Wendell and Me with the SNET guys and the police on my last hike up Volcan Santa Ana

Me and my Zephyr Geodetic GPS Antenna and Tripod taking measurements at Santa Elena above Lago Coatepeque

Emily and me with Vanesa, Jesica, Sulema, Jason, Ana, Carlitos and Edgardo

At the Kid's Museum

Going to make masa

Marvin's contribution to the Environmental Activities book

Gringisimo acting out the "The Life of Trash"

Sulema the artist. She loves to draw and color.

The dog Shnikey with his cone after someone chopped him with a machete.

Galileo at Tin Marin, the kid's museum

Emily and the board of directors for her school.

Some members of the Eco Club on the Santa Ana Volcano hike.

The Eco Club at the beach at La Barra de Santiago

The Eco Club at Lago Guija

Eco Club on Santa Ana Volcano

Emily and I with our surrogate family.

Emily, Galileo and Sigfredo on the swings

The Simple Life

Pupusas the national dish of El Salvador

Emily, Sigfredo, Galileo and Me

I had planned to read 100 books while in El Salvador but as you can see I

Hello everyone,

I'm writing on this blog for the last time. This is happening for two reasons: one, we have finished our service in El Salvador and two these cyber jerks seem to have hacked my blog again and are sending out more solicitations. Therefore, after reading this blog entry you are encouraged to eliminate, erase or block this site from sending updates, posts or solicitous emails. Furthermore, I intend to delete this site in few days; hence, any other emails from here will certainly be fraudulent.

As I said, Emily and I are finished with our Peace Corps service in El Salvador and have returned to the U.S. We arrived about two weeks ago on Oct. 6 and are currently in Ann Arbor, MI with Emily’s parents reorganizing our lives and making plans for the future. As it stands right now, the plans are as follows: spend the rest of October in Ann Arbor with Emily’s family celebrating birthdays, Halloween and MI football. In early November, I will head to Madison, WI for about two weeks to work with a Geophysics Professor to process and analyze my data that I collected while in El Salvador. Then, return to Ann Arbor for Thanksgiving with Emily’s family, followed by a quick trip up to Houghton, MI for a few days to look for houses or apartments and prepare for my return in the Spring semester. After that we are planning a trip to California in early December and hope to stay with my friends and family until early January. Once in the New Year, we will need to get back to Michigan Tech. so that I may start writing my thesis and preparing for my defense. This should all be finished by May and then we are free to start looking for jobs, houses, dogs, etc. That’s the eight-month plan.

As many of you already know, Emily and I spent close to two years in the community of San Jose las Flores in the department of Santa Ana, El Salvador. During that time we fell in love with that community and constantly were amazed with the generosity and kindness that people there expressed toward us. It almost exceeds explanation and comprehension how a people with so little material or financial wealth can posses a heart so rich with love and compassion.

While we have ended our service, said our farewells and returned to the U.S.A., we have not left El Salvador behind. Our time, experiences and the memory of our friends will always be with us. We plan to maintain a connection and communication with our friends and the community for many years to come and expect to visit there as often as money and time permit.

I want to thank all of you who were kind and generous enough to help Emily and me with our service by making contributions or donations to boost our efforts in various projects.

With your help we were able to provide softball equipment to the community which allowed a group of women and young ladies to form a team which now competes against other community softball teams. From your contributions Centro Escolar de Alfredo Espino received a large quantity of miscellaneous art supplies that encouraged students to open their minds and create with their souls. With your donations the members of the Environmental Club of Alfredo Espino finally had a chance to travel outside their community and see several of El Salvador’s National Parks and protected areas, observe various wildlife and different ecosystems and learn how conservation is the key to our future on earth. Your aid provided the first set of crutches for young man who had been unable to walk without assistance as well as allowed us to save an abused dog and teach compassion and proper care of animals. Also, the educational focused acting troupe, Gringisimo, was able to refurbish and improve many of their costumes that are used in the skits and plays about recycling, STD awareness and environmental conscientiousness. Furthermore, a small part of the world learned a little about our culture in the U.S. and that not all Americans are the materialistic, imperialistic, whining, socialite douche bags that they are so used to seeing on TV and in movies. Lastly, and most importantly, with your moral support and encouragement Emily and I were able to experience life in a small corner of the world. We had the chance to see and learn the struggle, the strife and the hardship that is common there and around the globe. Eventually, we came to appreciate how a life with very few things may move forward at a slower and more simple pace, and how, because of that simplicity, one can be content with nothing more than friends and family, and love and happiness.

Thank you all for everything. We hope to see you all very soon.

Love, Hans & Emily

P.S.

Our work is in El Salvador is still not over and you can still help.

Marvin Rene Huezo is a young man and aspiring artist and scholar. During my two years in El Salvador he became one of my best friends. I spent a great deal of my time hanging out with Marvin playing chess, listing to Reggae and working on various art projects. Last year, with your help, we were able to sell over $150 dollars worth of Marvin’s art to buy him a set of fore-arm crutches. You see, Marvin suffers from severe deformation of both legs as a result of childhood polio. However, Marvin is neither ashamed nor embarrassed by his physical disabilities for his lack of mobility has only amplified his mental prowess. He is a skilled artist and painter, an enthusiast of literature and poetry, and a shrewd and skillful opponent in the game of chess.

Marvin wants to go to college more than anything. He has completed high school with excellent marks and has a strong desire to continue his studies and pursue law and international relations. He is well aware that without a college education his options will be terribly limited. He also knows that there is very little chance to attend college without outside assistance. His family will never be able to afford to pay for tuition and supplies.

We can help send Marvin to college. For less than $2000, total, we can cover the cost of his tuition, books and school supplies. His family will provide housing and living expenses. Any donation you can make will help.

Project El Salvador Scholarship Program has been helping students in El Salvador achieve their educational goals since 1998. Project El Salvador is a 501(3)(c) organization and every donation will be acknowledged for tax purposes.

Please see the web site for more info http://www.projectsalvador.org

Marvin is my friend and I would like to help him reach his goals. If you can help me help Marvin please let me know as soon as possible and I will give you more details.

Respectfully,

Hans

Marvin at home.

Wendell, Marvin and me at Beneficio Aguila with Volcan Izalco behind us.

Marvin and Izalco

Chadd and Marvin playing chess

Chadd, Wendell, Marvin, Me and Marvin's dad Gilberto

Marvin and Me playing chess

Comunidad Indigena, by Marvin

Pensamientos de Che, by Marvin

Che, by Marvin

Che con Cigar, by Marvin

Che en teja de barro, by Marvin

Sorry everyone. My blog seems as though it has been hacked. Sorry if you are receiving emails of solicitation. I'm am trying to fix the problem right now.

See you all in a few weeks.

Hans

Wow! It has been a long time since I last wrote. I hope you all haven't given up on me. If you are still with me this blog entry offers a very special treat. Actually, two special treats: I have attached a video entry (based on Mtv's "Cribs) and because it's the first time that I have tried this I don't know how well it will work, so I've got my fingers crossed; I have also included a shorty story I wrote "A Dog's Life." Read it if you like, it should be at the end. Now for a brief entry and a few pictures and then on with the show.

So here it goes.

Entry # 7

Totally Random

-REALIZATIONS-

1. I recently realized that I have not stepped in gum once since I arrived in El Salvador, but I've stepped in dog shit more times than I can remember.

2. Security guards always follow me around whenever I go into a store. I know I'm a minority here but I don't know if it's because they think I'm going to steal or they are just amazed to see a gringo shopping.

3. There are so many guns in this country I feel like I'm in the wild-west. Every store has an armed guard, usually with a shotgun and a sidearm; however, I saw a bank guard with an Uzi and a guard for an electronics store with some other crazy assault rifle. I affraid someday here all hell is going to break loose, again.

-CRIBS-

This is a 10 minute video clip. Hit play and enjoy. Let me know what you think.

-PHOTOS-

1. DVD's and CD's all for a dollar. Why rent when you can buy illegal copies. I only hope I can play them in an American DVD player. Sorry Hollywood.

2. This me with Sigfreado and Galileo. Remember to always wash your hands after handling children.

3. Typical public transportation. Get to know your neighbors in ways you never thought possible.

4. The cicadas (chicharas) are out like crazy. They are so loud, some nights it's difficult to hear yourself think.

5. Coffee season just ended. This is a drying patio at one of the many beneficios.

6. The girls going green at In Service Training.

7. York, Luke, Lago de Coatepeque and volcan Santa Ana.

8. Prof. Bill Rose making fire at the cabin on Santa Ana.

9. Us and Izalco in the back. Taken from the cabin.

10. Us and our military escort on top of Izalco. Santa Ana is behind us.

11. Emily in a fumorel field on Izalco

12. Me taking the temperature of Izalco.

13. Some young lava flows from Izalco.

14. Acting out "The Lorax" in spanish. Can you tell I'm reading my lines?

15. Our first community meeting. Que exitoso!

16. Emily in a church in Suchitoto.

17. The girls soccer (equipo de futbol).

18. I love El Salvador. Guys can pee anywhere.

-SHORT STORY-

The following is a short story I wrote. It demonstrates the hardships of a dog's life here in El Salvador. It tells a sad and depressing story about animal treatment in a poor country. While the story is embellished everything in it is true. The main Character does exist and this is a true account of an event from his life. If you don't want to know about the reality and pain that dogs experience don't read this story. Otherwise, let me know what you think when you're done.

Hans-

A Dog’ Life

By Hans N. Lechner

April, 2008

There was a family that had a dog and Bingo was his name. Oh, he was an average third-world mutt. A flea bitten mongrel – small and scrawny with dirt and mud caked into his white fur. He wasn’t any taller than an average man’s knees and weighed less than a small child. His hip bones stuck out when he walked and his ribs showed when he breathed. He had oversized ears filled with ticks and fleas and a lifetime of grime, and his flaccid tongue hung down from a long and narrow, filth-stained snout, soiled from scavenging through slop and garbage. Bingo was, in every sense of the word, a filthy animal. And, like most dogs in El Salvador, Bingo lived a hard and painful life.

A dog’s life in El Salvador, as it is in many poor countries, is a sad and pathetic existence. Most live on scraps and garbage and share what little sustenance they find with internal and external parasites. Those that are fortunate enough to have a home are fed chicken bones and burned tortillas – when they are remembered. They will sit and stare at the table while humans eat; hoping, begging, praying for a scrap they may or may never receive. If they get too close to the table they are met with a scorching swat from a switch or a swift kick in the ass. Most walk the streets at night with their head down, tail between their legs, completely dominated and subservient, searching for a scrap, an insect, a pile of garbage or anything dead and edible. Common knowledge, all dogs are coprophagous, meaning they eat feces, but here eating shit is truly done for survival. Even droppings containing plastic bags or unnatural debris rarely go to waste. Eating is living.

I don’t know where they get water; probably from a roadside ditch or muddy puddle. No one gives them a dish of fresh water.

Late one night I was walking with some other volunteers through the streets of San Vicente. There were no other people out. It was dark with no moon and the only light came from the buildings and an occasional street lamp. A soft rain swept in from the north and met us head on. As we crossed one street after another we realized we were surrounded by dogs; packs of them controlling every block. We had nothing to fear. We realized that in the morning was garbage day. On every corner and half way through every block was steamy, smelly, rancid pile of garbage. There are few garbage cans or even garbage bags in El Salvador, but there is no shortage of garbage piles. In some places it is necessary to step off the sidewalk into the street and walk around a garbage pile. It’s usually household garbage with vegetable peels, plastic wrappers, rotten meat scraps, soiled toilet paper and the like and oh, how the dogs feast.

I have seen dogs missing legs, missing eyes or missing ears. I have seen dogs with open festering wounds. I have seen broken legs, bent and contorted but still supporting weight. I have the intestinal pouch bulging out and hanging down from a dog as he rooted through garbage. I have seen more bitches with teats that drag on the ground or swing and sway from side to side as they run away from a pack of horny males. I have seen dogs so skinny and mangy one can literally see their skin hanging off their bones. I have encountered dogs so afraid of humans that they will abandon food to avoid contact or even being seen.

Extend your hand and try to feed them, they cower and run. Some will stand and fight for what little they have and display ferocity with a snarl, growl and show of teeth. Of course simply reaching down and pretending to pick up a rock is usually enough to chase them off. They are quite accustomed to be being pelted with rocks and sticks; therefore, they usually don’t wait around when they see this motion. However, those that do, learn just how good my aim is. I will confess it is somewhat gratifying and satisfying to watch a confrontational and sometimes vicious dog retreat in terror after a wallop from a rock that left my hand.

While I do fling stones I do it only for self-preservation. To some it is a pastime not to miss. Many of the younger kids hone there their throwing or slingshot skills using dogs as targets. Of course, birds and lizards and pigs and cows also make good targets, but that is another story.

The saddest part about all this is that there is no spay and neuter campaign here. Bob Barker where are you? Logically, that type of campaign wouldn’t work here. Very few people would keep there dogs inside long enough for the incisions to heal properly. Many would die of secondary infections. Of course, that could be a good thing. I have suggested an eradication campaign and learned that one already exists. On certain days of certain months in certain cities, the mayor’s office, or a governmental ministry, I don’t know which, puts out poisoned meat. They warn the general public several days in advance, but that doesn’t help many and the arbitrary extermination proceeds. Not only dogs die. Anything that eats meat during the night sees the bright white light that takes all dogs to heaven. However, on a positive note, while the meat is poisoned, it is meat and it is probably the most nutritious meal that many dogs have eaten in months, years or maybe even in their life. A fitting last meal I suppose.

Unfortunately, this only happens in a few select cities. In the rest of the country the dogs keep on humping and reproducing. Rarely a day goes by that I don’t see some bitch in heat being pursued by five or six horny dogs. They fight one another and try and mount her from all sides and the little pink torpedo pokes out like a lipstick twisted too far. Once, I actually saw a dog orgy in the streets. A male and female were stuck together tail to tail after copulation. A gallery of dogs surrounded the scene as spectators. Occasionally, one, two or three other dogs would jump up onto the pile to try and mount any part they could grip with their paws; sometimes in the middle where the tails came together, the shoulder of the female, or the face of the male. It was all quite a distraction from the conversation we were having with the principal of the school.

Mounting goes on and litters are born. Female puppies are often, and quickly, disposed of by drowning. No body wants female dogs bringing more dogs into their house. It is OK to have a male dog that runs wild and screws anything it can find, that, of course, is not part of the population problem, giving birth is. While drowning is the preferred method of disposal I can only speculate and say there are others. I once saw a large sack on the side of the highway with the tail end of a puppy sticking out. It seemed as if it had been thrown from a car. Again, I can only speculate. The point is, a dog’s life is hard.

Bingo’s life was no exception.

He was born by an ordinary bitch named Mariposa. Like most female dogs here, she looked old and worn and tired. Unlike the others she hadn’t give birth to enough litters to stretch her female parts to the limit. While her teats did sag, they did not quite drag on the ground and her vagina wasn’t swollen like a grapefruit. For this she appeared rather young, vibrant and handsome.

Bingo had clearly inherited his oversized ears curled tail from his mother. There were no other obvious genetic traits. However, to see the two of them together it was obvious they were family. While they did live in the same house together there was a camaraderie that seemed to transcend the boundaries of mere friendship. Bingo was the one pup that wasn’t drowned or given away after Mariposa’s last litter and Mariposa was the doting mother of her only remaining son.

Mariposa’s love for Bingo was obvious. While she was bigger and more powerful then him she never fought or pushed him away from the meager scraps thrown from the table. If there was ever any contest as to who would receive food, Mariposa submitted and allowed Bingo to eat. After a meal Bingo was caressed and groomed by his mother. She would lick his face clean and nibble at his fleas.

A mother’s love for their child is absolute without limits without questions. It is not rewarded with gifts or money or any material things. The reward is a pride in knowing that her child has grown strong and happy and lives a joyful life and returns that love with gratitude. Bingo rewarded this maternal love, as all cherished children do, by displaying a playful jubilance and devoted affection and Mariposa was happy.

The identity of Bingo’s father was a question that had never been answered. In the neighborhood there were two other dogs that were almost dead ringers for Bingo – size, color, gait, everything. Rambo lived across the street and was often found on the walk waiting to rendezvous with Mariposa on her nightly scavenge. Oso, on the other hand, lived next door and frequently visited the yard of Mariposa. He was often so brazen on his impositions that a bucket of water, a swat from a stick or a kick in the balls was required to send him home, out of range from the heat of Mariposa. Because of his persistence and historic promiscuity, Oso was considered by many to be the father not only of Bingo but many litters of puppies throughout the community.

Emily and I met Bingo and Mariposa in early December when we arrived at our site in S… They were the family dogs of Don Olvidio and Niña Lucía whom we spend much time with, eating, talking and learning. In our naiveté we reached out to the dogs in an attempt to befriend them. We squatted down hand extended in a gesture of friendship with the hope of simply touching them on the head, scratching them behind the ears and showing them that some humans can be kind. We continued our efforts to befriend the dogs in spite of the objections, doubts and questions of the family. The first couple of weeks were met with marginal success. Occasionally, the dogs, both of them, for they did and went everywhere together, would approach us with extreme apprehension.

Everyday we went and squatted with extended hand. Sometimes they would begin to timidly approach us in a sideways walk. With head down, tail between their legs wagging convulsively, and body curled and contorted like the letter C they approached with total trepidation. Like the first K-9’s to come out of the forest and into the light of the fire they moved slowly and cautiously. Their faces filled with an inherent and primal longing for human compassion yet unsure of the fate to be delivered by the hand.

Mariposa was the first to make contact. Nose to the ground she eased up to Emily. There was a moment of shock and surprise when Emily calmly and softly stroked her between the ears. Her eyes opened, her ears perked and the tail relaxed and began to wag happily. She looked to Emily with an apparent smile and instant friends were made. From that day forward our arrival always produced an excitement in Mariposa. She would bound towards us and nuzzle her head between our hands and hip, her tail wagging with such vigor that her back half swayed side-to-side, as if dancing.

Bingo, on the other hand, was far more apprehensive. He chose to elude the friendship of humans. He did, however, maintain a constant vigil over his mother’s and displayed an apparent disgust of her lack of discretion and a distrust of her solicitation of human camaraderie. Bingo would challenge, and display a frightful aggression at our approach. We never flung stones at Bingo or even pretended to as we were attempting to befriend him. We even attempted to give him the tastier scraps from our plates in an endeavor to win his affection.

As the weeks passed and we continued to extend a friendly hand and offer scraps, Bingo slowly and sensibly began to come closer. He would creep to our hand, sniff, back away, give a shallow growl a few barks and run away. It wasn’t much but it was something. However, still Bingo had a strong desire to be near his mother and protect her from the abuses of humans and the reproductive instincts of transient and neighboring male dogs.

The following chain of events occurred one afternoon while we were waiting for lunch to be served. We had arrived and given our customary salutations to the family and the dogs. Oso was off to the side of the yard and had been there off and on all day. Mariposa was in heat and had fended off multiple visitors in the last few days, Oso being one of the more persistent and aggressive. We had just sat down at the table and the stack of steaming tortillas was set before us when all hell broke loose.

The fight erupted near the patio and moved up and down, back and forth through the yard. Oso and Bingo were locked in mortal combat. Both on their hind legs, Teeth dug into the throat of the other. High pitched shrills and shrieks of dogs in agony accompanied by growls and barks of hate and spite echoed through the yard. Mariposa made a charge on the side of Bingo in an attempt to break the deadlock and send Oso home. She was merely swept into the fray and became part of the melee. We sprang from our seats and tried to help end it by flinging stones, sticks, dirt and water into the heart of the scuffle. Oso released and retreated for the street, Bingo and Mariposa gave chase. Once in the street Oso turned and waited, Bingo sprang on him like a hell spawn and the two went to ground, one rolling over the other. The cries of the fight and the scent of K-9 adrenaline and musk attracted a crowd of other dogs. The new dogs circled and the fight grew bigger. The tumult raged in the middle of the street, some dogs jumped in and out, all howling and making their contribution to the brouhaha.

Emily and watched from above, but we couldn’t see everything as we hadn’t reached the edge of the yard, which sits about five feet above the street. The fight disappeared under the horizon and we could only hear the fracas below. We were able to see the top of the slow moving pick-up truck as it neared. Finally, the dog fight would have to end, we thought. They would have to scatter to make way for the truck. Dogs here learn fast to get out of the way of vehicles or die. The fighting stop. Silence. The truck passed. Screams and squeals of agony erupted from the street. There was definitely a dog down and in pain.

We rushed to the edge of the yard and into the street in time to see Bingo pulling himself with his front paws, clawing his way out of the street, dragging his crushed body and limp hind legs into the gutter. He rolled into the filthy water that ran down the hill, tried to pull himself up and out. Failed and surrendered to the pain. He slunk slowly back into the water and resigned his life. Mariposa looked on for a moment, Oso sniffed her ass and she ran back to the yard.

Bingo lay in the gutter, a small stream of gray water, loaded with the detritus from dirty dishes and laundry-rinse, rushed past and over his broken body. His eyes were glassy and vacant, his breathing shallow and erratic. A crowd gathered and asked what had happened. Who was driving the truck? Where did they go? How long do you think he has left? Did you go shopping today? Is the price of potatoes still high? Their thoughts shifted, their voices faded and they returned to their homes. Bingo didn’t move.

We looked on in horror, our mouths agape in disbelief. “Poor Bingo,” I said, “we were just getting to know you and now you and get run over by truck. What were you thinking? It wasn’t even moving fast. You big dummy.” We wanted to do something but we didn’t know what we could do. I wanted to end his misery or at the very least make his remaining time as comfortable as possible. I wanted to pick him up out of the gutter, clean him off and give him a soft bed and blanket so that he could fall into the eternal sleep. But, he wasn’t my dog. It wasn’t my place to do anything. Emily and I were still very new to the community. Our every action was being scrutinized; our very presence in El Salvador was under question. We were trying very hard to make a good impression by adapting culturally. We didn’t want to do anything that would impede the development of “confianza.” So, we left him there, and with a lump in my throat we turned and walked away and went back to our lunch. We sat there in silence and sorrow.

It was Niña Lucía that finally retrieved him. Using an empty coffee sack as a stretcher she gently brought Bingo back to the yard and put him behind the house in the shade of coffee tree. He lay there still and silent, covered in mud and filth, bleeding from the mouth and struggling to suck in air. We wished him farewell, touched his head without argument and went home.

Bingo was still alive the next day when we arrived from lunch. He hadn’t moved, not even to escape the ants that were now crawling about him on his face and body. He did, however, express disapproval at being touched. By curling his lip to show his teeth and issuing a weak growl he let us know that he was in much pain and still preferred not to be touched by anyone. I offered to pay for a vet to come and put him down, but the idea was considered to be a foolish waste of money. In a country where daily living and human survival are constantly challenged by economic constraints, the thought of spending money on an animal is inhumane.

For three days and three nights Bingo lay in the shade of the coffee trees. Everyday that passed was expected to be his last. He didn’t move. He didn’t eat and he didn’t drink. Everyday we came for lunch and asked, “How is Bingo today?” “He’ll be dead soon,” was always the response. When we looked in on him, we could see him getting weaker and slowly slipping away. “If his injuries don’t kill him dehydration surely will,” I said. “That seems like an even more painful way to die.” There was nothing we could do.

On the fourth day we arrived for lunch and Bingo had moved. No one had seen it happen but he had moved from behind the house to the side of the house, probably to take water. We didn’t know what to think of this. Was he going to recover or was he just prolonging his death. His eyes were still glassy and vacant; his breathing still weak and shallow. Two days passed and Bingo lay in his new location. Nothing changed.

Almost a week after being run over by a pick-up truck Bingo moved again. This time people watched him get up and, with gentle and deliberate steps, walk towards the table and eat a stale tortilla from off the ground. When we arrived for lunch he was standing in the shadows begging for scraps. Obviously he was still in pain from his injuries but the pain of hunger seemed to trump that.

Emily and I were dumbfounded. We could scarcely believe our eyes. This dog that had literally been crushed no more than a week earlier was now walking and regaining his life as a beggar. His hips and the lower section of his ribcage were obviously severely damaged. His right side appeared as though someone had literally flattened him; there was no shape or contour. He moved slowly and only when necessary but he was moving.

Everyday following that Bingo’s health improved. He was on the mend and his convalescence was hastened by his desire to obtain sustenance. After two weeks he was walking with much ease. Slightly, crooked and a mild limp but with little difficulty. After three weeks there was nary a sign of a limp. He was still slow very reluctant to allow anyone to touch him, especially his hindquarters, as there must have been an enduring tenderness there.

Through all of this, Emily and I favored Bingo with the scraps and bones off our plates. We trammeled Mariposa so that Bingo would have opportunity to eat with zero competition. It was a hard decision to make for Mariposa had given birth to three puppies and was nursing. However, all three were dead a few days after their birth. With time Bingo’s strength returned as did his vitality. Within a month he was running and wrestling with Mariposa. When we would arrive he would bound and hop about and greet us with a glee as though we had been gone for ages. Apparently, our favoritism had not gone unrewarded. We now had permission to pet Bingo without dispute. We could scratch behind his ears and under his chin and occasionally pat him on the back and hindquarters. Mariposa’s elation at Bingo’s recovery was expressed in her over nurturing and excessive motherly love. Constantly, and more than before, she was grooming and cleaning and nipping at his fleas. Bingo quickly became a normal dog again, running, playing, begging, scavenging, chasing chickens and eating bugs. I even watched as he tried to mount Mariposa once or twice; although, he still maintained a vigil over her honor and continued to repel the advances of Oso on multiple occasions, fighting him tooth and nail, sometimes out into the street. After that I knew, Bingo was cured.

Now I am hardly a believer in miracles, or magic and I am one of little faith, but I like to refer to Bingo as the “Miracle Dog.” It’s a wonder how after having his legs, hips and ribs crushed that he would not only live but regain a completely normal and active lifestyle in only a month’s time and with zero medical attention or care. I have no idea how extensive his injuries really were perhaps there was very little real damage at all; however, I hardly believe that. I saw the blood in his mouth, the pain on his face and submission in his eyes. Death was at his doorstep. But he resisted death and recovered. Why? Was there divine intervention? Does he have a guardian angle? Not likely; however, there is something special about this dog. His will to continue, to eat and to drink is what brought him back. In a place where a dog’s life means little, where their existence is arduous and tragic, survival is not a right but a privilege, and a privilege that has few rewards. Bingo chose to remain. Rather than resign his life he came back to live in this unforgiving world because he was hungry. To me, that’s a miracle, and Bingo was his name.

So here is the next entry to the blog - sorry no pics. If it feels kind of rushed I’m sorry. I’m going to the internet café tomorrow and I wanted to post something so I wrote really fast. I’m going to try to post at least once a month. Anyways, like I said it seems kind of rushed and it is. I sat down to write and didn’t really have anything. I was lacking inspiration. Writers block if you will. Then I heard music. The Doors. Not in my head but coming from the neighbor’s house. Not only that but he was singing along to Love Me Two Times. I thought it strange that I’m in El Salvador, listening to someone who doesn’t even speak English, singing the lyrics to classic American music. I figured I would try and write about observations that seem strange to me. I’m also going to throw in a few Morrison quotes, starting now.

“This is the strangest life I’ve ever known.” – J. Morrison

Entry #6

Strange Days

Strange things happen all the time; the world is an extraordinary place. However, here in El Salvador, I have a strange feeling that unusual events occur more often than what we Americans consider a normal frequency of weird. The weirdest thing is that I am not certain if it is simply my point of view – my perspective as an outsider that makes things strange – or if El Salvador is just extra extraordinary.

When we turn on the water the lights flicker.

As I have stated before our house is still under construction. By that I mean we are living in the El Salvadorian version of The Money Pit, starring Tom Hanks and Shelly Long. There may be an earlier version of this movie; however, the Tom Hanks version is pretty damn funny. Anyway, it’s like The Money Pit because it is this big beautiful house where nothing works properly, the place is full of dust and rubble, there are workers coming in and out every day, and by fixing one thing they realize that something else is broken.

For example, by putting in a pump to provide water pressure to the house and a hot-water heater they discovered several other projects that required mending. First, by running back and forth to the bathroom to check pressure and temperature they discovered the electrical short that had left us peeing in the dark for the last month. Status: fixed

After that it was discovered that the showerhead in the unfinished bathroom was leaking profusely. To fix it they will have to rip out much of the custom tile to access the buried pipes. Status: in progress.

I discovered the third problem myself and felt bad telling them for two reasons: one because they had so many other problems to deal with and two because I never got a chance to take a hot shower. The issue is that we have a toilet that flushes hot water. The problem is that they put the plumbing in backwards. Status: FUBAR

Lastly, the power line running to the pump appears to have been connected by a teenager who has no experience hot wiring cars. It is nothing more than two wires twisted together and dangling in the breeze. I don’t know if that is the reason why, or if the pump has too high a power demand, whatever the reason when we turn on the water the pumps kicks in and the lights in the house flicker. It’s strange to me.

I think the contractor is as a puzzled as I am.

I also find it fascinating that most Salvadorians I know can eat three or four and sometimes five oranges in one sitting. It doesn’t appear to be on an individual basis. Of course, it is not every single person here, I am making some generalizations; however, through observation I have noticed that most people here eat lots and lots of citrus. Seriously, if oranges are available they don’t last long.

I went with my neighbor, Francis and another guy, Mauricio, to pick oranges at a nearby coffee finca in a neighboring canton. Remember, coffee is shade grown and many of the trees that provided shade also provide fruit. When we arrived at the place were the orange trees were Mauricio kicked off his boots and climbed up the first tree. He dropped oranges down to Francis, Francis tossed them to me and I put them in the sack. Mauricio picked the first tree clean and we filled a big-ass sack. I mean a big-ass sack. Like, 42 inches tall with a 12 inch radius. Those numbers are just a guess but it was a big sack.

We sat down for a break and ate oranges. By the way oranges are eaten differently here than in the states. They are peeled with a knife in a circular motion. It is something of a skill to remove the entire skin in one long, coiled piece. The skin is removed only down to the white inner peel, so what remains is now a white orange. Also, it feels strange calling an orange an orange because in El Salvador the majority of oranges are actually green. After the skin is removed and a white ball remains, it is cut in half like a grapefruit and the inside is sucked clean, save the transparent membrane that divides the sections.

I ate two, Mauricio ate four and Francis ate five. Then we started picking more. We filled another big-ass sack. When we got home I got grocery bag full for Emily and me and they took the rest. That was more oranges than I needed, but then again I don’t eat four in one sitting.

Today, while I was waiting for the people from SNET to pick me up, I saw Mauricio. He opened his backpack and offered me a bunch of oranges. I showed him that I already had 12 oranges with me, so instead he gave me a handful of mandarins oranges. I accepted and put them in with the oranges I was bringing for the SNET folks. When they arrived they were clearly excited about all the citrus. Throughout the day I ate one mandarin and one orange. Everyone else ate three or four mandarins and three or four oranges.

I think it is safe to say that scurvy is not a big problem in El Salvador.

I find it bizarre that reptiles and arthropods constantly find their way into our house and are fascinated by the bathroom. The first time it happened there was a tarantula in the front room. I saw it late one night as it ran behind a piece of furniture. I didn’t have the energy or the light to chase it, besides I like spiders and I figured it might eliminate some other pests. A few nights later, as I stood before the toilet he crept from behind the basin and took a defensive stance, as if to protect his territory. This time I was willing to fight. I promptly swept him into a bucket and arranged for his relocation to the bushes by the street.

Oddly enough, the next night, in the bathroom I witnessed a scorpion scurry for safety behind the shelter of the toilet. “Peculiar,” I thought, “Are these two arachnids in cahoots or perhaps enemies? Did I foil their plan to take over the house, or did I give the scorpion an upper hand by banishing his foe?” Well, to be just, I banished the scorpion to the same place as the spider. There they can continue fighting or fraternizing or doing whatever it is they do in the dark – perhaps plotting against me.

It was startling how several nights later, as I lay in bed reading by headlamp, I noticed a dark shadow descending the wall towards my face. Frantically, I pushed to the other side of the bed, waking Emily and almost knocking her to the floor. “What, what, huh, what?” she grumbled.

“Spider! Big, big spider. Coming right for me.” I announced excitedly. I can’t say for certain, but it appeared to be the same tarantula I had put outside several nights prior.

“Where are my glasses? I can’t see a thing.” She replied while springing from bed and groping for her glasses.

“He’s gone now. He went behind the dresser.” I said.

After that we never saw him again. Perhaps he found his way to the bathroom where he was eaten by the small snake that came out from behind the toilet several days later.

Again, it was night and it was dark in the bathroom. I was standing there peeing (and yes, we could make several dirty jokes about snakes at this point, but let’s not) when I heard the rustling of a plastic bag on the floor by the toilet. “It’s that f-ing spider,” I thought. “Now it’s on. Let’s finish it.” I said aloud.

Slow and sleek it slithered across the tile into the corner behind the bucket. It was only about 12 inches long and not much thicker than a pencil (let’s not make more jokes), dark brown with black polygons on its back. I didn’t know what type of snake it was, and because there are seven species of venomous snakes in El Salvador I chose not to handle it. The broom and the bucket worked well to trap and relocate it. What I found funny is how the snake refused to enter the bucket and when arrived at the drop-off point it refused to exit the bucket. I had to dump him.

Another encounter we had with a critter in the house happened just the other night. Again, I was reading by headlamp when something dropped from the wall, landed on my arm and crawled under the covers. This time I chose to panic by flinging myself from bed and shrieking, “Eeeeeeee! Ohhhh God! What was that?” I threw back the sheets and watched a tan colored… something as big as quarter with pincers dart under the pillows. It looked like a scorpion without a tail. Whatever, it was we captured it in a tin can and put the can outside. In the morning it was gone.

After that we moved the bed away from the wall. Of course now we have a mouse in the house. I want a cat.

I told the above the story to some Salvadorians and they showed no surprise about any of the fore mentioned critters coming into the house; however, they were baffled that I didn’t kill any of them.

We went to our neighbors for dinner tonight. Emily was learning to make pupusas. A pupusa is thick tortilla stuffed with some sort of filling – usually frijoles and queso but sometimes chicharrón (pork) or chicken, etc. – and eaten with cortito (similar to vinegary coleslaw) and salsa. While Emily was in the kitchen I was sitting outside being molested by the children; they would pass time kicking and beating their dog with sticks, when I told them to stop they would turn their aggressive energy towards me. They were screaming, yelling, jumping, sliding, climbing, kicking, throwing, and running wild or other typical behavior of juvenile miscreants. This activity didn’t even faze the adults, they just went on as normal until one of the little sons-a-b-----s grabbed my necklace and tried to ripe it off. Fortunately, I have the beads strung on a double layer of Peace Corps dental floss; therefore they weren’t able to rip it only choke me. Finally, Grandma gave them all a quick and stern reprimand and sent them off to cause hell elsewhere.

When the pupusas were ready Emily and I sat down and ate by ourselves. No one joined us they just watched. Weird man.

Oh, last night was pretty funny too. We were visiting with some other friends, Jose and Yanira, real good people with well behaved kids. However, the one-year-old, Steven, is a spoiled, little hell-raiser and the messiest eater I have ever seen, but what I can say, he’s one. So, we’re over at their house for dinner and Yanira sets the plates on the table. Each plate was stacked with a hot, steaming fried fish (head, tail, fins and eyeballs), a pile of rice and a simple little salad. No sooner had Yanira turned away from the table when the cat jumped on a chair, hooked a fish and slammed it to the floor.

I was the only one who saw this happening. I sprang from my seat in the other room and cast myself at the cat, hoping to catch the fish before it hit the ground. Everyone else in the room was startled by my sudden excitement and all jump to witness the commotion. The cat stood his ground and guarded that fish. He looked at me as if saying “What? Try and take this fish punk. I’ll kick your ass.” Of course, I don’t take that kind of talk from a cat, so I smacked him across the face and chased him away.

In my opinion the fish was salvageable. Yanira picked it up and set on the counter, and covered it. She filled the empty plate with another fish from the pan. We sat down and started eating. My fish was delicious.

Halfway through dinner someone came to the door. Jose got up to answer it. I took a drink of orange soda. When I set my glass down the fish from Jose’s plate was gone. The cat was so swift and stealth that no one had noticed except Jose when he returned to his plate. By that time the fish had been gutted and mostly consumed under the table. The bones, fins, head and tails mixed with the rice, salad and orange soda that Steven had thrown on the floor.

We all laughed.

Two things I find strange about this story: first is the level of patience that Jose and Yanari were able to display with the cat and their one-year-old. I won’t say what I would have done had it been my cat or my fish, but I assure you it would have been a far more enraged response. As for their kids, it seems like they discipline them with love. The other two are really well mannered, bright and mellow. Whatever they do to raise kids seems to be working. Second is the patience and confidence displayed by the cat. I guess you’ve got to have gall and be brash to survive as a cat in this country. It is a different life for cats in El Salvador. Here, they don’t get fixed, fed or loved. If they don’t catch mice they go hungry and then “disappear.” You really have to have balls to steal a fish off the man’s plate. Twice!

I was flabbergasted

Lastly, it seemed unusual to me to see a squad of soldiers, armed soldiers with M-16’s, patrolling the streets of El Congo. A platoon also passes through our canton of San ---- once or twice a month. I don’t know what they are looking for; insurgents, leftist guerillas leftover from the war, or simple thieves. Whatever the case it’s weird to see them coming down the road. It reminds me of something from an Oliver Stone movie. No one else finds it strange. It’s just daily life in El Salvador. Perhaps they find comfort in the fact that somebody is patrolling. In a way I guess I do too. It just seems unusual, but I guess stranger things have happened.

“People are strange when you’re a stranger.” – Jim Morrison

“Life is infinitely stranger than anything the mind could invent…” – Sir Author Conan Doyle. (Thanks Mike and Gina for the card.)

Anyway that’s all I have to say for this entry. Don’t be strangers. And if you’re out at the bar raise your glasses and drink a New Castle for me. Drink to cold beer, hot showers and solid poo – a few things I miss.

¡Felicidades hermano y cuñada! Somos tíos alegres.

I don’t normally keep a diary or journal or anything like that. I’ve tried a few times in the past but got bored with it. Besides, it’s hard to write before bed when the room is spinning. Now that I don’t get to drink at night, my head is clear and I’m just bored enough that I can actually find purpose in keeping a journal. So for your enjoyment and the next entry here is my attempt at an almost-daily journal.

Entry 5

Dear Diary

Dec. 10, 2007

We cut coffee with the neighbors this morning. It’s the coffee cutting season and almost everyone in the community is out cutting coffee all day long. We only did it for half a day because we also had to hang fliers for the English class.

Let me tell you, cutting coffee isn’t easy. Its fun as hell but it’s not easy. First everyone wears a canasta, a round, straw basket that holds roughly three or four gallons. It has a woven belt attached to it so that it may be worn around the waist and provides a depository for the coffee beans one picks during the day.

Emily and I borrowed canastas from our neighbors and went with them to pick at their little finca. Lots of people own little fincas which are scattered among the giant, hundred acre fincas. We picked from eight until 11:30 A.M. We each filled two canastas. One canasta filled with coffee beans is called an aroba. Our four arobas almost filled one sack – the big sacks that Juan Valdez personally inspects before it reaches your kitchen.

A lot of the people here work on the big fincas cutting coffee for the owners who most often live in the U.S. They get paid one dollar per aroba. A fast and efficient picker can fill 10-15 arobas in one eight hour day.

Picking is pretty dirty work. You have to bend the branches down to your canasta then slide your hand along to remove the berries. The berries can be pretty juicy and sticky. It’s messy. Also, you have to look up into the bushes to find the proper branches to pull down. This gives dirt, debris, ants, bugs and spiders the perfect opportunity to fall onto your face or into your eye. Of course, it’s all shade grown coffee so you can’t really wear sun glasses while picking, and safety glasses aren’t very popular here. I have a crazy picture of a guy grinding metal without eye protection.

Anyway, the hardest part about picking is working on the slopes. We were picking on a slope no less than 30 degrees. The floor is covered in leaf litter, vines and dead branches. We have 15 pounds of coffee berries attached to our gut and we’re reaching into the tops of these bushes to get more. I fell twice, once pretty hard. Fortunately, my canasta was empty. Emily went down too and only spilled a little. I definitely saw others on the ground picking up the coffee they had spilled when falling. Some of the wiser pickers wear their soccer cleats to pick. I didn’t see them falling. I kid you not, there are fincas around here with coffee growing on slopes greater than 45 degrees, maybe pushing 60. I don’t know how they do that, cleats or not that’s f-ing hard.

What is really nice about coffee picking is how peaceful and tranquillo it is out there. It’s very quite on the finca. It’s relaxing to be surrounded by trees and in a sort of natural setting. Actually, coffee farms are considered part of the remaining forested area in El Salvador. So it’s nice to enjoy what little of it is left.

After we went picking, we had frijoles for lunch. Go figure.

Dec. 11, 2007

I climbed Volcan San Vicente again today. Demetrio, my counterpart from SNET called last night and asked if I wanted to go. “Hell yeah,” I said. Actually, no I didn’t say that because it doesn’t really translate into Spanish. I think I actually said something like, “Yes, it would please me very much to climb up the volcano. Where are we going to meet and at what time?” That translates much better.

As simple as that seems, it is sometimes very difficult to communicate with Demetrio. He speaks some English, a little less than me and Spanish, but he likes to speak English with me and I like to speak Spanish with him. Therefore, neither of us really knows exactly what we are saying or what the other is trying to say.

However difficult it seemed we somehow figured it out because I was in the right spot at the right time when Demetrio, Manuel and a Lieutenant from the army (can’t remember his name) came by and met me on the street.

We followed Demetrio up the volcano at a breakneck pace. Demetrio, by the way, stands about six feet tall, most of which is legs. He uses these stilts of his to charge up the mountain as if we’re going to miss the start of the show. Fortunately, Santa Ana is a much easier climb than San Vicente. It’s only about a 1,000 feet vertical in a little over two miles of trail.

This time I took GPS coordinates of the trail and certain land marks along the way. I also took coordinates for possible locations for benchmarks that may eventually be used as part of a GPS network. It’s all very technical. I’m not at liberty to discuss it at this point.

Anyway, the crater was still there. The lake, however, had dropped a bit since our last visit. Or so it appeared from our view point. It was still steaming and the fumaroles were still fuming.

After that we raced back down the mountain. Quickly stopped to check a seismic station and then headed for home.

When I arrived home, Emily was playing cards with the kids. After chasing Demetrio up and down the volcano, I didn’t have the energy to deal with them, the kids that is, because they were getting really obnoxious by this point and loud, so I took a short nap. I wanted to recharge before our first English class began.

That’s right we’re teaching English. I figure I can’t speak Spanish very well so we’ll teach them to speak our language. Not only that, I already know how to speak English. I don’t even have to prep for classes. That’s a joke of course. Emily does prep for class.

The class went well. We had about 30 people show up. We taught them greetings and salutations: Hello. How are you? Nice to meet you. Good night. Etc. Basically, we are contributing to the portion of Salvadorians that already know these basic greetings and only use them when a gringo woman passes by. Hopefully, they’ll learn a little more than that from us.

Vamos a ver. We will see.

Dec. 12, 2007

We are at war with the dust. Our house is totally filled with dust – concrete dust, very fine, hard to remove, extremely bothersome to the sinuses. I haven’t been able to breath right since we arrived in our site. I’ve been sneezing and producing snot for almost two weeks, Emily too.

The house is still under construction. Two days ago guys were here putting in the banister on the stair case. They were pounding away at the tile and concrete and grinding and welding away at the metal. Meanwhile, two other guys are upstairs dry-walling the walls and ceiling. We also had group of fellows come and install doors on the rooms and bathroom. They left woodchips and shavings all over the place. All in all, these guys left the house a mess and its reeking havoc on my allergies.

So today we went into battle against the mess. Armed with a broom, dustpan, bucket and mop, handkerchiefs tied around the face like contras or Sandinistas, we attacked at midday. We filled four large garbage bags with dust and debris. Then we used the mop and crappy wringer to spread the remaining dust around on the floor. So far it’s been a little better. The dust is somewhat stuck to the floor for now. Of course, more workers are coming and it’s just going to get dirty again but we’re taking one battle at a time.

Our house is not your typical Peace Corps house. It’s pretty hooked up. We have a full kitchen minus a dishwasher. There are more cupboards and counter space than any house I have ever had since I left home. Eventually, we’ll have an upstairs bedroom with a balcony and private bathroom. There are a brand new washer and dryer here but it is a guess whether they will ever function or are solely for appearances. Lastly, the house will have a custom made, handcrafted front door and balcony door. The place will someday be ready for better homes and gardens, the El Salvador edition of course.

Right now, we don’t have a functioning door. I have to wire it shut at night and set up booby traps. Everyone tells us we’re safe but I’d rather not take chances. Also, we don’t have curtains, so it is not unusual to wake up to the neighborhood kids hanging from the bars on the window staring in and waiting for us. This is a pretty common Peace Corps experience.

Emily at first was a little upset that we weren’t going to be living in total poverty. She was hoping for dirt floors and bucket baths for the next two years. Now, however, she has adapted nicely. She has even arranged the silverware drawer.

Dec. 16, 2007

I am a sinner. I have sinned.

As a believer in the environmental movement, my religion is nature, my church is the outdoors and I believe that people should make choices and sacrifices in order to protect the natural state of our planet.

Today, I burned my garbage. Plastic bottles and bags, tin cans, paper, used toilet paper (we can’t flush it here) cardboard, batteries and anything else that was in the garbage can all went up in smoke. It was a small holocaust here in El Salvador. I feel terribly guilty, like a Christian soldier forced to kill.

The worst thing about it the trash situation here is that I have no other real choice. There is no trash collection and very little recycling in the entire country. I guess, if I don’t want to burn it, I have the option of throwing it into the canyon not far from our house. A lot of people do that. I could never do it.

So, I got a petroleum barrel from the neighbors, filled it with garbage, and set it ablaze.

I figure next I should buy a SUV with a V8, turn on every light in the house and eat Panda Bear gallbladder for lunch.

Entry 4

Volunteers Because it has been so long since the last entry, this one is really long. If you’re reading at work you should have another window ready to pop up incase your boss comes in. Also, this entry may sound somewhat negative. It is. I started writing while in a bad mood. However, writing this has been some sort of cathartic experience. It gave me a chance to see what was so upsetting. Now that I’m done I feel much better. I only wish I had a beer. Training is over. No more days with written schedules and packed lunches. No more sitting in class learning about diarrhea and alcohol abuse. Ten weeks of training – much of it useless and waste of time – that prepared us for the next two years. We “swore in” on Thursday, Nov. 29, 2007. We are now officially volunteers with less than 730 days to go. Now come the hard times. Now is the real time for fears to expose themselves and pessimism to ooze to the surface. It is not like training at all. In training we were comfortable. The kind of comfortable like I imagine trust fund students get when they go to France or Austria or something to “study abroad.” Cozy houses, cooked meals, a warm host family, guided field trips, the buddy system, class time, hanging out, new food and exciting times to write home about, etc., etc. Except after a few months those same kids go back home to their comfy lives with expanded horizons, an appetite for soft cheese with wine and two gigs worth of photographs. Our last three months passed in a similar fashion. We lived with a host family that took good care of us. They cooked our food with the utmost care; making sure to wash the veggies in purified water to protect our delicate systems. They packed our lunches and wrapped the fork in a napkin to keep it clean on those busy days we traveled to class. When we returned they asked us about our day and spent time chatting with us. They really liked us and we liked them back. We also spent time with the other volunteers. We took trips to the beach and spent time at the pool. Every now and then we snuck beer or rum into our room while watching movies on the laptop. We spent Thanksgiving together cooking turkey and mashed potatoes and playing soccer. There were 28 trainees and we are now all good friends. During training we also learned a few things – not as much as we could have and not nearly as much as we should have – about agro-forestry and environmental education. I won’t complain about that too much. Our trainers tried to give us a complete schedule and teach us as much as possible. My only beef is that in 10 weeks of training we should have learned more. We also did some traveling. I mentioned the beach. We spent a weekend at Costa del Sol. I got one of the worst sunburns I have ever had. My gringo skin isn’t quite used to this tropical sun. Aside from that it was nice to play frisbee on the beach. You just had to be careful of hypodermic needles and dog-poo (at least I hope it was dog-poo). We also visited another married couple living in Santa Ana during “Immersion Day” and we split up to visit volunteers during Field Based Training (FBT), and lastly we had our “Site Visit.”

Immersion Day is when Peace Corps takes us trainees out of our comfortable living situations with our host family and requires us to travel to distant ends of the country – on our own – to stay for two nights with another family that had been selected by the local volunteers living in the respective communities. This was only three weeks into training. Emily and I both went to small cantons on the northern slopes of Volcan Santa Ana. We stayed in separate houses on separate coffee fincas. Neither had water or electricity, or families trained in cooking for fragile gringo stomachs. I spent most of the first night in the latrine exploding from both ends. When I finally got it all out of my system, I returned to my quarters and lay down on the bed. As I lay there, rubbing my belly, I approached a semi-state of sleep. The point when your arm starts to twitch and you can almost step into your dreams. I was drawn back from that point by the sound of something falling to the ground. Nothing large or dramatic, in fact it sounded like a small piece of wood landing on a concrete floor. Strange, I thought to myself, as I shifted my weight to my left side. I quickly learned that this piece of wood, no bigger than a cell phone, which I heard fall to the ground was the keystone, the kingpin, the cornerstone holding the entire bed together. For as soon as moved the entire bed collapsed. I was able to repair the bed by candle light two more time throughout the night. Fortunately, I was through vomiting. The next day I started and almost finished Galapagos by Kurt Vonnegut. Having been sick the night before I was weak and dehydrated and slightly afraid to eat anymore of their food; however, the chicken they killed for lunch was pretty tasty. Anyway, I chose not to go out into the rain to prune the coffee trees on the finca. Instead I sat on a wooden bench and read all day long. If I hadn’t napped, I would have finished the book. The next night was relatively uneventful. The bed only collapsed once, for I learned were to place my weight to prevent the little piece of wood from falling. On the third day Emily and I were reunited and spent the evening in the house of two other married volunteers, Joe and Natalie. They cooked chicken fried steak and mashed potatoes for dinner and we shared a bottle of rum. FBT was not quite as eventful or humorous. Three other volunteers and I were driven to a small canton near the estuary in La Paz. The idea was to work with another volunteer to experience what it would be like for us when the time came. Again, we all stayed with host families selected by the volunteer. Again, we all feared what we were eating and drinking, especially, the lunches. We ate at a small tienda that charged $1.50 for lunch. The scary thing was the food prep area. To start, it was outdoor kitchen with a dirt floor. The chickens, dozens of them, had the run of the place. They were on the counters, on the tables and on the dishes. What was really gross was the dog with anal cancer that was tied to a post near the cooking area. I won’t describe anymore than that. We spent the most of the time dodging the sun, swatting mosquitoes and drinking coconut water so we could use the meat to make candy. We did make candy with a women’s group and it was delicious. Fortunately, they moved the anal dog somewhere else while we were making candy. On the last day we went out on the estuary with some local fishermen. They weren’t having much luck with their nets so they jumped into the water and started canoodling fish; they were reaching into holes on the bank and pulling out fish with there hands. I wasn’t about to get in a try it. We had to cut the fishing trip short however, because Jenny, one of the trainees, started getting sick. They took her to the hospital and she was diagnosed with amoebas. JB came home with Amoebas too; however, this being his third bout he wasn’t affected as badly. Training kept on going for the next few weeks pretty smoothly: class time, field trips, lots of processing our feelings and experiences and occasionally we had Spanish class. No joke. The last five weeks of training we had only five one-hour Spanish lessons. Of course we’re speaking Spanish everywhere we go but the lessons are nice to help increase our vocabulary, to answer questions about grammar, to correct our mistakes, etc. Five hours in five weeks of the most important tool we need and use as volunteers. Lots of us were pretty upset about this imbalance. Of course, we did have countless hours of health and security lessons. The health and security talks are always fun because we get to form little groups and discuss whatever issue is on the table. Afterwards each group would present to the rest of the groups what we discussed. We had an unlimited supply of flip charts and felt-tip pens for this. Most of us were often as crude and comical as possible. Usually, afterwards we were given some sort of treat for being good little students. Ten weeks of this and I think we all went a little crazy. With three weeks left of training we went on our site visit. This is our opportunity to see where and with whom we will be working. It is also the opportunity to find a place to live and start to get to know the people in the community. Emily and I had been assigned to a small canton outside of El Congo, Santa Ana. The community is very near Lago Coatepeque and Volcan Santa Ana. Emily will be working with a local school that has nine teachers, about 200 students and grades K-9. I will be working with Servicio Nacional Estudios Teritoriales (SNET). They are the equivalent of USGS. Also, both of us will also be working directly with the community and the local ADESCO. Asociacion Desarrollo Comunal, (community development association). We took a bus to El Congo and met with the Directora of the school and two community members. They showed us how to get from El Congo to our community of San… Sorry folks, Peace Corps policy; I can’t put exact site names on the internet. We spent the next three days looking for houses, meeting people and going to church. They really, really enjoy their religion here. We went to both the Catholic Church and the Evangelical Church to let the community know we are going to be living with them. Evangelicals are a wild bunch. People were so filled with the spirit they were having spasms. Don Ernesto, our community counterpart, community leader and extreme Catholic had the idea that we should visit the Evangelical Church. He even took us there and introduced us. He wants us to work with the whole community not just the Catholic constituency. He is a smart man. During “site visit” we also went with SNET to the top of Volcan Santa Ana. All I can say is “amazing!” It’s the tallest volcano in El Salvador. It has a crater 1.5 km. wide and half km deep with a pistachio green, acid lake at the bottom and fumaroles on the side. Incredible! A couple of the volcanologists repelled down to the bottom to take gas and water samples. Pretty crazy. Back in San Jose… we looked at our housing options. One was a mansion overlooking the lake with a spectacular view of the volcano and swimming pool in the back. We had to turn it down because it was several miles outside of our community. The other was a ramshackle hole on a corner in the middle of the community at the crossroads where the pickups stops. Pickups are literally pickup-trucks with a cage built into the bed and used to transport people. During the night this crossroads has no light and is used by the local youth as a location to drink and smoke. Not only that the house had rats, bats, exposed wire, no bathing area and no latrine. It needed lots of work. We chose not to live there either. Our last option was shown to us by another community leader, Carlos. His sister, who lives in Miami, is having a house built here in the community. She only comes down for 20 days a year at Christmas. The rest of the year the house is empty. It is fully furnished complete with washer and dryer. When we looked at it was still under construction, the inside anyway. They were doing drywall and painting and plumbing, etc. We were promised that when we got back it would be practically done. We decided to go with this remittance house. The last day of our “site visit” we went to the graduation ceremony for 9th graders and kindergarteners. Why those two are together I don’t know. They just are. Anyway, there were about 20 kindergarteners and roughly 25 9th graders graduating. From beginning to end, the ceremony lasted three hours. Three f-ing hours for less than 50 kids. Here’s why. First, no one talks for less than 15 minutes. No one. Second, they called every single student up to receive a gift. One by one they came to the front, received their gift, shook hands with all the teachers, posed for a photo before returning to their seat. Then, there was a Catholic mass. By the way, no offense to Catholics, but I now know why there is so much standing and sitting during mass. It’s the only thing that keeps people from falling asleep. Especially, in this tropical heat during a three hour graduation. After mass was through, they called each and every 9th grader back up to receive their diploma. The whole process all over again. It was a long and painful three hours. Not only that but since we were the only gringos there, we got to sit at the table of honor. There was no way for us to sneak out. We went back to San Vicente with two weeks of training remaining. During this time we went to the Wailers and climbed Volcan San Vicente. Volcan San Vicente is the hardest day hike I have ever done. We started at 1100 feet and ascended to 5171 in under eight miles. They don’t believe in switch backs here. Anyway, the climb was worth it and the view was spectacular. I’ll never do it again though. The Wailers, as in Bob Marley and the Wailers, came to El Salvador. Four of us (Cat, Zach, Kelly and I) decided that we couldn’t miss it and went to the show. The posters announcing the “Peace and Love Concert” said it started at four in the afternoon. We went at eight hoping to buy supper cheap tickets and catch the tail end of the show. When we arrived we were nearly tackled by scalpers. After roughly 30 minutes of pushing, shoving and negotiating in Spanish we got the tickets for half price. When we walked in they hadn’t even finished setting up the stage. The show started at about ten. I asked people why they would put such a huge range on the posters. The basic reply is this is El Salvador time. If it had said the show started at ten, no one would show up until midnight. Anyway, the show kicked ass. We even got our picture in the paper. Extra! Extra! Four gringos attend reggae show in San Salvador! Now here we are. We are volunteers sworn in and living in our site. This is where the hard times and doubts and fears start. I know it’s only temporary but it is scary living in a new place surrounded by strangers in a foreign country and using a language that we hardly know. We no longer have the daily routine planned for us by our trainers. We no longer have our cohort to hangout with in between sessions. We no longer have a family that cooks and cleans for us and sits and talks with us during the night and looks out for our health and safety. Our comfort and security blanket are gone. We are on our own now. Our housing situation isn’t what we expected. It is difficult to discuss with people without appearing as picky, complaining Americans. Not only that, but the language barrier is a bitch. Most often we don’t fully understand what is being said and we really have a hard time getting our point across in a non-offensive fashion. We certainly don’t want to be pushy. Not knowing and not understanding, it’s your basic “failure to communicate.” That can be scary. It becomes easy to let the imagination take over and negativity set in. It is difficult to stay optimistic when life appears overwhelming. This makes it easy to stay inside and watch movies on the laptop or read books or anything else to stay away from the people. Protect yourself from failure and embarrassment by staying inside like a hermit. It’s easy to do. I have asked myself, “What the hell am I doing here? There’s no cable, hot water or decent sanitation. Why do I want to suffer through all this?” It’s a tough question. I don’t really know. Is it to make a difference? Not really. Is it to see and experience the world? Yeah, that’s more like it I guess. Is it to change myself? Definitely. How am I going to do it? Get out there, get sick, get better, push through it, make a schedule, get to know people, talk to folks, learn the language, make things happen, deal with it, keep laughing. Going through all these experiences, getting through this awkwardness and fear, making friends and learning, growing, getting stronger, living something different; that is why I’m here. So during our first week as volunteers, we have been out walking through the community. We got out on the street to meet and chat with people. We played softball with kids. We went to the soccer games on Sunday. We found a family to eat with five nights a week. We talked with the landlord. We practiced some new Spanish vocabulary with the neighbors. Etcetera, etcetera, etcetera. I don’t know who said it first, but Emily repeats it all the time, “If it were easy everyone would do it.” I like that. Not everyone is doing it or can do it. That makes us special. I’m not saying we’re better than anybody, only crazier. You have to be. To get through it I have to remember my two favorite quotes: “Optimism is true moral courage.” – Sir Earnest Shackelton, and “The biggest man you ever did see was once just a baby.” – Bob Marley I’m not going to explain what they mean to me. You guys are smart enough to interpret for yourself. Just know this, it seems like it’s going to work. I think that we’ll get through it. Until next time, enjoy hot water and solid bowel movements. H- P.S. If you read all this way you are probably either wishing I would shut up and are glad that it’s almost over, or you actually like what I have say and care for our well being. If it’s the latter, don’t be afraid to send us a package every now and then. Some things we absolutely need but can’t find down here are: Breath Right nasal strips. I’ve got a deviated septum and with all the dust and shit in the air it is sometimes hard to breath at night. The CVS brand is fine. I like small/medium.Contact solution. Renue, No Rub.Sterile Saline solution. It’s for rinsing contacts before going in the eyes. It comes in an aluminum spray can and can be found at CVS too. Softball equipment. For youth and adults.New Castle Brown Ale Lastly, I promise to try and update the blog with much more frequency so that I don’t have to write such long ass entries. Thanks for reading.

Me and my first pupusa

Volcan San Vicente

Entry # 3

The First Two Weeks

We have officially been a part of Peace Corps for two weeks. That is not really much to brag about but there are a few interesting details worth sharing.

Our group met up in D.C. and we spent two days getting to know each other and talk about what we were feeling and what we might expect. We also talked about health and security too – just enough to make everybody nervous. Then we boarded a plane and flew to San Salvador.

We breezed through customs and immigration. Boarded a waiting bus and were off to San Vicente. Most of the transportation here is old school busses from the U.S. The differences are that all the busses have names like Jesus Cristo, custom paint jobs complete with flames and pin stripes and deafening sound systems. Our driver was blasting and ‘80s mix (which included favorites from Survivor, Europe and Men at Work) while overtaking cars and trucks on the opposite side of the road.

The Pan American Highway

We spent two nights in San Vicente at La Hotel Parque Central. The description in Lonely Planet is quite accurate. However, the bar was air conditioned and rather nice. By the way that was the last time we had any beers. Drinking isn’t very common here except for drunks. But don’t worry we’ll soon find a way. That time spent in San Vicente was primarily orientation to PC El Salvador, health issues (vaccinations, med kits, etc.), security, financial, language evaluation and cultural norms. Basically, it was a lesson on how to stay safe and healthy and how not to offend people. After that we went off to live with our host families.

Our Room

We were broken up into groups of four or five based on language levels and which program we’re in. For security reasons I am not permitted to divulge specific site information, but I can say that we are all living in communities within 30-40 minutes of San Vicente.

Cat, J.B. and Emily, our group

We live right off the Pan American Highway. Literally, I could through a rooster from our yard into the middle of the highway. Now if I could only get my hands on one of those #$%&@* roosters.

Meeting our host family was like being dropped off at kindergarten on the first day of school. We didn’t know what to say, how to act and the comfort and security we felt among our English-speaking American colleagues was gone. Not only that but we were something quite new to them. Even though they have had four trainees live with them in years past, it still felt like we were the show.

Our host family is huge too. There is Niña Reyna, three of her kids – two with spouses – and five grand kids. That’s 11 in all plus us. Not only that, but there are people dropping by all the time. I think they’re all family too. It’s hard to keep up.

Emily and Niña Reyna

Now that we’ve been with them almost two weeks we’re becoming quite accustom to daily life. We wake up along with everybody else around 5:30 or 6:00, have a bucket bath, eat a massive breakfast. I am not kidding when I say massive. I’m not sure if they think all Americans are big eaters or if they think we’re too thin, and in comparison we are. Whatever the case we get a lot of food. Seriously, yesterday I was served two plantains and four ham sandwiches for breakfast. I ate it all.

A few of the kids

After breakfast we are either on a bus to San Vicente for technical training (tree planting, composting, etc.) or we stay within the community and have an eight hour Spanish class. Spanish class often includes visiting schools or local farmers. We eat a huge dinner around six or seven. Talk with the family, study Spanish, watch a little of whatever movie they have on (they have a DVD player and love American movies) then off to bed about nine.

And that’s it. It’s beginning to feel like normal life. I don’t know if it’s because I’ve been through this kind of experience once before or what, but I’m really not going through culture shock. I think Emily is feeling the same.

Some of the Family at Cerro de Pavas

Saggy beds, pit toilets, bucket baths, foreign food, crammed busses, roosters, giant spiders, sweltering heat, intestinal distress (not yet); it all seems pretty normal. It’s just life in a developing country.

This thing is as big as the palm of my hand

It's the final countdown. Our bags are packed, we're ready go...

I've partied as much as could this week. Played lots of golf and disc golf. Went to a tigers game. Watched the wolverines lose again.

We leave tomorrow for D.c. We have some last minute weight adjustments for our bags, a little cleaning and then some hanging out and decompression.

Once in D.C. we hope to meet up with some of my family, aunts and uncles and my Mom. We also want to meet up with several friends we have in the D.C. area. So many social engagements, so little time.

The best news of the day is that we were able to find a good foster home for Natty Dread. Emily's cousin, Katy and John, in Ann Arbor came through at the last minute. The cat has great place to stay and doesn't have to go through the trama of a six hour flight to California.

Thankyou Katy and John.

This is all for now. Maybe one more post before we reach El Salvador.

See you all in a few years.

H-

We have just over a week left before we leave the United States for two years. We will be heading to El Salvador for 27 months to serve as Peace Corps volunteers.

With this blog I will attempt to keep an online journal of our adventures and experiences during our service as volunteers in El Salvador. I will also be posting pictures and video when appropriate. I hope that people will find this entertaining and feel free to add comments and ask questions as often as they like.

This is my first entry:

We leave on Friday, Sept. 14, 2007 and head to Washington DC. We will have two days to play around in the city before we have to check in with the Peace Corps and begin our orientation

With a short amount of time left we are frantically rushing around trying to tie up all our loose ends: packing, buying supplies and saying our goodbyes. It is really difficult to think of everything one may want or need for the next two years. Even though Peace Corps does a good job with their "packing list" you never know what else you may want.

How many yo-yo's should I bring? What about my juggling clubs? My kite? So many things to decide. I only get to bring two suitcases. 40 lbs each, 80 lbs total. For two years that's not a lot of stuff.

What is even harder than packing is deciding what not to bring. So many little things that made life comfortable and easy just won't fit into my bags.

One of the hardest things we have to do is find a suitable home for our cat. Unfortunately, no one here in Michigan is willing to take it. I can't count how many times I've heard "my cat doesn't get along with other cats," "we already have too many animals" or "I'm allergic."

I have to give big props to my Mom for coming through on the cat situation. We just have to find away to get him to California. If anyone wants a trip to Ann Arbor from Riverside, we'll pay for airfare. The only catch is you have to return with our cat and deliver him to my Mom.

Anyway, this is enough for now. I will probably post one or two more times as new thoughts, ideas and comments occur to me. I hope you all have a great two years and don't worry too much about us. We will be fine, return safe and see you in two years.

Free yourself and feed your mind, love life and enjoy your time.

Hans