The question: when did I start feeling like I'm just drifting here in Brasil?
Was it the first morning, when I woke up at 5:30 and couldn't get back to sleep (as I've done every morning since)? Was it last weekend when I experienced so much joie de vivre at various dance venues, and just couldn't feel it myself? Was it in Portuguese class, staring out the window while the professor reviewed the difference between reflexive and direct verbs for the tenth time? Was it at the beach this weekend - amidst so much natural beauty, yet so far from friends and family who would have appreciated such a sight so much? Reading the only English text I have (The Lonely Planet guide to Brazil), causing me only to feel more disconnected from everything?
Or was it before I even got to Brasil, back in the hotel in Paraguay?
One thing I do know - the moment I heard 'YMCA' on the radio on the bus back from the beach this weekend, that was it. I can't stand that song. It is terrible. I thought, "I'm ready to go home, I'm ready to 'move' somewhere."
I know this feeling, I've been here before. So, after a beautiful weekend of sun, fresh food, all-ages Capoeira circles, and one lonely Caipirinha, I decided to go home. I cut my trip a week short, and will be flying back to Arkansas (to see mom) on September 25.
Pronto.
Monday, September 17, 2007
Monday, September 10, 2007
um fim de semana muito legal
I was thinking my Portuguese teacher will likely ask us what we did this weekend, so I better practice the phrasing. There is actually a lot to tell.
On Friday, I saw a movie with Laura (my Dutch classmate), and her hosts – this included her host mother, Audimir, and Audmir’s boyfriend, Osvaldo, who drove us to the huge shopping mall where we saw the film. Laura and I chose the film Cidade dos Homens because we thought it was American, and would have Portuguese subtitles – a good way to “practice”. The theater was busy, and all the attendants were wearing t-shirts advertising the movie we had chosen. This seemed normal for opening weekend, so I assumed this was the case and ignored my suspicion that the movie might actually be Brazilian. After sitting through six previews for horror movies – which was more of an odd coincidence than anything else – the feature presentation began. Upon reading the first line of the opening credits, “Imagem Filmes presentam,” Laura and I looked at each other and groaned. It was going to be in Portuguese.
I actually made it through the movie without falling asleep. Osvaldo – who speaks perfect English – was kind enough to provide me with intermittent translations from his spot three seats away. Happily, no one in the theater seemed to mind. That is something I love about Brazil (and Paraguay and Mexico): it is quite difficult to offend people.
The movie told a story similar to that of Boys in the Hood, only it was set in a hill-side favela in Rio de Janeiro. Favela is the term for the poor urban neighborhoods in Brazil. In Rio, they are commonly located on the city’s dramatically steep hills because the land is undesirable for building expensive homes and condos. I read a really interesting article about favela governance a few years ago in the NACLA quarterly. Rather than getting into the details of the movie and/or providing a summary of the article, here is the link: Rio Drug Gangs Force a Fragile Security.
After the film, the four of us attended a Forró – a specific kind of Brazilian dance with a live band (key instrument, accordion!) at a bar. The dancing was really impressive, so I stayed seated most of the night and just watched. Osvaldo did insist on taking me out on the floor once, but the combination of his lack of rhythm and my stiff Tango-trained body made a bit of a scene. I retired to my caipirinha and people-watching, and was satisfied.
On Saturday, Osvaldo and Audimir drove Laura and me to the town of Cachoeira, an important inland port for sugar-cane transportation during colonial times. Before railroads were constructed and long before the abolishment of slavery (which occurred in Brazil in 1888 – the latest of any nation in the Americas), Cachoeira was the only connecting point between the coast and the interior. This meant the city was a rich cultural and trade center for a few centuries. The colonial-style buildings and the imported infrastructure (iron bridges and fountains constructed in England) are now mostly in decay, but remain a testament to the great wealth of the colonial city. For lunch we feasted at an outdoor restaurant along the water. I tried a typical shrimp dish called Muqueca, whichis made with palm oil and coconut milk and accompanied with rice, Brazilian baked beans, and farofa (a toasted “crumble” of mandioca flour and butter). Muito bom.
The town of Cachoeira is also considered the center of the Candomblé religion. Their principal ceremonies take place in February when they have an annual festival honoring Iemanja, the goddess of the sea (also the orixá most commonly linked to the Catholic Virgin Mary). We also just missed the annual festival of Boa Morte (good death), which takes place in August and is hosted by the Sisterhood of Good Death – a group of women who long ago organized escape routes for the slaves. These days, the festival celebrates and promotes Black empowerment in Brazil.
After a long and tiring drive back to Salvador, Laura and I rested up for a night of Salsa dancing. Her host brother brought us to one of his favorite places – a cozy, dark basement with candles in old bottles on each table. The building was formerly a factory where mandioca flour was processed. Now it is owned by a family and offers live music every night – Forró, Samba, Salsa, Lambada, etc. Unfortunately, the Salsa band cancelled at the last minute, so the three of us enjoyed a small dinner, a few Caipirinhas, and live music provided by a local band that was called in at the last minute. They actually weren’t bad, just not as lively as we were expecting.
On Sunday I slept in and met up with Laura in the early afternoon to attend a free Zouk Lambada class in Pituacú park – a large urban green space about 10km east of our neighborhood. The class was offered at an outdoor café with a perfect dance floor, and lots of people were there (mostly women, of course). Zouk Lambada is a Brazilian form of Zouk, which originated in the Cape Verdian islands. It’s a partner dance and the steps are similar to Salsa, with the main difference that Zouk appears much more “flow-y” and incorporates dramatic dips and swirling of the hair. At present, there aren’t any clubs or bars that offer Zouk music in Salvador, but the movement is growing. It was really cool to be at this casual free class, learning from various instructors, everyone helping each other and practicing with each other. Even the waitresses joined in when they saw how much fun we were having.
The other cool thing about our Sunday outing was just the fact that Laura and got there by ourselves, on the bus. There is something awesome about the moment you figure out the public transportation system in a new city – it’s as though everything opens up to you. Suddenly there are so many places to explore and things to see.
Another cool Brazilian dance form to look up – if you are interested – is Funke (or Funk… I’m not sure how they spell it). Funke parties are hosted in favelas throughout Brasil and are popular among all kinds of folks. I saw a television program where the journalist attended a Funke, and it looked like a lot of fun. Everyone shouting “na na NA na na!”
On Friday, I saw a movie with Laura (my Dutch classmate), and her hosts – this included her host mother, Audimir, and Audmir’s boyfriend, Osvaldo, who drove us to the huge shopping mall where we saw the film. Laura and I chose the film Cidade dos Homens because we thought it was American, and would have Portuguese subtitles – a good way to “practice”. The theater was busy, and all the attendants were wearing t-shirts advertising the movie we had chosen. This seemed normal for opening weekend, so I assumed this was the case and ignored my suspicion that the movie might actually be Brazilian. After sitting through six previews for horror movies – which was more of an odd coincidence than anything else – the feature presentation began. Upon reading the first line of the opening credits, “Imagem Filmes presentam,” Laura and I looked at each other and groaned. It was going to be in Portuguese.
I actually made it through the movie without falling asleep. Osvaldo – who speaks perfect English – was kind enough to provide me with intermittent translations from his spot three seats away. Happily, no one in the theater seemed to mind. That is something I love about Brazil (and Paraguay and Mexico): it is quite difficult to offend people.
The movie told a story similar to that of Boys in the Hood, only it was set in a hill-side favela in Rio de Janeiro. Favela is the term for the poor urban neighborhoods in Brazil. In Rio, they are commonly located on the city’s dramatically steep hills because the land is undesirable for building expensive homes and condos. I read a really interesting article about favela governance a few years ago in the NACLA quarterly. Rather than getting into the details of the movie and/or providing a summary of the article, here is the link: Rio Drug Gangs Force a Fragile Security.
After the film, the four of us attended a Forró – a specific kind of Brazilian dance with a live band (key instrument, accordion!) at a bar. The dancing was really impressive, so I stayed seated most of the night and just watched. Osvaldo did insist on taking me out on the floor once, but the combination of his lack of rhythm and my stiff Tango-trained body made a bit of a scene. I retired to my caipirinha and people-watching, and was satisfied.
On Saturday, Osvaldo and Audimir drove Laura and me to the town of Cachoeira, an important inland port for sugar-cane transportation during colonial times. Before railroads were constructed and long before the abolishment of slavery (which occurred in Brazil in 1888 – the latest of any nation in the Americas), Cachoeira was the only connecting point between the coast and the interior. This meant the city was a rich cultural and trade center for a few centuries. The colonial-style buildings and the imported infrastructure (iron bridges and fountains constructed in England) are now mostly in decay, but remain a testament to the great wealth of the colonial city. For lunch we feasted at an outdoor restaurant along the water. I tried a typical shrimp dish called Muqueca, whichis made with palm oil and coconut milk and accompanied with rice, Brazilian baked beans, and farofa (a toasted “crumble” of mandioca flour and butter). Muito bom.
The town of Cachoeira is also considered the center of the Candomblé religion. Their principal ceremonies take place in February when they have an annual festival honoring Iemanja, the goddess of the sea (also the orixá most commonly linked to the Catholic Virgin Mary). We also just missed the annual festival of Boa Morte (good death), which takes place in August and is hosted by the Sisterhood of Good Death – a group of women who long ago organized escape routes for the slaves. These days, the festival celebrates and promotes Black empowerment in Brazil.
After a long and tiring drive back to Salvador, Laura and I rested up for a night of Salsa dancing. Her host brother brought us to one of his favorite places – a cozy, dark basement with candles in old bottles on each table. The building was formerly a factory where mandioca flour was processed. Now it is owned by a family and offers live music every night – Forró, Samba, Salsa, Lambada, etc. Unfortunately, the Salsa band cancelled at the last minute, so the three of us enjoyed a small dinner, a few Caipirinhas, and live music provided by a local band that was called in at the last minute. They actually weren’t bad, just not as lively as we were expecting.
On Sunday I slept in and met up with Laura in the early afternoon to attend a free Zouk Lambada class in Pituacú park – a large urban green space about 10km east of our neighborhood. The class was offered at an outdoor café with a perfect dance floor, and lots of people were there (mostly women, of course). Zouk Lambada is a Brazilian form of Zouk, which originated in the Cape Verdian islands. It’s a partner dance and the steps are similar to Salsa, with the main difference that Zouk appears much more “flow-y” and incorporates dramatic dips and swirling of the hair. At present, there aren’t any clubs or bars that offer Zouk music in Salvador, but the movement is growing. It was really cool to be at this casual free class, learning from various instructors, everyone helping each other and practicing with each other. Even the waitresses joined in when they saw how much fun we were having.
The other cool thing about our Sunday outing was just the fact that Laura and got there by ourselves, on the bus. There is something awesome about the moment you figure out the public transportation system in a new city – it’s as though everything opens up to you. Suddenly there are so many places to explore and things to see.
Another cool Brazilian dance form to look up – if you are interested – is Funke (or Funk… I’m not sure how they spell it). Funke parties are hosted in favelas throughout Brasil and are popular among all kinds of folks. I saw a television program where the journalist attended a Funke, and it looked like a lot of fun. Everyone shouting “na na NA na na!”
Wednesday, September 5, 2007
coasting: my first few days in salvador, bahia
I am living a few blocks from the central coast of Brazil, on a huge bay on the Atlantic Ocean. Salvador is the country’s third-largest city, and one of the cultural centers for Carnival early each year. In addition to this definitive celebration, the culture is rich with influences from West Africa, which have resulted in unique forms of artistic and religious expression: Capoeira – a dance-like “combat sport” (for lack of a better word… forgive me) – and Candomblé – a religion originating among Brazilian slaves that celebrates physical spirits, called Orixas, which correspond to each of the saints of the Catholic church.
My neighborhood, Barra, is surrounded by the ocean on three sides. The beaches are full of surfers, relaxed and friendly Baianos, and some of the tiniest bikinis I have ever seen. On the street along the beach you can buy fresh coconut juice to drink or a bowl of acai pulp with any fruit you like mixed in. Here is a photo:
I have managed to taste some typical fresh Brazilian dishes at three different “comida a kilo” buffets over the last three days – including my first taste of feijoada, the popular Brazilian bean stew. (I think my standard meal plan will definitely incorporate lunch at one of these places every day this month.)
But besides “coasting” on the coast – which is lovely – I have felt strangely aware of my emotional ups and downs. Not that they are any higher or lower than normal, just that I have been noticing them more, a feeling which I might relate to that of being on a roller coaster. Upon my arrival in Salvador, as the plane taxied up to the airport jet way, I felt a sense of calm – I had made it safely. As my friendly taxi driver passed along the lively beachfront, and the car radio played typical Bahian music, I was intrigued and almost euphoric – I wanted to get out and dance in the street. When we pulled up in front of my apartment I felt suddenly fearful of the apartment-mates I had never met and the neighborhood with which I was completely unfamiliar. After moving my things into my room, I called my teacher and she came over to meet me and show me around – at which point I felt an incredible relief for her kind assistance. Upon waking up the next morning, however, I was nervous again – like the way you feel on the first day of school. When I showed up an hour early to class because I set my watch wrong, I was overcome with embarrassment and ran away quickly (to waste an hour walking by the beach). Later that morning, I learned my first words in Portuguese and felt elated – proud of my self for learning a new language, fascinated with the oddly cute Portuguese pronunciation. During our first break, my classmate invited me to take a ritmos baianos dance class with her and suggested we go together to register that afternoon (after some “comida a kilo” of course) – how wonderful to have a new friend, I thought!
It’s highly odd to be fully aware of the emotion you are experiencing right when you are experiencing it: calm, euphoric, fearful, relieved, nervous, embarrassed, elated, happy. As I am settling in to a routine here in Salvador, however, I believe this phenomenon has dissipated. Today, it occurred to me that I will be back in the U.S. in only a few short weeks. Although I know this will be far too short a stay in Brazil, I am excited to be “coasting” through September, counting down the few short days until I get to see my family and friends again.
My neighborhood, Barra, is surrounded by the ocean on three sides. The beaches are full of surfers, relaxed and friendly Baianos, and some of the tiniest bikinis I have ever seen. On the street along the beach you can buy fresh coconut juice to drink or a bowl of acai pulp with any fruit you like mixed in. Here is a photo:
I have managed to taste some typical fresh Brazilian dishes at three different “comida a kilo” buffets over the last three days – including my first taste of feijoada, the popular Brazilian bean stew. (I think my standard meal plan will definitely incorporate lunch at one of these places every day this month.)But besides “coasting” on the coast – which is lovely – I have felt strangely aware of my emotional ups and downs. Not that they are any higher or lower than normal, just that I have been noticing them more, a feeling which I might relate to that of being on a roller coaster. Upon my arrival in Salvador, as the plane taxied up to the airport jet way, I felt a sense of calm – I had made it safely. As my friendly taxi driver passed along the lively beachfront, and the car radio played typical Bahian music, I was intrigued and almost euphoric – I wanted to get out and dance in the street. When we pulled up in front of my apartment I felt suddenly fearful of the apartment-mates I had never met and the neighborhood with which I was completely unfamiliar. After moving my things into my room, I called my teacher and she came over to meet me and show me around – at which point I felt an incredible relief for her kind assistance. Upon waking up the next morning, however, I was nervous again – like the way you feel on the first day of school. When I showed up an hour early to class because I set my watch wrong, I was overcome with embarrassment and ran away quickly (to waste an hour walking by the beach). Later that morning, I learned my first words in Portuguese and felt elated – proud of my self for learning a new language, fascinated with the oddly cute Portuguese pronunciation. During our first break, my classmate invited me to take a ritmos baianos dance class with her and suggested we go together to register that afternoon (after some “comida a kilo” of course) – how wonderful to have a new friend, I thought!
It’s highly odd to be fully aware of the emotion you are experiencing right when you are experiencing it: calm, euphoric, fearful, relieved, nervous, embarrassed, elated, happy. As I am settling in to a routine here in Salvador, however, I believe this phenomenon has dissipated. Today, it occurred to me that I will be back in the U.S. in only a few short weeks. Although I know this will be far too short a stay in Brazil, I am excited to be “coasting” through September, counting down the few short days until I get to see my family and friends again.
Tuesday, September 4, 2007
time and temp
En route to Salvador this past weekend, I spent a day in Sao Paolo with a high school friend of Page’s who is from the city. He picked me up from the airport, took me to see some sights (the municipal market and the cathedral, among others), took me out for top-of-the-line Brazilian barbecue (at one of the original Fogo de Chao restaurants), and invited me along as his guest to a local university’s annual graduation celebration (an all-night gala with live music, professional dancers, unlimited caipirinhas of all flavors, and a luscious dinner spread). Essentially, I went from shooing chickens under my feet at the breakfast table Thursday morning to sharing a toast of Veuve de Clicquot with some of the most elite families in Sao Paolo Saturday night. I still have not fully processed this cross-over experience.
But let me give my readers some perspective. Sao Paolo is the largest city in South America, and nearly twice the size of New York. That alone takes a moment to process. The pace of life is fast, traffic is orderly but always jammed, and the gorgeous natives are almost exclusively clad in high-end fashion, all of them driving seemingly brand-new cars. Really, the only signs that I was not in New York were the slightly lower height of the buildings, the building materials (concrete as opposed to steel), some incredibly beautiful graffiti, and the rows of wooden shacks with plastic tarp roofs visible just over the freeway walls on the outskirts of the city – signs of the extreme economic disparity that chokes Brazil.
As I passed a lovely and comfortable day with my host and his friends, I was impressed time and time again by each extravagance. The full-table spread of delectable breakfast foods laid out by the maid was everything I wanted. The floral arrangements at the party Saturday night were larger and more beautiful than any I have seen at similar occasions in the U.S. But none of the things that most called my attention in Sao Paolo left a similar impression on my host. He commented that the party had been average, the elaborate breakfast was not out-of-the-ordinary, and the poverty-stricken outer-lying areas of the city were normal scenery on the way into town.
An outsider will always analyze a foreign culture relative to his or her own. Having grown up middle-class in the U.S., I am a firm believer that a strong middle class will maintain a society and its economy. When I see such a dramatic disparity of wealth, and it seems as though those in positions of power are not working toward improving the situation, I feel frustrated. Don’t you want to change things? Don’t you see that this is unfair?
As my flight touched down in Salvador, reality checked up on me. The flight attendant welcomed us to the city and announced the temperature, 25 degrees Celsius, and the time, 16:25. I sighed and thought to myself, “now, how much is 25 degrees in Fahrenheit? And what is 16 hours?” Then it occurred to me – after three months (along with previous time spent in Europe, Mexico, and Central America), I still have to convert the time and temperature into my own measurements in order to understand it. I simply cannot get my head around another culture’s perspective of these essential, but most basic, numerical descriptors.
It is certainly not easy to look at one’s own culture from another perspective and realize that there are parts of it that need to change. It takes an individual who can completely separate his or her self from the culture that defines the most essential parts of who they are. Furthermore, the more comfortable one feels, the more difficult it is to move. In Sao Paolo, one can easily ignore the disparate situation by avoiding public transportation or not exiting the freeway between downtown and the airport.
In a way, I see this as a personal challenge – to question my values and to try and see myself and my culture as others would. What have I been ignoring? What needs to change? And what do I have the power to do?
But let me give my readers some perspective. Sao Paolo is the largest city in South America, and nearly twice the size of New York. That alone takes a moment to process. The pace of life is fast, traffic is orderly but always jammed, and the gorgeous natives are almost exclusively clad in high-end fashion, all of them driving seemingly brand-new cars. Really, the only signs that I was not in New York were the slightly lower height of the buildings, the building materials (concrete as opposed to steel), some incredibly beautiful graffiti, and the rows of wooden shacks with plastic tarp roofs visible just over the freeway walls on the outskirts of the city – signs of the extreme economic disparity that chokes Brazil.
As I passed a lovely and comfortable day with my host and his friends, I was impressed time and time again by each extravagance. The full-table spread of delectable breakfast foods laid out by the maid was everything I wanted. The floral arrangements at the party Saturday night were larger and more beautiful than any I have seen at similar occasions in the U.S. But none of the things that most called my attention in Sao Paolo left a similar impression on my host. He commented that the party had been average, the elaborate breakfast was not out-of-the-ordinary, and the poverty-stricken outer-lying areas of the city were normal scenery on the way into town.
An outsider will always analyze a foreign culture relative to his or her own. Having grown up middle-class in the U.S., I am a firm believer that a strong middle class will maintain a society and its economy. When I see such a dramatic disparity of wealth, and it seems as though those in positions of power are not working toward improving the situation, I feel frustrated. Don’t you want to change things? Don’t you see that this is unfair?
As my flight touched down in Salvador, reality checked up on me. The flight attendant welcomed us to the city and announced the temperature, 25 degrees Celsius, and the time, 16:25. I sighed and thought to myself, “now, how much is 25 degrees in Fahrenheit? And what is 16 hours?” Then it occurred to me – after three months (along with previous time spent in Europe, Mexico, and Central America), I still have to convert the time and temperature into my own measurements in order to understand it. I simply cannot get my head around another culture’s perspective of these essential, but most basic, numerical descriptors.
It is certainly not easy to look at one’s own culture from another perspective and realize that there are parts of it that need to change. It takes an individual who can completely separate his or her self from the culture that defines the most essential parts of who they are. Furthermore, the more comfortable one feels, the more difficult it is to move. In Sao Paolo, one can easily ignore the disparate situation by avoiding public transportation or not exiting the freeway between downtown and the airport.
In a way, I see this as a personal challenge – to question my values and to try and see myself and my culture as others would. What have I been ignoring? What needs to change? And what do I have the power to do?
Saturday, September 1, 2007
passing through the airport
I'm leaving Paraguay this morning. I barely got through immigration... I didn't have a return stamp from my trip back from Iguazu Falls (Argentina), and they were threatening me with a $120 fine. I told them I was a volunteer, and they totally went soft. I can't believe, really, that I got through without paying.
Last night I was completely ready to go and I wasn't looking back. Even since I arrived here at the airport, though, I just keep thinking of various little things I will miss. No more random Guarani words, for one.
More soon... from Brazil!
Last night I was completely ready to go and I wasn't looking back. Even since I arrived here at the airport, though, I just keep thinking of various little things I will miss. No more random Guarani words, for one.
More soon... from Brazil!
Friday, August 24, 2007
cuture shocking
The volunteers arrived home in the States early this week, and have been sending me emails to let me know they are safe and, of course, how they much they miss their family and home in Paraguay. Several want to come back, others are just out of sorts; all are experiencing culture shock in one form or another.
From experiencing travel adjustment in several different places at various stages in my life, I've found that the actual "shock" people describe is, more generally, a reaction to living a lifestyle that is relatively different than the one in which the individual previously found his/her self. So culture shock can occur when you move from one city to another, or even when you've just gone through a job change or a change in your living situation. Often the harshest shock comes when, after adjusting to a completely new place, one returns to their former lifestyle where everything is still "the same" (i.e. reverse culture shock).
The adjustment after Amigos is not just a spatial or cultural one, but largely it is a personal one. From my vantage point, I see the volunteers returning to the US as completely different people. They are adults who have managed community projects, found their way around the country-side in a foreign place, started conversations with complete strangers, and learned to speak two new languages. They are a thousand times more confident having been in the most uncomfortable of situations and found their way through them. It is to be expected, then, that going back to their parents' house and hanging out with friends who also still live at home, enjoy their summer air conditioning, drive themselves to school, and use washing machines and automatic dryers (to name only a few lifestyle differences) would be a difficult adjustment.
I, myself, am experiencing the first tinges of the painful adjustment process. This past weekend I attended a party hosted by a few Peace Corps volunteers in Asuncion. There were bands, a keg of light beer, and lots of 20-somethings chatting and standing around. In general a great party... but I found myself slinking into a corner. Its been a while since I was around people my age, let alone English-speaking Americans in numbers that large. It was actually quite daunting.
Earlier this week, I traveled to Puerto Iguazu, Argentina and was overwhelmed by the Argentinian accent, fashion, and restaurant menus. I felt like I was in Europe, and I honestly could not tell who were Euro/American tourists and who were native Argentinians. The town itself looked every bit like a typical Colorado ski village, it was insane.
At this moment I am sitting on a stool at the modern bar table in my hotel room in Asuncion.
The air conditioner is on, and a hot shower and foot soak await me when I finish this entry. But even as I write these words, a few tears come to my eyes. I haven't had a hotel room this luxurious, all to myself, since my Deloitte days, which were so long ago - in time and from where I feel I am as a person now. I think about going back to the States with this fear, wondering if I'll fall back into the creative rut I had finally left. My good friend, and travel mate, Bess had these words of consolation: "Don't think of [the States] as a rut, but as a wonderful shiny place with a rut in it somewhere. You just got stuck in it but you don't have to get stuck again." She's wise for a little 20-year-old.
I know the travel bug can carry a dangerous "disease" which one should avoid; that being the tendency to go somewhere different in order to be different. If you latch on to that way of thinking, it becomes very hard to be happy anywhere. Ideally, travel should inspire, not frustrate.
Well folks, Brazil - and a whole new adjustment experience - awaits. Its time for my telenovela.
From experiencing travel adjustment in several different places at various stages in my life, I've found that the actual "shock" people describe is, more generally, a reaction to living a lifestyle that is relatively different than the one in which the individual previously found his/her self. So culture shock can occur when you move from one city to another, or even when you've just gone through a job change or a change in your living situation. Often the harshest shock comes when, after adjusting to a completely new place, one returns to their former lifestyle where everything is still "the same" (i.e. reverse culture shock).
The adjustment after Amigos is not just a spatial or cultural one, but largely it is a personal one. From my vantage point, I see the volunteers returning to the US as completely different people. They are adults who have managed community projects, found their way around the country-side in a foreign place, started conversations with complete strangers, and learned to speak two new languages. They are a thousand times more confident having been in the most uncomfortable of situations and found their way through them. It is to be expected, then, that going back to their parents' house and hanging out with friends who also still live at home, enjoy their summer air conditioning, drive themselves to school, and use washing machines and automatic dryers (to name only a few lifestyle differences) would be a difficult adjustment.
I, myself, am experiencing the first tinges of the painful adjustment process. This past weekend I attended a party hosted by a few Peace Corps volunteers in Asuncion. There were bands, a keg of light beer, and lots of 20-somethings chatting and standing around. In general a great party... but I found myself slinking into a corner. Its been a while since I was around people my age, let alone English-speaking Americans in numbers that large. It was actually quite daunting.
Earlier this week, I traveled to Puerto Iguazu, Argentina and was overwhelmed by the Argentinian accent, fashion, and restaurant menus. I felt like I was in Europe, and I honestly could not tell who were Euro/American tourists and who were native Argentinians. The town itself looked every bit like a typical Colorado ski village, it was insane.
At this moment I am sitting on a stool at the modern bar table in my hotel room in Asuncion.
The air conditioner is on, and a hot shower and foot soak await me when I finish this entry. But even as I write these words, a few tears come to my eyes. I haven't had a hotel room this luxurious, all to myself, since my Deloitte days, which were so long ago - in time and from where I feel I am as a person now. I think about going back to the States with this fear, wondering if I'll fall back into the creative rut I had finally left. My good friend, and travel mate, Bess had these words of consolation: "Don't think of [the States] as a rut, but as a wonderful shiny place with a rut in it somewhere. You just got stuck in it but you don't have to get stuck again." She's wise for a little 20-year-old.I know the travel bug can carry a dangerous "disease" which one should avoid; that being the tendency to go somewhere different in order to be different. If you latch on to that way of thinking, it becomes very hard to be happy anywhere. Ideally, travel should inspire, not frustrate.
Well folks, Brazil - and a whole new adjustment experience - awaits. Its time for my telenovela.
all alone in asuncion
Today is Kara and Bess's last day in Paraguay. The three of us were the only remaining Amigos staff in the country (the girls stayed to visit Iguazu Falls in Argentina, then relax a bit in the city before the long trip home). This afternoon I will accompany them to the airport, then I'll be on my own!
I've got a little hotel room with a kitchen, and I've got lots of people to visit over the next few days. My main project is to write a proposal for the town of Alfonso Tranquera, where Mercedes and Amalio Willamayor live. Mercedes has been working with a group of moms to get funding for the construction of a 'salon cultural' (a theater space, essentially) at the elementary school. There is a large local foundation that provides assistance for community projects, but it can get political at times. They thought if I led the effort, the officials would be less likely to refuse, since I am a foreigner and not associated with any political party. We shall see.
I leave for Brazil on the 1st of September and, as of now, will be back in the States at the beginning of October. Its going to be extremely difficult to say good-bye to South America... but now is not the time to contemplate such things. I've got to help the girls pack up.
I've got a little hotel room with a kitchen, and I've got lots of people to visit over the next few days. My main project is to write a proposal for the town of Alfonso Tranquera, where Mercedes and Amalio Willamayor live. Mercedes has been working with a group of moms to get funding for the construction of a 'salon cultural' (a theater space, essentially) at the elementary school. There is a large local foundation that provides assistance for community projects, but it can get political at times. They thought if I led the effort, the officials would be less likely to refuse, since I am a foreigner and not associated with any political party. We shall see.
I leave for Brazil on the 1st of September and, as of now, will be back in the States at the beginning of October. Its going to be extremely difficult to say good-bye to South America... but now is not the time to contemplate such things. I've got to help the girls pack up.
Wednesday, August 15, 2007
this is just too weird
Its hot in Paraguay today. I am about to get on a bus out to the campo to do my final visits and community close-out, then the program's over! Last night we said tearful good-byes to the volunteers in the airport, and then made straight for the Mexican restaurant for a celebratory dinner and our single alotted beverage before we sign ourselves out of Amigos on the 20th. That was an amazing margarita, let me tell you!
Anyway, what's weird (i.e., what I'm referencing in the title of this entry) is this:
On Monday, we took the vols on a little souvenir shopping outing to the town of Caacupe. In order to get there from the campsite where we were having de-briefing, our director rented two buses from the Loma Grande cooperative. We were all enjoying the breezy bus-ride and the driver's loud radio music, and commenting on the funny songs they play on Paraguayan radio when... suddenly I realized the song we were listening to was 'Jambalaya'! It was some rendition by what sounded like CCR.
Amazing. For so many reasons...
1. I have never heard that song on the radio before
2. That is the first song I ever learned on guitar (along with every other student at OTS)
3. OTS just had their huge Guinness Book of Records 'Biggest Guitar Lesson' event - literally a few days ago - at which several hundred people played 'Jambalaya' in unison
4. I was in Paraguay
Anyway, what's weird (i.e., what I'm referencing in the title of this entry) is this:
On Monday, we took the vols on a little souvenir shopping outing to the town of Caacupe. In order to get there from the campsite where we were having de-briefing, our director rented two buses from the Loma Grande cooperative. We were all enjoying the breezy bus-ride and the driver's loud radio music, and commenting on the funny songs they play on Paraguayan radio when... suddenly I realized the song we were listening to was 'Jambalaya'! It was some rendition by what sounded like CCR.
Amazing. For so many reasons...
1. I have never heard that song on the radio before
2. That is the first song I ever learned on guitar (along with every other student at OTS)
3. OTS just had their huge Guinness Book of Records 'Biggest Guitar Lesson' event - literally a few days ago - at which several hundred people played 'Jambalaya' in unison
4. I was in Paraguay
Thursday, August 9, 2007
my paraguayan family
Here are Mercedes, Amalio, and little Victor Willamayor (Camila was in school, unfortunately). These folks have been like my family in Paraguay, and I am going to miss them dearly.
hello, readers
I just found out, via snail-mail correspondence, that Drew's family has been faithfully reading my blog this summer. Frankly, I am amazed that you found it, but also flattered that you've enjoyed my rants and raves. I thought I'd write an entry especially got you guys this time.
Drew is healthy and happy. This week, he and his partner accomplished something I did not think would be possible - they built a playground (parque infantil) for their town on a $50 budget. Not only that, but they did it in almost no-time. When I arrived on Tuesday afternoon, the boys met my bus and made me keep eyes on the ground because they "had a surprise for me". We walked toward the church as their host brother told me about all the "problems" they'd been having getting the right size wood and the right color paint for the playground - it was all a mess, he said, and they weren't sure they were going to finish. When they told me I could look up, this is what I saw:
The boys had spent three straight days working on constructing swingsets, planting trees, and painting murals. The park is an amazing success - look at all the kids on the swings! (Their host brother apologized later for tricking me.)
Here is a picture of Drew from the following morning, circa 10:00am. I think he was tired after the long work weekend, hehe.
Drew is healthy and happy. This week, he and his partner accomplished something I did not think would be possible - they built a playground (parque infantil) for their town on a $50 budget. Not only that, but they did it in almost no-time. When I arrived on Tuesday afternoon, the boys met my bus and made me keep eyes on the ground because they "had a surprise for me". We walked toward the church as their host brother told me about all the "problems" they'd been having getting the right size wood and the right color paint for the playground - it was all a mess, he said, and they weren't sure they were going to finish. When they told me I could look up, this is what I saw:
The boys had spent three straight days working on constructing swingsets, planting trees, and painting murals. The park is an amazing success - look at all the kids on the swings! (Their host brother apologized later for tricking me.)Here is a picture of Drew from the following morning, circa 10:00am. I think he was tired after the long work weekend, hehe.
Friday, August 3, 2007
the home-office divide
One thing I like about Paraguay (there are many things, of course) is the way that being "at home" and being "at work" are often indistinguishable. It might be due to the nature of the countryside economy - that is, subsistence or cooperative farming and a business sector that is devoid of any international corporate presence. Every store you stop at in the campo, from the bakeries to the tire shops, is based out of a family's home and attended by whichever member is present at the moment.
If you're buying milk, just knock on the Riquelme's kitchen door and they'll measure it out for you, fresh from the cow. If you're buying groceries, just look for any house that has a 'BRAHMA' beer ad hanging somewhere in the front - upon entering you will find a small refrigerated case with milk and yogurt along with a few shelves of rice, dulce de leche, bread, and other basic items. Yesterday, I was directed to the local wood-shop ("three houses down the road") and, when I arrived, was invited by the senora to come in and have a seat while her husband finished showering. When he came out - combing his hair - we discussed the dimensions of a few boards I needed for a swing-set and set a date for me to pick them up. The only thing missing was an invitation to share some mate', which is common courtesy but must have slipped his mind having just emerged from bathing.
This all sets quite a comfortable tone for all of our interactions with the SENASA engineers (a.k.a. the 'funcionarios'). Every Monday morning we get together with SENASA in Caacupe for a check-in meeting. If the meeting attendees are going to be few we gather at their small three-room regional office, squeeze between the desks of two employees, and keep it short. Should the regional director or other higher-level boss attend, however, we move the meeting a few blocks away to the home of one of the funcionarios, Senor Valbuena. His living room is more spacious than any of the rooms at the office building, and he has plenty of chairs. The only bothersome thing is that the front door is located directly in the center of the living room, and Senora Valbuena and their children often have to come and go during our meetings. But no one seems to mind.
***
This entry will, unfortunately, not be continued. As the summer comes to a close, I am manic-panicked with all the things I have to do. Once the volunteers have left, I have finished all Amigos paperwork, visited Iguacu falls, obtained my Brazilian visa, and changed countries, I will again try to be reflective about this past summer.
(...breathe...)
If you're buying milk, just knock on the Riquelme's kitchen door and they'll measure it out for you, fresh from the cow. If you're buying groceries, just look for any house that has a 'BRAHMA' beer ad hanging somewhere in the front - upon entering you will find a small refrigerated case with milk and yogurt along with a few shelves of rice, dulce de leche, bread, and other basic items. Yesterday, I was directed to the local wood-shop ("three houses down the road") and, when I arrived, was invited by the senora to come in and have a seat while her husband finished showering. When he came out - combing his hair - we discussed the dimensions of a few boards I needed for a swing-set and set a date for me to pick them up. The only thing missing was an invitation to share some mate', which is common courtesy but must have slipped his mind having just emerged from bathing.
This all sets quite a comfortable tone for all of our interactions with the SENASA engineers (a.k.a. the 'funcionarios'). Every Monday morning we get together with SENASA in Caacupe for a check-in meeting. If the meeting attendees are going to be few we gather at their small three-room regional office, squeeze between the desks of two employees, and keep it short. Should the regional director or other higher-level boss attend, however, we move the meeting a few blocks away to the home of one of the funcionarios, Senor Valbuena. His living room is more spacious than any of the rooms at the office building, and he has plenty of chairs. The only bothersome thing is that the front door is located directly in the center of the living room, and Senora Valbuena and their children often have to come and go during our meetings. But no one seems to mind.
***
This entry will, unfortunately, not be continued. As the summer comes to a close, I am manic-panicked with all the things I have to do. Once the volunteers have left, I have finished all Amigos paperwork, visited Iguacu falls, obtained my Brazilian visa, and changed countries, I will again try to be reflective about this past summer.
(...breathe...)
emigration
As an American in Paraguay, I often find myself lending an ear to folks whose sons, daughters, friends, and other relatives have emigrated to the US. They want to know if I'm familiar with the place where these family members live, or if I could get in touch with them somehow, bring them a care package when I go back, or just give them "a hug from their mother". They tell me the nice things their children have been able to provide for them (modern bathrooms, paved floors for their houses, electronics like stereos and TVs) as a result of their lucrative jobs abroad, but their eyes fill with tears when they tell me how long it has been since they last saw their oldest daughter, their youngest nephew, or how they've never met their grandchildren.
As an "immigrant" in Paraguay, I have a distinct advantage over most of my counter-parts in the US: I can go home whenever I want. My family always encouraged my siblings and me to travel. Each trip I have taken has been an adventure, a chance to improve my language skills and make some new friends. Each time I've left my country with the assurance that if my economic situation becomes unmanageable, I can always return to my country, pick up a job waiting tables or answering phones, and stay comfortably with family members - at least temporarily. I can always "go home".
For immigrants in the United States, the situation is quite different. As US citizens, we often make the assumption that foreigners come to our country "for a better life" and they stay because they enjoy the American lifestyle. What my experiences in Paraguay and elsewhere have taught me, however, is that there's no place like home - and I really think most people feel the same way. How difficult would it be to have to leave your family, your cozy home in the rich countryside of Paraguay where each morning you enjoy fresh goats milk in your steaming mug of cocido? How frustrating would it be to move from there to a small crowded apartment in New Jersey, wake up in the wee hours of the morning and travel into the city to clean houses or lift furniture all day, never knowing if or when you will see your family again?
The disparity of wealth in the Americas has led to a disparity in the availability of jobs, to be sure. But I wonder whether disallowing the free movement of undocumented immigrants across the US border - essentially "locking" them in once they arrive - is merely aggravating the situation.
As an "immigrant" in Paraguay, I have a distinct advantage over most of my counter-parts in the US: I can go home whenever I want. My family always encouraged my siblings and me to travel. Each trip I have taken has been an adventure, a chance to improve my language skills and make some new friends. Each time I've left my country with the assurance that if my economic situation becomes unmanageable, I can always return to my country, pick up a job waiting tables or answering phones, and stay comfortably with family members - at least temporarily. I can always "go home".
For immigrants in the United States, the situation is quite different. As US citizens, we often make the assumption that foreigners come to our country "for a better life" and they stay because they enjoy the American lifestyle. What my experiences in Paraguay and elsewhere have taught me, however, is that there's no place like home - and I really think most people feel the same way. How difficult would it be to have to leave your family, your cozy home in the rich countryside of Paraguay where each morning you enjoy fresh goats milk in your steaming mug of cocido? How frustrating would it be to move from there to a small crowded apartment in New Jersey, wake up in the wee hours of the morning and travel into the city to clean houses or lift furniture all day, never knowing if or when you will see your family again?
The disparity of wealth in the Americas has led to a disparity in the availability of jobs, to be sure. But I wonder whether disallowing the free movement of undocumented immigrants across the US border - essentially "locking" them in once they arrive - is merely aggravating the situation.
Sunday, July 29, 2007
san juan dice que si
Over the last month, communities all over Paraguay celebrated the annual festival of San Juan - an incredibly interesting and fiery event, the history of which I have had some difficulty researching. Neither the saint nor the holiday are mentioned in much detail under Wikipedia's 'Paraguay' entry (I even checked Wiki en espanol), although it seems to be a very prominent holiday here. When I conducted a google search, the first two hits mentioned non-Paraguayan San Juan festivals, and the third hit was the Amigos website reporting that the volunteers were celebrating the festival with their host families. Yup.
As it turns out, however, the festival of San Juan is not unique to Paraguay. It has its origin in southern Spain, where it is still celebrated in a similar fashion. Namely, in honor of the summer solstice, people come out in droves to set fire to effigies of politicians, light fireworks, and burn anything else they can think of. One of the favorite games at a Paraguayan San Juan party is the "pelota tata", which is basically a normal game of soccer except that the ball is on fire (tata is the Guarani word for fire). The volunteers had a great time with this one. Here's a random picture I found of someone playing pelota-tata.
Other notable celebratory activities:
- A game Ari and Drew described to me as a "ring of tata" that they jumped through for a thrill. I wasn't pleased.
- A comical re-enactment of a wedding in which Julia and Katie participated. Katie was the bride and Julia was a policeman. The other characters were a priest, the groom, and a pregnant woman who interrupted the ceremony to announce that the groom was her baby's father. Neither of the girls completely understood the tradition, but they were told it was enacted to recall the period in Paraguayan history after the War of the Triple Alliance. This war took a huge toll on the population of Paraguay, reducing the number of living males to 10% of what it had been. I would have felt a bit nervous laughing at such a scene, but I suppose its one way to deal with the painful history of that war.
As it turns out, however, the festival of San Juan is not unique to Paraguay. It has its origin in southern Spain, where it is still celebrated in a similar fashion. Namely, in honor of the summer solstice, people come out in droves to set fire to effigies of politicians, light fireworks, and burn anything else they can think of. One of the favorite games at a Paraguayan San Juan party is the "pelota tata", which is basically a normal game of soccer except that the ball is on fire (tata is the Guarani word for fire). The volunteers had a great time with this one. Here's a random picture I found of someone playing pelota-tata.
Other notable celebratory activities:- A game Ari and Drew described to me as a "ring of tata" that they jumped through for a thrill. I wasn't pleased.
- A comical re-enactment of a wedding in which Julia and Katie participated. Katie was the bride and Julia was a policeman. The other characters were a priest, the groom, and a pregnant woman who interrupted the ceremony to announce that the groom was her baby's father. Neither of the girls completely understood the tradition, but they were told it was enacted to recall the period in Paraguayan history after the War of the Triple Alliance. This war took a huge toll on the population of Paraguay, reducing the number of living males to 10% of what it had been. I would have felt a bit nervous laughing at such a scene, but I suppose its one way to deal with the painful history of that war.
looking ahead
So it starting to be that time... when I need to decide what I'm doing after Amigos is over. I have narrowed it down to a few more concrete ideas.
Plan A is industrious and would be very wise as far as career preparation goes. I just have to get the job. If not, there's Plan B - I have wanted to learn Portuguese for a while now, and I could also take some Samba classes. What's not to love about Plan B?
Anyone have other suggestions or recommendations?
Plan A is industrious and would be very wise as far as career preparation goes. I just have to get the job. If not, there's Plan B - I have wanted to learn Portuguese for a while now, and I could also take some Samba classes. What's not to love about Plan B?
Anyone have other suggestions or recommendations?
Thursday, July 26, 2007
achievement
Over ten days, from July 9 to 18, Amigos invited fifteen local Paraguayan youth volunteers to stay in a few Amigos volunteer towns and collaborate on their projects. The youth were nominated through an international organization called Junior Achievement, which teaches entrepreneurship and community development. I supervised three of these volunteers – two girls (Lilian and Fatima) were placed in San José Obrero along with Daisy and Alex, and another boy (Salomon) joined up with Ari and Drew in Las Mercedes.
(Salomon is the one making the 'hang loose' sign in the back left)
During their orientation, two returning Junior Achievement volunteers told the rest of the group a bit about their experience the previous year. Both had an “espectaculár” time which, no doubt, was the reason they were returning. They described construction projects, mural painting, and the kindly community members who worked with them. I was impressed, and actually a bit intimidated – I was going to have to put together something super cool for my Junior Achievement volunteers to do, and quickly.
In other towns, though – like Las Mercedes and Barrio Libertad – the only thing the volunteers can really do is plant a seed of energy, provide some ideas and some tools for running community projects, and take their leave. There’s nothing more difficult that working your hardest on a cool project, knowing all along that the initiative is entirely unsustainable. But if you let that tiny bit of frustration and doubt enter into your thoughts it can ultimately bring a whole community down with it. What matters is whether there are people who will follow your example; these are the people who will ultimately organize the community in your absence.
Friday, July 20, 2007
waiting
I didn't catch all of them this week, but here are two of my bus stops. I got my backpack in there, too, just so you know I was there.
Here is Mariscal Estigarribia:
And here's Alfonso Tranquera (on a beautiful, clear day):
Here is Mariscal Estigarribia:
And here's Alfonso Tranquera (on a beautiful, clear day):
little reminders
My bus passes this place every week - between Caacupe and Asuncion, and I finally managed to snap a picture:
Its just funny because there's a bar across the street from The Old Town School of Folk Music called Bad Dog Tavern.
Its just funny because there's a bar across the street from The Old Town School of Folk Music called Bad Dog Tavern.Friday, July 13, 2007
a typical bus ride
When certain activities become part of a regular routine, sometimes we forget how remarkable the experience itself can be. This week I took two of my volunteers with me on the bus (a.k.a. colectivo) to Alfonso Tranquera, and realized - seeing the whole experience through their eyes and listening to their giggling comments afterward - just how fascinating a bus-ride in a foreign country can be.
I thought I would share a bit of the Paraguayan colectivo with the rest of the world.
First: the bus schedule. Each day, there are roughly 3 buses that get as far as Mariscal Estigarribia and return into Asuncion. They leave the town at "6am, 11am, and 2pm" but this can really mean any time during the 6:00, 11:00, and 2:00 hour provided it is not raining and has not been raining for roughly 16-24 hours. When the weather is questionable, people somehow know - without consulting any authority on the subject - whether the bus will be coming or not. For example, I say I'm taking the 6am bus in the morning and I get several nods of approval; then, several hours later, having not spoken to anyone or received any phone calls on the subject, one of these folks will tell me quite matter-of-factly that the bus is sure not to come in the morning. Somehow their information is always accurate.
But let's say the bus does come. When it arrives, you can't miss it. If you don't hear the rumbling engine shifting gears noisily as it bumps over the rough terrain, you will hear the horn. Bus drivers announce the arrival of the bus by leaning on it roughly a quarter-mile before arriving in each town, and holding it for a good 30 seconds or more. Before I understood the reason for this, however, I actually believed something was wrong with the vehicle itself - ny first thought was the VW bus in 'Little Miss Sunshine' which honks uncontrollably because of some sort of electrical malfunction. Fortunately, the wiring is just fine on these buses - but it is certainly jarring when the horn blares you out of your daydreams during the ride.
It is necessary to hold an arm out to flag the bus down and to board quickly, as it only barely stops (slows down) to allow you aboard. It is also necessary to find a seat promptly so the bumpy road doesn't throw you into another passenger's lap. On the buses from Mariscal Estigarribia, there is an assistant whose job it is to a) tell you to board quickly and move to the center of the bus when it gets crowded, b) find a place for large bags on the floor in the back of the bus, c) keep track of who has gotten on and off and take appropriate payment from each person (this is actually quite amazing), and d) keep the driver's guampa filled with terere'.
Each bus originates in Asuncion and terminates in a community out in the campo. The name painted on the side of the bus corresponds to its destination point, where a cooperative maintains the buses in running condition - filling them with gas, cleaning them each day, and doing periodic repairs. One result of this set-up is that the buses often have to stop for maintenance while passengers are aboard. From Mariscal Estigarribia, the buses make a regular stop in Primero de Marzo (where the bus company is based) for about 30 minutes. All of the passengers are asked to disembark in front of the gas station, and the bus is taken to another site to be sprayed down - inside and out - while the bus driver and his attendant drink terere'. I was happy to oblige the "cleaning time" last week, when the dusty dry air made the inside of the bus somewhat miserable. A half hour later, the colectivo returns to pick up its passengers, shiny and clean (although the seats are usually somewhat clammy).
Ocassionally, the bus will need to stop for gas. In this case, passengers are not asked to get off, nor does the driver turn off the ignition. Just this morning, I sat patiently in my seat - along with 20 other passengers - as the gas tank was filled while the bus was running. Pretty safe.
A bus ride is never boring. There is always entertainment of some sort or another, and there is always food for purchase. I have made it a habit to skip breakfast on Friday mornings before my 4-hour trip back to Asuncion, choosing to wait until the town of Eusebio Ayala where I can always count on the girls from Chiperia 'El Indio' to board the bus with a full basket of fresh chipa. Chipa is the Paraguayan equivalent of the hot pretzel, in terms of snack food. Essentially, it is a cheesy cornbread twist with a crunchy crust all around - like the best part of a cornbread muffin. The inside is chewy and salty and delicious. The chipa girls are amazing at what they do - somehow they make their way up and down the aisle on a bumpy crowded bus, taking money and passing out chipa without dropping anything or ever missing a single customer.
I witnessed an extreme example of chipa-girl dexterity earlier this week, on my trip from Itagua to Alfonso Tranquera. One of the passengers on the bus was transporting several industrial plastic tubes, roughly 5 inches in diameter. The tubes were laying in the aisle of the bus and ran the entire length from front to back (I wasn't sure how they managed to get them aboard, but I didn't ask). When I boarded, the bus was already packed with people, and I was smashed against the back of the driver's seat for the first few minutes. When he insisted I remove my backpack and place it on the floor next to him (where it remained, knocking against the gear-shift intermittently for the remainder of the ride), I decided to push my way through to the middle of the bus where there appeared to be some more comfortable standing room. This was when I realized that the tubes were quite long and the "standing room" was actually being occupied by several children lounging atop the tubes in the middle of the aisle. I straddled the tubes as one of the children clung to my leg, and I situated myself for the remaining 2-hour ride with one hand on each of the ceiling rails. Behind me grocery bags and duffle bags lined the aisle, in front of me people squished together and stood precariously on the tubes, below me the children snacked on candy and soda and giggled. It was amid this chaos that an adept chiperia girl made some fantastic sales that afternoon. As she passed me, I switched both hands to the left-side ceiling rail and swung myself over someone's lap careful to not let my shoulder bag clomp them in the face. She tiptoed between the children and over my legs, continuing her route to the back exit. Incredible.
The other colorful details - roosters crowing from inside a passenger's bag, folk musicians boarding the bus to entertain the masses, and those moments when you realize that everyone on the bus knows each other - are all worthy of much further description, but I believe I've covered a lot for one entry. Hasta la proxima.
I thought I would share a bit of the Paraguayan colectivo with the rest of the world.
First: the bus schedule. Each day, there are roughly 3 buses that get as far as Mariscal Estigarribia and return into Asuncion. They leave the town at "6am, 11am, and 2pm" but this can really mean any time during the 6:00, 11:00, and 2:00 hour provided it is not raining and has not been raining for roughly 16-24 hours. When the weather is questionable, people somehow know - without consulting any authority on the subject - whether the bus will be coming or not. For example, I say I'm taking the 6am bus in the morning and I get several nods of approval; then, several hours later, having not spoken to anyone or received any phone calls on the subject, one of these folks will tell me quite matter-of-factly that the bus is sure not to come in the morning. Somehow their information is always accurate.
But let's say the bus does come. When it arrives, you can't miss it. If you don't hear the rumbling engine shifting gears noisily as it bumps over the rough terrain, you will hear the horn. Bus drivers announce the arrival of the bus by leaning on it roughly a quarter-mile before arriving in each town, and holding it for a good 30 seconds or more. Before I understood the reason for this, however, I actually believed something was wrong with the vehicle itself - ny first thought was the VW bus in 'Little Miss Sunshine' which honks uncontrollably because of some sort of electrical malfunction. Fortunately, the wiring is just fine on these buses - but it is certainly jarring when the horn blares you out of your daydreams during the ride.
It is necessary to hold an arm out to flag the bus down and to board quickly, as it only barely stops (slows down) to allow you aboard. It is also necessary to find a seat promptly so the bumpy road doesn't throw you into another passenger's lap. On the buses from Mariscal Estigarribia, there is an assistant whose job it is to a) tell you to board quickly and move to the center of the bus when it gets crowded, b) find a place for large bags on the floor in the back of the bus, c) keep track of who has gotten on and off and take appropriate payment from each person (this is actually quite amazing), and d) keep the driver's guampa filled with terere'.
Each bus originates in Asuncion and terminates in a community out in the campo. The name painted on the side of the bus corresponds to its destination point, where a cooperative maintains the buses in running condition - filling them with gas, cleaning them each day, and doing periodic repairs. One result of this set-up is that the buses often have to stop for maintenance while passengers are aboard. From Mariscal Estigarribia, the buses make a regular stop in Primero de Marzo (where the bus company is based) for about 30 minutes. All of the passengers are asked to disembark in front of the gas station, and the bus is taken to another site to be sprayed down - inside and out - while the bus driver and his attendant drink terere'. I was happy to oblige the "cleaning time" last week, when the dusty dry air made the inside of the bus somewhat miserable. A half hour later, the colectivo returns to pick up its passengers, shiny and clean (although the seats are usually somewhat clammy).
Ocassionally, the bus will need to stop for gas. In this case, passengers are not asked to get off, nor does the driver turn off the ignition. Just this morning, I sat patiently in my seat - along with 20 other passengers - as the gas tank was filled while the bus was running. Pretty safe.
A bus ride is never boring. There is always entertainment of some sort or another, and there is always food for purchase. I have made it a habit to skip breakfast on Friday mornings before my 4-hour trip back to Asuncion, choosing to wait until the town of Eusebio Ayala where I can always count on the girls from Chiperia 'El Indio' to board the bus with a full basket of fresh chipa. Chipa is the Paraguayan equivalent of the hot pretzel, in terms of snack food. Essentially, it is a cheesy cornbread twist with a crunchy crust all around - like the best part of a cornbread muffin. The inside is chewy and salty and delicious. The chipa girls are amazing at what they do - somehow they make their way up and down the aisle on a bumpy crowded bus, taking money and passing out chipa without dropping anything or ever missing a single customer.
I witnessed an extreme example of chipa-girl dexterity earlier this week, on my trip from Itagua to Alfonso Tranquera. One of the passengers on the bus was transporting several industrial plastic tubes, roughly 5 inches in diameter. The tubes were laying in the aisle of the bus and ran the entire length from front to back (I wasn't sure how they managed to get them aboard, but I didn't ask). When I boarded, the bus was already packed with people, and I was smashed against the back of the driver's seat for the first few minutes. When he insisted I remove my backpack and place it on the floor next to him (where it remained, knocking against the gear-shift intermittently for the remainder of the ride), I decided to push my way through to the middle of the bus where there appeared to be some more comfortable standing room. This was when I realized that the tubes were quite long and the "standing room" was actually being occupied by several children lounging atop the tubes in the middle of the aisle. I straddled the tubes as one of the children clung to my leg, and I situated myself for the remaining 2-hour ride with one hand on each of the ceiling rails. Behind me grocery bags and duffle bags lined the aisle, in front of me people squished together and stood precariously on the tubes, below me the children snacked on candy and soda and giggled. It was amid this chaos that an adept chiperia girl made some fantastic sales that afternoon. As she passed me, I switched both hands to the left-side ceiling rail and swung myself over someone's lap careful to not let my shoulder bag clomp them in the face. She tiptoed between the children and over my legs, continuing her route to the back exit. Incredible.
The other colorful details - roosters crowing from inside a passenger's bag, folk musicians boarding the bus to entertain the masses, and those moments when you realize that everyone on the bus knows each other - are all worthy of much further description, but I believe I've covered a lot for one entry. Hasta la proxima.
walking on down the road / i am a snail
This week was one of the more tiring weeks thus far. Due to cold and rain, several of my regular buses were not running (this is commonplace in the campo, where the dirt roads become completely impassable when muddy). This forced me to walk - first, from San Jose Obrero to visit the boys in Las Mercedes; the return walk the next day, followed by my usual one-hour trek to see Katie and Julia; then another hike the next morning from Jhugua Guazu to Isla Pucu to catch a different bus that was sure to be running in order to make it to Mariscal Estigarribia for Jasmine's birthday. It all worked out, and so did I.
The walks were pleasant, actually. After a fresh rain, the air was cool but not cold and the scenery was lush. Everyone greeted me along my way - I think at this point most of the people living in the area have some idea of who I am.
I had a funny realization - as I was unrolling my sleeping bag in Mariscal Estigarribia - that my current life-style somewhat closely resembles that of a snail. That is, I travel from place to place (quite slowly) with all my belongings on my back, curling up to rest each night in my sleeping bag, then packing up and moving on the next day. The pace of things is slow and methodic, but always industrious.
The walks were pleasant, actually. After a fresh rain, the air was cool but not cold and the scenery was lush. Everyone greeted me along my way - I think at this point most of the people living in the area have some idea of who I am.
I had a funny realization - as I was unrolling my sleeping bag in Mariscal Estigarribia - that my current life-style somewhat closely resembles that of a snail. That is, I travel from place to place (quite slowly) with all my belongings on my back, curling up to rest each night in my sleeping bag, then packing up and moving on the next day. The pace of things is slow and methodic, but always industrious.
Saturday, July 7, 2007
plans
Its good to have a plan. Its good, also, to be open to a change in plans. Or to an altogether new plan. This week I have been discussing plans with everyone.
With the volunteers, it was the construction plan for the latrines. The original model had to be modified when we found that the price of bricks had nearly doubled since we did the price estimate. Now, with only 250 bricks per latrine, we had to get creative to ensure that the house around the latrine would actually conceal the latrine-user. The new plan calls for 5 layers of bricks laid in normal fashion, and the subsequent layers laid on their sides, so as to take up more vertical space. The final product looks pretty good, I must say.
With my fellow supervisors, it was our travel plan for the few free days we have once the volunteers leave. I have been toying with the idea of traveling to Colombia to visit a former Amigos project director who is running his own non-profit in Medellin. Stephanie, Bess, and Kara are urging me, however, to go with them to Filadelfia - a small city in the heart of the Paraguayan desert (a.k.a. The Chaco). Although it sounds unappealing, they make a valid point: when else will I ever have the chance to make the 9 hour trip to the middle of the Chaco? Afterward, we would return to Asuncion and head from there to Iguazzu falls, which is certainly a trip worth making. Colombia could theoretically wait until afterwards.
Then there's my own plan. During those quiet moments waiting for the bus out in the middle of the campo, I find myself wondering what the future is going to look like for me. Perhaps I will work for Stephanie's non-profit start-up, writing grants for community projects all over the South American countryside. Maybe I will start that e-zine that I've been talking about, networking with travelers and artists from all over the world. I could set a grand goal of learning as many types of folk dance as I can, working my way around the world from studio to studio. Or I could mooch off one of my siblings, take a few months to write and relax or apply for school.
The thing about having a plan is that it keeps you focused in the present, but ultimately it can always change. You have to face circumstances honestly - past, present, and future - and make some tough decisions.
With the volunteers, it was the construction plan for the latrines. The original model had to be modified when we found that the price of bricks had nearly doubled since we did the price estimate. Now, with only 250 bricks per latrine, we had to get creative to ensure that the house around the latrine would actually conceal the latrine-user. The new plan calls for 5 layers of bricks laid in normal fashion, and the subsequent layers laid on their sides, so as to take up more vertical space. The final product looks pretty good, I must say.
With my fellow supervisors, it was our travel plan for the few free days we have once the volunteers leave. I have been toying with the idea of traveling to Colombia to visit a former Amigos project director who is running his own non-profit in Medellin. Stephanie, Bess, and Kara are urging me, however, to go with them to Filadelfia - a small city in the heart of the Paraguayan desert (a.k.a. The Chaco). Although it sounds unappealing, they make a valid point: when else will I ever have the chance to make the 9 hour trip to the middle of the Chaco? Afterward, we would return to Asuncion and head from there to Iguazzu falls, which is certainly a trip worth making. Colombia could theoretically wait until afterwards.
Then there's my own plan. During those quiet moments waiting for the bus out in the middle of the campo, I find myself wondering what the future is going to look like for me. Perhaps I will work for Stephanie's non-profit start-up, writing grants for community projects all over the South American countryside. Maybe I will start that e-zine that I've been talking about, networking with travelers and artists from all over the world. I could set a grand goal of learning as many types of folk dance as I can, working my way around the world from studio to studio. Or I could mooch off one of my siblings, take a few months to write and relax or apply for school.
The thing about having a plan is that it keeps you focused in the present, but ultimately it can always change. You have to face circumstances honestly - past, present, and future - and make some tough decisions.
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