is dirty hugs all around. We made it to the finish line and now it is time to celebrate.
An award ceremony starts a short time later under a hot tent. We watch as the winners get their trophies. They were far from us the entire time, but I guess it was a hell of a race. First place was Zipliner team at 18 hours and 4 seconds. Second Place was Belize Bank team at 18 hours 5 seconds. We came in first of the three Peace Corps teams at about 26 ½ hours, maybe 25 minutes in front of the next PC team. We gladly accept our wooden medallions and retreat to our friends for a much needed shower. When we entered the apartment the smell was so abhorrent that he handed us towels and insisted on us putting everything we had in the wash, and showering immediately. We complied graciously.
That night we joined our sponsor WIN Belize for some photos and dinner. We talked about the race and watched some videos that had been taken. I went to bed far too late that night, and all I could think the next day was how much I missed being on the winding river, paddling as hard as I could and listening to the sweet chorus of “one, two, one, two.”
Tuesday, March 22, 2011
Friday, November 26, 2010
Nick-Names
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.
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.
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.
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