“In the life of a New Yorker, there are several unpleasant things one will inevitably have to face: having your bag stolen, public urination…”

…and I believe what follows is “having the door that swings behind a businessman carrying a Starbucks-to-go-cup slam on your face.”

I am known as the Carrie Bradshaw of La Montana, El Salvador… Besides for the fact that I am not a tiny, skinny, bouncy blonde, nor do I wear any designer clothes… or have a 100 pairs of $4,000 shoes… I don’t even have finished floors in my house for that sake. Imagine?

But as I sit with my legs up on my wooden bench, typing away and re-reading out loud, I cant help but feel like this is my own New York column. That I am an sweet, innocent young gal just trying to find her way in a world of bustling strangers. That this is my mode of communication with the world. And, yes, maybe I have been hauling water for a week street since it hasn’t been falling, and, yes, Im sorry, but I often drip-dry because the majority of my neighborhood doesn’t use toilet paper, and okay, fine, yes sometimes I wear the same shirt twice without washing it… But, I sometimes like to imagine I am Carrie Bradshaw. I sit outside with my neighborhood ladies, on some plastic chairs and benches and we chat over brunch. Leslita is 7, Catherine is 9, Marjo is 11, we gossip about last nights telenovelas and brunch is peeling mangos and dipping them in a handful of salt, but we do it in our most-fanciest vestidos and most-limpias flip-flops. Later on, I strut my stuff down a good old Salvadoran village street with the confidence of a real New York woman. The street is a dirt path and the confidence only comes because I know no matter what assortment of rags I pull on, the 15 road workers I pass will whistle.

Actually, I am the first person of La Montana who has come to know of Carrie and it was, in fact, El Salvador that took my full-episode- “Sex and the City” virginity. (Will they even let me back into Manhattan after that release of information?) So, I guess I should re-phrase. I am known as the New Yorker living in La Montana. And lets be honest, this is no Sex and the City...nor anything that has to do with the name of it.

As I watch Carrie pay for a $15 brownie with my 15 cent tortilla in hand, I wonder which one of us is the crazy one?

They say “every blessing is a curse” but I think down here sometimes we are forced to look at it the other way around. I mean, there IS something, so liberating in the feeling of ice-cold water slapping at your skin while you bathe outside beneath the beaming sun and with the fallen leaves of the neighboring mango tree collected at your feet. There IS joyous laughter in the breaking of a $3 pair of sandals, as you try hitching a ride along the roadside back to your no-named-street little village. There IS satisfaction in the freedom you get dangling in your hammock, while spitting orange seeds onto your unfinished floor. Imaginese?

Sometimes, the things we curse, may very just well serve a most beautiful purpose.

New York and La Montana are VERY different. But do NOT get me wrong, in El Salvador there are many stolen purses and much more public urination.

My heart is torn in two.

Today, standing in the back of a pickup truck, riding to town, was like a 20 minute vacation. The changing scenery, the sweeping landscape, the kids screaming “saluuu” on the road side, cows grinding the browning grass, all while I swing back and forth, face into the wind.

As my days dwindle down in La Montana, I start to wonder what I will miss most. While the answer flashes before my eyes like a Polaroid film strip of smiling faces, I count the second-runners-up.

The view from my house of the mountains in the morning.

My beloved mangy dog, scratching at the door in the morning and then bouncing after the neighbors roosters.

The toots and calls of the passing “camion”, chuck full of sweaty “jugadores”.

A cold swim in the country river, head-to-toe clothed.

Greasy pupusas, but more importantly the burnt fingertips from trying to tear those suckers apart.

But there is no doubt, what holds first place in my heart. Its those faces. Lili and Karime. Leslith, Caterine, Marjori. Jilmer, Gerson and David. Dora and Nena. Leo. Otinia. Franklin, Damian, Miguel and Cristian. Gerson, Efrian and Lucinda. And all the parents, uncles, grandmas and grandpas that come with them.

I am going to miss their curls. Their speckle-toothed smiles. The giggles. The running after Vaquito. The drawings. The soups shared and sodas spilled. The time I said this and the time she did that. Watching them march the dirt roads with “lena” on their backs or “guacales” of “masa” on their heads. The way they talk to each other across the fence like some regular old granny neighbors. Their kiddie hugs and their kiddie hands. The way they say “jeyymiiii” when they see me. Or sometimes “profe”, or “papito” when theyre feeling real funny.

The moments. The understandings. The misunderstandings. The occasions. The times just purely paseando.

That makes me think of Christmas.

There is no way I will ever be able to compare Christmas in New York with my first Christmas in El Salvador…and so I am glad that I will not have to. Because instead, I will talk about my most memorable Christmas-Eve-EVE, EVER.

It started with a 5am wake-up call and a 6am bus ride out. The next 5 hours were spent running back and forth to my dear friend’s car, Christmas-preparation shopping. For those of you unfamiliar with Christmas in the campo, this does not mean stuffed animals, board games, play-dough… nor Gucci bags, rolex watches or whatever it is Carrie wears these days, kind-of-shopping. This means, 5 pounds of potatoes, green peppers, tomatoes, and a whole lot of consome-de-pollo. This means canastas basicas and cellophane- wrapped balons de futbol. This means, my poor, abused friend and I were running around 1000s of Salvadorans sweating our asses off in the most horrendous market in the world (San Miguel), preparing for a Bridge Inauguration and Community Christmas Party.

But that morning of misery paid off. I beamed from ear to ear as I watched a group of girls create pinatas from a workshop we had given awhile back. These piñatas would be used for our Christmas Party 

Later that evening, we had a Christmas celebration with my Artesania Group. I talked about remembering the first time I orgaznied the group. How hard it was for me, and how nervous I was. And now, 2 years later, look how far we had come.

They surprised me with amazing speeches, a sweater, a necklace, earrings and bracelet, a dress designed by them and 2 pages of lovely letters. It took my breathe away. I was so surprised and happy that I don’t think I have stopped smiling until now. Wait, let me check the mirror…they gave me wrinkles.

As the time is drawing near to say goodbye, people ask me if I am sad to leave. Others ask me if I am happy to go see my family. Am I sad? Or am I happy? Well, what damn good questions.

New York or El Salvador? The city or the countryside? Paved floors or fresh air? Toilets or toilet paperless? Stolen purses or public urination?

Two years here have been very hard. In ways many of you will probably never understand. (oh how true they saying “to walk in another mans shoes”). And I could never put it into words. But these two years have also been very amazing. They have changed my life.

So, how do you say goodbye? And then, how do you say hello?

Its quite apparent that this blog entry has no overall theme. I wanted to talk about Christmas. I wanted to talk about the hard times here and how I have turned them into experiences. I wanted to talk about coming home. I wanted to show you how I may just be the next Carrie Bradshaw. I don’t think this entry passes the requisites for a proper paper for any of the aforementioned themes.

However, it is the perfect blog. Because, that is where I am right now. In f-ing Never Never Land. I am confused. Peace Corps has given us little over a month to finish our projects, our reports, our interviews, our paperwork, our health exams and logistics, all the meanwhile saying goodbye to our new friends and families. And I am supposed to make sense of it all.

I am going to be totally honest. I don’t know. I don’t know what I am feeling. I don’t know if I am sad. I don’t know if I am happy. I don’t know if my dog is better off getting hit by a car in NY or starving in ES. I don’t know if my community will remember me, I don’t know if anyone at home cares I can milk a cow. I don’t know if I want a real job. I don’t know if I can live poor the rest of my life. I don’t know if I will miss them forever, or forget them in a year. I don’t know if I can make it at home. I don’t know if I can last down here. I don’t know if you will remember me. I don’t know if I have changed. I don’t know if you are who I remember you to be. I don’t know if you have changed. I don’t know who I am, who I was, or who I am going to be. I just don’t know.

If it makes you feel better, I will tell you what I DO know. I do not want to stay. But I do not want to say goodbye. I want to see my family. I want to stay with Lili and Karyme, Gerson and Efrian, Nena and Marilyn, Dora and Otinia. I want to walk up and down NYC, eating great bagels and slices of thin-crusted pizza. I want pupusas 3 for a dollar. I want nice clothes. I want to forever not care about what I am wearing. I want nice restaurants and to be able to drink good drinks (with alcohol) publicly. I want to eat with my hands. I want a hot shower. I want to pour a bucket of cold water over my head under a sky full of stars, breasts for the whole community to see. Well, that’s just how it is here. Like it, or not, Carrie.

Do you feel better? Now you know how I feel.

Be it what it will; see you March 14.

It has been so long since my post that I have actually become to fear my own blog. When friends and family ask about it, I shy away awkwardly, fake left and then jolt the other direction. When I scan my facebook and see other Peace Corps volunteers have published something, I frantically quadruple click my mouse encima the X on the top right corner of my internet page.

But as life has cold-heartedly taught me, the only way to overcome your fears is to face them.

And so you find me here, staring you, JaimeinPC.blogspot.com, in the face. Yes Im slightly chapuda in shame, and yes I am uncertain of how my readers will receive this, but there is no turning back now.

So, how, you ask, will I come to explain all that has happened since September 2011? In the following unorganized, confusing, spontaneous, incoherent paragraph. Please stop reading now if you have a headache, or foresee one.

My father visited for a beautiful week in September, but abruptly left me on my doorstep, alone yet again, with nothing but a few monkey-nail scars and a suitcase full of American-brand coffee. My Peace Corps Partnership Project was approved and my amazing friends and family helped me with $5,810 to build a bridge in my community. December 23, 2011 the bridge was finished and we had an AMAZING Inauguration followed by community Christmas party. I drank table wine and ate 17 bread with pulled chicken sandwiches. My Youth-Jewelry Group bought me a sweater and made me a dress, earrings, necklace and bracelet for Christmas… all with skills learned and money earned through this group. Brought me to tears. My dog abandoned me for another chucha in the community…he will soon be a proud father. I went to Costa Rica for my birthday where I was overwhelmed by how expensive things were (okay maybe El Salvador is cheap), but had an amazing time with my best friends Kim and Jackie (and Adrien). My community dirt road is becoming paved and I now live beside a large hole and a CAT giant machine. Barca beat Madrid over a hundred times. I went to Guatemala for New Years where I had another amazing time…besides for New Years Day where I was assaulted for the third time (gun point). Im fine and safe and actually got away (running- thank you pink sneakers) unharmed. I hiked the Parque Imposible (National Park Impossible). I did a Flea Market fundraiser that gained me lots of points with the community. I ate liver. El Salvador was listed First as most violent country in the word. And Peace Corps decided to take drastic measures to secure the situation in Honduras, Guatemala and El Salvador… evacuating volunteers from Honduras, and temporarily suspending the program in Guate and ES. Looks like I may be home early.

It is probable that I will write another blog soon, explaining selected parts of this disarray of words further. But for now, that is what I have been doing.

Hopefully, if you are a donor to my bridge project, you received an email with photos or have seen my facebook. The project was an enormous success and I owe every ounce of it to you guys.

Hopefully, if you were somebody who used to be a dedicated “JaimeinPC.blogspot.com” reader you will excuse my hiatus and accept me back into your blog-life.

Hopefully, I gain the courage to put these 3 months of blog-neglect behind me, and once again shower you with my words of wisdom from down here in chicken-ville for the short-sweet time that remains.

I’d heard it a million times before, but it took a true encounter to really feel it’s effects: “Sometimes it takes a monkey to remind us what is really important”.

Okay maybe I am remembering it wrong.

But all I know is that Soledad and her spider-monkey companions touched the hearts of my father and I in a remarkable way.

You see in a tiny section of southern El Salvador, in the department of Usulutan and the Bay of highly-un-pronouncable Jiquilisco, there is a protected section of mangroves that hides the only habitat of precious monos in the country. These little monkeys were discovered by a little old man who lives in a little old house tucked away in this little old village. As he will share with you if you ever happen to stumble across this hidden gem, two or three monkeys began to appear by his house when he relocated after the civil war. In his torn collared shirt and with one eye carefully watching over this two naked grandchildren playing beneath the guineo trees, he will tell you in his own words how he innocently placed bananas on the ground and he slowly gained the monkeys trust. Forty years have passed and the monkeys have multiplied to become twenty. The old man still lives in the same old ranch working in the same old fields and he will admit to you that he still knows not a damn old thing about how to raise monkeys.

“Can I hold one?” I ask, playing the part of dumb-tourist waiting to get her camera stolen and eyes scratched out.

“You know, I heard you can get them to do that. Some lady told me there’s a program on TV that will teach you how to hold a monkey. But I don’t have electricity” the old man casually replies.

So they don’t do tricks. You can’t really cradle Soledad and then expect her to put on a bicycle show for you. You won’t see this old man and his family sitting down to a spaghetti dinner with organgutan-Jim and his friends.

It’s just a guy, who lives in a ranch and every so often holds out some bananas while making some jungle sounds and the monkeys come-a-swinging through the trees and hang out for awhile.

It’s as simple as that and there is something so beautiful about it all.

There is one monkey, who was placed in a cage after the other monkeys through her from the trees and left her for dead. This monkey, Soledad, was found in a different area, after her habitat was destroyed. Unfortunately, the monkey tribe from the Bay of Jiquilisco refused to accept her and old man was forced to put her up in a tiny cage for her own protection.

This is the one who will reach out and gently ask for you to hold her hand, as she hides her face with pena.

I believe my father felt the same compassion, the same grief, longing, the same desire for companionship in the hands of Soledad as I did when she reached out to us.

I have read it a million times. I see it everyday. I say it myself. But yet none of us ever seem to want to accept it. Really, nothing matters in life besides companionship; the relationships we form with people. Money comes and goes. Jobs are jobs. We can overcome most any hardships that come our way. But loneliness destroys us.

To share compassion with another human being, another soul, Curious George even, fills us with an invaluable treasure.

And so it was that monkeys laid the footwork for my father’s visit to El Salvador.

From the airport rent-a-car to waking up at the beach on Day 1, our trip was full of fun and a lot of luxuries that I was not exactly used to in my time here. But far more memorable than the 3 lbs of good coffee and the bus/chicken-free day trips, were the conversations, the new experiences, the smiles and laughter shared with my Dad that week in El Salvador.

Day 2 we enjoyed El Boqueron, the infamous volcano of San Salvador where my Dad experienced his first “hike” and we enjoyed fresh cheesecake on the misty cliff of the mountainside. In the capital city we “enjoyed” some cow heart and liver for dinner before checking out the Salsa dance scene in a local bar. Up early the next day, we started the 4 hour drive to my quaint little community in North-Eastern El Salvador.

That Friday afternoon the town Adult Literacy Group was celebrating their successful year and asked me to give a few words, as I had been working with them for the past 2 years as well. My Dad watched, mostly dumbfounded as he witnessed his first day of complete Spanish Language Immersion. The community watched, equally dumbfounded, as my 6 foot tall, 250 lb “Godfather”-father towered through the community.

The next three days were spent exploring La Montana, from ducking into tiny mud-huts to accepting many plates of beans, rice and cuajada. My Dad tried diligently to communicate with the many little children who stared shamelessly up at my father’s Italian eyes, but I can promise you they were much more interested in his great pansa than the words that were coming out of his mouth.

We hiked up to the waterfalls (and then stumbled down them, nearly taking Franklin’s life), shared a few drinks with the local bolos after tasting Dora’s famous pupusas and headed to bed amongst the neighborhood’s barking chuchos and squaking roosters. I slept tranquilo through these quite welcomed community sounds, only to be disturbed by my Dad ringing out his wet laundry.

Monday morning we started to drive west, making a quick detour to drop off my friend Modesta at a local pig farm. It was that first day that we stumbled across the monkeys and also the first opportunity for my Dad to speak English as we spent the night at a private Yacht Club.

We took a little boat right across the Bay where I learned a lot about my Dad’s childhood growing up in Queens and starting a newspaper business with his older brother. I quietly listened to his interesting stories about what made his life what it is, and grin now remembering some parts that I probably shouldn’t write about.

He asked me questions like if I remembered the first day we saw our boat that would later become “King James”, that would hold many hiding-place-cabinets for my sister and I’s hide-and-seek games. The boat that would take traditional summer trips to see the MACY’s July 4th fireworks and be a platform for diving off into the warm coves of Hamburg.

Questions of my first childhood memory, Christmas Eve family parties and growing up with three sisters, all carefully designed by my mother to study hard, play soccer, take piano lessons, eat carrots and always be polite.

We spent the night in a beautiful little 2-story cabin tucked among the mangroves and had breakfast with a Canadian couple who had been sailing around the world for quite some time. Then we continued our journey out west, where we stopped to have lunch at the Port and then drove way out to the Lake of Coatepeque in Santa Ana. We had some dinner overlooking this beautiful crater lake where we ran into a travelling European Shakespeare group. It was quite lovely and rather odd to have stumbled upon this proper theatre ensemble, but the new company and interesting talk was welcomed.

From there we continued out to Ahuachupan where we had dinner and drinks in Ataco with a fellow volunteer. The next morning was spent exploring this beautiful little pueblo where the streets are decorated in amazing artwork and the stores will have you lost in an Alice-Wonderland.

Driving back towards the capital, through the winding roads of the coffee farmlands, we ran into The Waterfalls of Don Juan where we took a quick detour to see the falling-falls. Then it was back to civilization as my heart began to ache as the timekeeper lost his holding on time.

We enjoyed a sushi dinner at Mai Tai and maybe a few cuba libres before it was all over too quickly.

My week with my father was a very happy week. I was really proud to show him what I am doing here, to introduce him to the people I have met and who have come to “raise” me, and proud to show him this country that is often overlooked as a place to fall in love with.

I am happy here and in the work I am doing here and vow to continue my search for a happy life. That is why it was so important to have my Dad here with me to witness it. To share it.

The Art of Happiness says “And as we begin to identify the factors that lead to a happier life, we will learn how the search for happiness offers benefits not only for the individual but for the individual’s family and for society at large as well.”

My experience here has been truly amazing, and to be able to share it with my father, who I think greatly feared/disliked the idea of me coming here in the first place, has been lo maximo. I mean, if you grew up knowing my Tony Soprano, Goodfellas loving, pinky-ring-wearing-Dad, you probably would have never pictured him roughing it in rural El Salvador. But I have the photos to prove it.

And the memories that will last a lifetime.

NUMBER 1....

Right now I am at the Professional Development Camp for youth that was made possible by donations from friends and family at home.

I want to sincerely thank you all for donating and supporting my projects here in El Salvador. I am amazed by the successful experience our community kids are having at this camp, as I watch them on day 2. The change in their demeanor, the confidence they have already gained, the laughter, the new friendships, the bright eyes, is very rewarding.

Many of these kids have traveled across the country and are spending 2 nights with a new group of kids from around El Salvador. My fellow 8 PCVs and friends and I have designed this camp to provide Professional Development skills to deserving youth. After months of planning and fundraising, it has been exciting and highly rewarding to see the camp at work and the kids progress.

I want to Thank Everyone who donated for making this amazing opportunity possible. Soon you shall see photos posted on Facebook!

NUMBER 2....

For the past few months, my Community Development Team in La Montana and I have been designing the plans and work committees to build a foot-bridge over a creek in my community. Hundreds of men, women, and children cross this creek to get to school, to the coffee fields, or to the town center. During this time of year, the creek floods making the passage near-impossible.

I have been approved my Peace Corps to make this project possible through writing a Peace Corps Partnership Grant which is posted on the official PeaceCorps.gov project website, under my last name.

If you would be able to spare some fancy dinner money or some happy hour specials to this cause, it would be immensely appreciated.

I have agreed to extend my service to see this project through if needed and while I love La Montana and its members, I deeply miss my family and friends at home and hope that I will be back to see them as planned in March!

So every DAY counts. If you can afford to donate, please DO IT, and most politely, DO IT NOW!!!!!

Thank you so much in advance.

Thank you to those who have already donated. Thank you to those who read. Thank you to those who care and support and love and are spreading the love!

xoxoxo

from El Salvador

Listen

Let our breath be gentle wind,

Let our ears be of those who listen,

Let our hearts be not ones

That rage so quickly and

Thus blow dramatically,

And uselessly.

Let our spirits attend and be

Most diligent to the soft

Yet desperate whisper of

Hope and peace for our world.

-Mattie J.T. Stepanek

Ambassador of Humanity

It was 5:05am. I was freshly bathed, hair still well and toes rubbery. I swung my backpack around onto my lap and strategically placed one-full and half-the-other butt cheek on the miniature bus benches, using my right hand to brace myself for the dips and climbs and my left hand to cradle my bundle of capital clothes and hot-water-awaiting toiletries tucked safely in my mochila.

My eyes were just rolling back in my head as some old feller (or perhaps young lad) stomped his green rubber boots upon my helpless left foot and I sprung ferociously back to life. Alls I saw was the back of his head as he anonymously marched away and I stared down at the victim that was my foot. Covered in mud, with pieces of corn stalk and grass creeping out from between the crevices, I wondered what percentage of the guck was cow maneur. In my head I replayed the scenario over and over, right eye twitching uncontrollably and mouth taut. My eyes were beating down on my toes like those of hypnotized Aladdin under Jafar’s evil trance and for an undefined period of time I lost all sense of human character traits. Im not sure if it was the frustration of the return to dirty-campo-toes or the actual worms and critters living in the muck upon my foot, but the agony began eating me alive. My left foot began scraping itself against the bus bench in front of me in a desperate attempt to quitar the foot-parasites. I’m not actually sure what else was happening to my body in those moments of internal rage but I can imagine my body rocking back and forth (as I relive this awful memory) and my fingers tapping rhythmically.

My trance was disturbed as a guy my age sitting across from me reached across and handed me a napkin.

My face immediately turned red as my ridicul-osity (some words just make sense even if they don’t appear in Websters) dawned on me. I feared how long this guy had watched me suffer over a dirty pinky toe. Although by that moment I was beyond all concept of time. I cleaned myself off, returning to my abnormal state of having mud-less toes, in a total of 37 seconds and graciously/shamefully thanked my good Samaritan.

The rest of the trip I had random fits of giggles over the mess that I became at the site of my tainted toes, interspersed with revels of my once again sparkling foot.

My month has been marked with stores like this; dreadful nightmares alleviated by wonderful awakenings.

A few weeks ago I came back from that bus trip to find out my beloved chucho had been run over by a car. Before you worry, my dog is alive and well (with the exception of a mangled tail). But for a good week or so, I was not sure. And while I was pained by Vaquito’s suffering, I was glad to see that he had finally learned his lesson and was no longer chasing the passing motorcycles or throwing himself Extreme-Sport-style in front of pick-up trucks.

The story I was told by my 9-year old neighbor was that he “quedo muerto” (was lying for dead) on the side of the road for awhile, after a long fit of ear-piercing yelps for help. It was then that his mara of neighborhood dog-buddies came to his rescue, lifting Vaquito on their backs and dragging him to safety.

I would love to think this as true and am awaiting offers for his leading role in Lady and the Tramp 3. But however it came to be, I am very grateful for his survival. A week he laid upon my dirty patio, echar-ing a smell that I thought was quite indicative of his demise, and I prayed silently for his peace. I even went to the nearest vet I could find and bought him some meds and while the expiration date read November 2007, I was confident he would pull-through. And he did.

And now, I worry practically never for his survival among the moto’s and pick-ups. The bucking bulls and kicking caballos are another story…

Nightmare number 3 can be explained in 2 words: rainy season. If there is one thing I took for granted in New York, it was mold-less clothes. Things just don’t dry here. My clothes were on the line after a weekend by the beach, as a few rays of sun were beaming down upon them in their best efforts to beat the 4pm showers. However, without warning, the hot day turned sour in a matter of seconds as the rain began to fall. I began tearing my clothes down from the line like a maniac, my neighbor and good friend Lucy running to help. As we repositioned the clothes on a line inside my home to await their moldy destiny, Lucy asked me why I washed my other neighbor, Karime’s clothes. Karime is 5. For a few moments I was confused, and then as she gentley placed my mini-jean shorts (stolen from my sister on her visit and ONLY wore when my community is NOWHERE in site) on the line. You see, women in the countryside DO NOT show anything above the knee. My jean shorts worn at the beach and small tank tops could only be perceived as Karimes. Fortunately, my explanation was not needed as we began to hear a pelting sound on my tin roof and ran to look out the windows. It was hailing! Well never in my year and a half here did I think it would ever hail in El Salvador! How cool…

My final story is yet again about the lack of privacy I have here in my little house. I honestly think only a handful of days have gone by when I have not had a visitor. Sometimes my blood starts curdling at the sound of approaching “strangers”. And I feel bad about it, I do. I know they are all in good intentions. And I really love them as people, I do. But sometimes, you just wanna be alone. You wanna read in the hammock or do yoga without someone staring at you.

There is one family, in particular, that comes by for no good reason. I have learned though, I think, to stay in good spirits. To appreciate the fact that they want to spend time with me. And so, as I played with my 4 year old friend the other day, I laughed instead of lamented. As we spent the day listening to Aventura while coloring and then dancing to “Si no le contesto se desespera”, I got to know Franky on a different level. Before he left, his mother asked if he could use my shower, since they do not have running water at his house. I let them, of course, and then Franky and I styled his hair together in the mirror. Before they left that day, his mom told me that he says “Im going to Jaimes house” whenever she is mad at him. That put a smile on my face…for a long time.

As I was reading that poem pasted above by Mattie Stepanek, I was inspired to write this blog. Because amazing things happen when you really listen. Listen to the peace and beauty in the world. Sometimes, you have to find it. And sometimes its so obviously right there in front of your face that you forget to acknowledge it. But it is so important to take the time to do so.

Work Hard, Be Happy

El trabajo es como este valle, refleja la energia que pongas en el. No hay trabjao miserable. Si no estas satisfecho, corre el riesgo de cambiarlo todo y dedicarte a lo que amas. Mejor ser alegre con un pequeno salario que infeliz por tener miedo a cambiar.

O sea…

Work is a reflection of the energy you put in. There should not be any such thing as miserable work. If you are not satisfied, run the risk of changing everything and dedicating yourself to what you love. It is better to be happy with a small salary than unhappy because you were afraid to change.

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Today, I am competing for the crown. I am representing the community’s development group as candidata in an effort to raise money for the local Catholic Church. It is kinda like a beauty contest, except the winner is based on who raises the most funds, and not beauty nor dress nor walk nor talent. I’m not sure which I would prefer…being exploited for my money or being the only “white” contestant in a country where anyone and anything white is the most beautiful thing they have ever laid eyes upon. And while a tiara would fit nicely upon my trophy stand (next to our third place plastic futbol tournament award) I am not sure I actually want to win.

Much of my work here involves training and motivating, encouraging and promoting equality. It took a year and a half to show my community that even though I am a gringa, I do not have an unlimited supply of dinero. That, even though I have “white” skin, I am not invincible. That despite the fact I come from el norte, I do not have internet here on my laptop, nor a car, nor does all of my food arrive pre-packaged and prepared from the states. That I, too, ride the bus. I work hard. I play futbol. I studied. I have sisters and my parents, in fact, had to raise me… I wasn’t born into a life of luxury and ease.

So, a bit of me fears winning. Many people have made comments, expecting me to turn over $1,000 of “raised funds” to the church. Other competing candidatas have told me “ay Jaime, vas a ganar”, almost ready to concede their victory to me even before the competition has started. I fear another stupid reason for people to think “white means money” and/or “white is better”.

But despite all of this, I am making the most of the experience. I have less than 6 months left, and I feel honored to be part of this event. I did my best to raise what money I could for the church and whether people expected more or less I am not sure, but at least it is going toward a good cause. I see the day as an opportunity to build more relationships with my community or to strengthen the ones I already have already formed, instead of a competition. And more than anything, I am looking forward to learning more about the culture and just plain ol’ having a good time.

...Upon returning from the candidata event….

The invitation said to be at the church at 10am, so I was ready by 9am, however my counterpart told me to be there at 11am and that someone would come to do my hair at 10:15am. By 11am, still no one had arrived at my house to do my hair so I started walking to the church, arriving at 11:15am, fashionably late (and probably the 4th person to check-in). The majority of the folk arrived at 12:30pm and we started the whole marching ordeal promptly at 1:30pm. And so, somethings in El Salvador will never change and I will eternally be early for each and every public event…

By selling votes for 10 cents a piece to co-workers and community members, I raised a total of $66.05, ranking in at Second Place. I was quite pleased with my title however quickly my pride was stolen as a car passing by called to me “gringuita fea”.

The next hour or so was spent at the mass and as 5pm rolled around I looked forward to walking home…in the rain. However, my counterpart wasn’t ready to throw in the towel as soon as I and she forced me to talk another mile or so to the house of a wheelchair project recipient. The recipient had passed away and we wanted to ask for the return of the wheelchair to give to another person in need. However, upon arrival the lady informed us the wheelchair was already given away and so my next week’s duty would be to visit all of the other recipients to see if they are actually using the wheelchairs... And if not, steal it back. Not sure I am so into doing that.

However melancholy this blog may seem, don’t get discouraged.

On Tuesday, the scholarship winners leave the community. On Wednesday they fly to Wisconsin where they will spend the next 2 years at the University.

We had a going away party for them last week. We went on a big hike to the community waterfalls and I will never forget the moment of them screaming and laughing, heads submerged under the pounding water. I couldn’t stop laughing myself…one of those all encompassing laughters that makes your limbs shake and your cheeks hurt afterwards.

Later we had lunch at their houses where Brock and I told them how proud we were of them. What I didn’t really expect were their words or those of their parents.

They said to us, “You know, we were talking one day at the end of the school year about what we were going to do. There’s no jobs and no money so going to college just is not an option. You gave us this opportunity that we never would have known about if it weren’t for you. You supported us when maybe even our parents didn’t. We want to thank you guys.”

Their parents said, “We are worried about them leaving. We don’t understand how they are going to adjust. Who is going to help them? How will they eat and communicate? We are happy to know you guys because we know you are there for them. You help us understand.”

Later that week, I had a community meeting with my boss and all the people I have worked on projects with. Dora reflected on the first day they decided to put a volunteer in the community. She said, “It is hard being a leader. I feel responsible for the community and I really care about the future development of it but a lot of people criticize me. I felt alone. With Jaime here, I don’t feel as alone.”

The waterfalls moment, the words of the scholarship kids and their parents, Dora and the community leaders, give me the chills. Those are the moments that don’t make me feel like a “gringuita fea”.

Now, Brock, my closest volunteer and friend has retired after his 2 years of service, the scholarships kids are off to my homeland and I am in the home stretch. 6 months to go… so why does it feel like it should be easier than it is?

With the closest volunteer maybe an hour away, I feel more isolated than ever. With too much time left to surrender and not enough time to develop an impactful new project, I feel unmotivated. With a longing to be home, but anxiety to say goodbye, I feel lost.

The worst part of it all (although I am comforted by the fact that I am not the only volunteer who feels this way) is that sometimes it seems, WE (as volunteers) care more about our communities than they do. We are carrying the weight of 400 households on our shoulders. Dora does not know I bear the pain of her failing heart. Maria doesn’t know how I think of her four mal-nutritioned ninos as I sip on my soup and gnaw on my banana.

But how do I keep pushing to help them, when they don’t really care at all themselves?

Well, that’s our job. And when the waterfall hits you in the face one day, you realize… 6 months, a year, two years, all the struggling; it’s worth it. You gotta keep on fighting. Every day is an opportunity.

My friend (and fellow volunteer) Chelsea, made me realize something. In the states, when you ask people who they are, they respond: a doctor, a lawyer, a teacher. Here, they respond: a mother, a wife, a sister.

It is my job to lift my community. Or at least to try. My whole life I have been taught to study, to work, to grow, to fight, to achieve. Most of the people in my community have been fighting to eat, to live, to love and care for their families. I am a teacher. She is a mother. That’s what I have to remember when it comes to motivating people to work.

And I can reflect on what I have accomplished in the past year and a half. Analyze what went well, what went wrong and what I can do better in the next 6 months:

-Strengthening the Community Development Groups and their functions, soliciting new projects, such as:

• Winning 10 Wheelchairs

• Hammock making Course

• Expanding the Community House

• Community Christmas Event & Town Fair

• Diagnostic for Potential Future Water Project

-Artisan Youth Group

• Winning $2,000 for materials

• Making Jewelry

• Learning to work in a group

• Business Skills

• Selling at the Hotel Lenka & International Fairs

• Excursions to the Beach, Museums & Ruins

-Girls Soccer Team

• Winning uniforms, balls & cleats

• Teaching soccer skills, teamwork, & pride

• Hosting first tournament (winning 3rd place, $100 in prizes from local mayors, $100 in tropheys from INDES)

• Hosting the Peace Corps soccer teams

• Town fundraisers to raise $67

-Helping the Community Literacy Group

• Teaching English

• Improving Literacy in Adults

-Teaching Art at S. Lucas

• 2nd-9th Grade Art classes

-Computers

• Winning 15 computers ($1,500) from mayor for the school

-Planning a Business Camp

-Teaching English at L. Montana

• 4th-7th Grade English Classes

• Letter Exchange Program with Mrs. Brown’s Class

• Winning 2 Environmental Education textbooks

• Competing in Environment Ed Competition by creating a School Garden

-Sports Program at the school

• Winning $500 for sports equipment for the school (first year Phys Ed class)

-Self-Defense for Women Workshop

-Scholarships

• 2 winners from my community to study 2 years in the states

Perspective and the Theory of Relativity are two important notions to aknowledge in the Peace Corps. By this I mean the difference between seeing your pila as half- empty or half- full can be the determining factor in how your day starts, and that’s before you had even considered the fact that a half-empty pila is a fully-full pila to a man who has no water.

One minute I was standing under the comfort of a plastic tarp that was housing a table of various vegetable offerings, taking a break from the sun and contemplating the purchase of 4 bananas for 2 quarters. The next minute rain was beating down so hard on the temporary roof above that I startled myself and dropped a quarter, sending it pinging and rolling down the river-esque road of Gotera, soon to be in the hands of a lucky winner. I returned the bananas to their respective positions with a snarl. I cursed my clumsiness, the backpack on my back, the 8lbs of dog food piled on top of a week worth of vegetables and powdered milk, as water pelted my pedicured-less toes.

I stood there whining (still not sure if it was silently or outloud to myself) and considered letting my arms drop, tomatoes splattering and potatoes plundering, kicking the box of leche, throwing myself to the ground and rolling side to side in a nina malcriada fit.

It was then that I recognized a pick-up and my friend abruptly came to a halt.

I threw my bags in the back and piled in…wearing a “I’m-a-little-wet-but-it’s-no-big-deal-at-all-Im-a-Cuerpo-de-Paz-way-tougher-than-you-no-sweat grin.” Inside I was all “gracias a Dios”.

Walking in the rain sucks. Squishing wet and smelly people on an unventilated bus with people’s muddy shoes trampling your feet sucks. Slow moving vehicles suck. Pick-ups, good.

We pass an old man bearing a cane taking 2 steps a minute. 1 step behind is a 7 year old child. They have no umbrella, yet they don’t seem to notice the rain. They have no jackets, they look cold, but they don’t wear signs of it on their faces. I have noticed so many people like this in my community. After a certain period of time, do you begin to not feel the rain? Or do you just know how to not let it show?

We slow and ask where the couple is going. “Allinomas”. Literal translate: right over there, no further. Interpretation: they actually may be going right over there, but they are probably going 5 blocks further, up and around the curve, down the bend and a sharp right. As we pull past them, I turn back adoringly, wondering if it is the young child who cares for his old grandpa or vice versa.

There are a lot of things I can quejar about down here. But the truth is, at the end of the day I feel rather foolish about it. Last night I sat up late chatting with Don Jorge at my neighbor’s house. His wife proudly handed me a boiling bowl of vegetable soup and I gratefully accepted. I initially had been sorta rushing to get outta there, truth be told, because I had not been home all day and in my mind I was quite literally starving. As I was eating, one of Jorge’s 6 living in his house grandchildren climbed into his lap in the hammock. “You know these kids have a meal to eat everyday?” Jorge told me. “I work hard to make sure they always have something on their plates. And they still complain. I work hard. I owe some money but I know how important it is to keep them well fed.” He looked at me with pride in his eyes as he lovingly caressed Kilmer’s head.

“When I was a kid, we ate hard tortillas with salt and drops of lime. I was really mal- nutritioned. We lived in a poverty that, hmph, that was poverty. I know how important it is to keep your kids good and fed” He continued and then gazed up at the ceiling.

I sipped on my soup, now feeling a pain in my stomach. I knew that was not his intention, but I cursed myself for all the times I have complained.

Kilmer looked over at me, his cheek still resting on Papi’s stomach, and smiled. Now this family is blessed in many ways, their kind hearts and beautiful family, but I’m sorry, the dimples take the gold. You know, this little boy, he can be a real pain…like all little kids. But it’s like those dimples have a power over me.

Earlier in the day, Karime ratted out her buddy. “You know what?” She told me, eye brows raised and mouth pursed in her most serious composure, “Kilmer pushed Lili over walking home from school today. Yup, and her hand is cut and her knee is cut, too.”

“Hey Kilmer, did you push my friend Lili today?” I asked him that night. “Yea I did!” He told me excited, proud and giggling a little. “And you know what, she’s got a real good cut on her hand!” He was trying to impress his 2 older brothers.

“Okay, Kilmer. Well, now you gotta apologize buddy because you can’t just go around pushing all my friends! I will have none left to play with. So, let’s practice. I will be Lili and you are Kilmer and it’s the next day at school.”

“Hola, Kilmer. Como estas? Vas para la escuela?”

All the kids startled giggling.

But good old Kilmer, dimples in tact, replied “Hola Lili. Perdoname.” And then he collapsed in my lap in hysterics.

“Okay Kilmer, good job. The other option you have,” I told him “is to sing that song…Te Pido Perdon…”

After which we all started singing and laughing on the floor of Don Jorge’s humble abode.

Relatively speaking, in terms of finances and status, maybe this family does not have it so good. But more and more I have learned that, really, the theory of relativity has little to do on one’s happiness in life. The relationships you have with your family and friends, strangers and even enemies for that matter, will be what makes your life what it stands for. Maybe there are people out there who can roll around on the floor at the end of the day with their piles of money, but I think Kilmer and Lili make much better company.

Love What We Are

Banana = banana. Escuela = school. Bicho = kid

As I sit here writing a Spanish review sheet for my adult English class, much of which is consisted of Spanish words that, in fact, do no exist in the Spanish dictionary, I question my presence for the umpteenth time in this chicken-infested countryside of El Salvador.

It is true that I have less than eight months left to salvage this little community from the disaster of which it is not and I am running out of ganas to do so. Let’s face it, in eight months the students of my adult English class will have forgotten 80% of the words (although most likely 100%) they have learned and will once again not know their culo from their codo (in English that is). So, it dawns on me that while I sit here spending two hours translating banana to banana, biembenidos to welcome (Spanish spelling lessons- much more valuable project) and chucho to dog, I probably could be using my time in a more efficient manner. But fret you not, surely one of my fifteen students will successfully enter the states mojado where s/he will whip out my recently typed up review sheet and say “My name is Jaime”…(afortunadamente, my name works for both genders). And so, my project is deemed effective.

But its every now and then that the “Peace Corps moments” prove to be more important than the small, or sometimes large, successes we find in our community projects.

I headed out west this past weekend for a few reasons. One, because if I headed east I would shortly end up in Honduras and my project scope is El Salvador, two because I was invited to some events at the US Embassy and therefore needed to pass through San Salvador and three because I had plans to visit my best friend Chelsea who coincidentally resides in beautiful Chalatenango, the complete opposite side of the county. Celebrating July 4th and also 50 years of the Peace Corps at the US Embassy was nothing more than magnificent…besides for a rude slap in the face as to what life is like outside of the Peace Corps or outside of the campo. (By the way, for those not understanding, when you think “campo” think “the bush”). But what this entry is really about is my visit to see Chelsea.

We arrived in a beautiful little “tourist” town of El Salvador (when you think “tourist” do NOT think “Disney World”) where I ate the most delicious grilled pineapple and vegetable sandwich of my life and spent the afternoon exploring artesan shops and artwork painted with coffee beans. We spent the night at a quaint little $10 a night hotel, where we slept for approximately 3.5 hours and woke at 4am to catch a ride with the milkman (think milkman) on his little motor boat. At 4:30am sharp we were cruising across Lago Suchitlan where soon after I jerked awake as we nearly collided with our first clients (think livestock). Roberto climbed off the little rowboat, strategically causing it to teeter-totter me back to sleep, and proceeded to milk cow 1 and cow 2. Before I could finish my lovely dream of a Chipotle barbacoa burrito, we were chugging off. Yet again, I awoke as we pulled up a skip-and-a-hop away from Chelsea’s house and I smiled at the lovely site, waved goodbye to the milk man, and headed for her bed (think 5:30am).

We awoke a few hours later and stepped outside to enjoy our home cooked platanos and eggs by the lake. Just as the jealousy sit in that my friend lives on the water and takes a boat to get to her site, the sun reflected off the water, blinding me in the eyes and causing sweat to pour out of my forehead. And so goes it, that every rose has its thorn. We spent the next couple of days teaching her youth how to make recycled jewelry, taking a quick tour of the community and the lake, watching families make cheese and chatting the night away.

To know another community is to get to know your own all over again.

It is time to quote Paulo Coelho…

Amar lo que hacemos es transformor la esclavitud en libertad. =

To love what we do is the transform slavery into liberty.

It can be really hard being here and sometimes I think, what have I done in a year in a half? But I see that we are all doing a lot. And sometimes the “projects” we have do not hold enough to show for all the work that we really do.

And when times get hard, I start to get hard on myself. But I do know, that I am trying hard (keyword here if you have not picked up on it = hard). And that is the most I can ask of myself. So I like to change a little what my good friend Paulo writes and instead say...

To love what we are is to transform slavery into freedom.

We often worry about ourselves…how we look, our weight, our clothes, how much money we’re making, the size of our chest or our biceps or our kankles for that matter.

But it does us no good. If we love ourselves, we release ourselves from this sense of entrapment. To be happy with oneself is to feel this sort of freedom that is so liberating it gives you the power to do anything.

When times start to get hard, I take a look at the bigger picture… At communities like mine and Chelseas and how we each have affected the lives within. At how hard I am trying. About how much of myself I am giving. And I feel good.

So as I often go from journal writer, to blog publisher, to story teller, to spanglish rambler, to motivational speaker, I end on this note:

Put your all into everything you do. Do things will good intentions. Find compassion, share it with others and love yourself. Do what it takes to bring out the best in yourself and love yourself without worrying about your imperfections and what others think of you. I believe you will feel liberty.

If not, think…

Vaca = cow, Chavo = friend, Hot dog (replace New York Accent with spanglish) = hot dog (aka hot dawg).

I never thought I’d say this, but I gave up trying to watch a movie in my house this evening because I couldn’t hear it over the neighbor’s cow’s never-ending moo-ing. Several times I got up from the hammock and peered out the window, expecting to see a calf fall to life from the beckoning vaca. But there was none. 15 months and I still don’t understand a word of their language. Alls I know is I wanted to finish my movie or I wanted a medium-rare Filet Mignon … and neither was happening.

I hate to bore you with the “I’m sick” stories…but I’m sick. After a few days of living in the latrine and a few nights of restless sleep, I was certain the stool sample was unnecessary, as after infection #3 you automatically become a certified-amoeba-diagnoser (you get to put this on your resume after you complete your 2 years of peace corps). Either way, I deposited my specimen at the laboratory and then setup shop in the air-conditioned comfort that only San Sal can offer you in The Savior. I promise you I have been somewhat productive in this downtime, although I can only remember a few hours that I have been awake. These meds are strong and at times I wonder if I’d rather be squatting in my outhouse all week or lying helplessly in my hammock with these headaches. On the bright side (and I think I shamefully speak for most of us gringas) we silently hope we will emerge from this parasitical infection with Marissa Miller stomachs…but it never quite works out that way. Its true that you lose all desire to eat while running back and forth in the rain and mud to the mosquito infested porta-potty… but you do, however, have the ganas to finish the entire box of Oreos your friend sent you, in one sitting. And when that is your only nutrition for the day I promise you each cookie sticks to your love handles and inner thighs so that you can practically read the cookie name bulging out from your skin. That’s what it feels like at least. And so you realize, and wish to divulge to Kelly on The Office, that the parasites…no valen la pena.

So they tell you to wash your hands (believe me, with all the bichos and chuchos, lodo and monte) I never pass up this opportunity. They tell you to bleach your fruits and veges, to filter your water, to say no to frescos and to turn down food that you are not sure has been cooked properly. They tell you not to eat the curtido and the snacks that are sold in little plastic bags on the bus. They tell you to say NO to “fresh” salads and fruit picked right off the trees. And I want to comply.

But upon returning to my house after abandoning my community for far too long, little Leslie walks up with a plate of comida. My head is ringing after a 6 hour journey home (thank you Gotera Special for not running and San Miguel Special for breaking down twice, and for the following bus that was approximately 120 F, and for the next pick-up ride around the dusty rocky roads in which 4 bicyclers passed us) and I want nothing but to be sleeping. But she has a smile that kills you and 2 dimples on her right cheek that you wanna steal away and make your own. And she stomps right up to you as you sit miserable outside in your plastic chair waiting for cell phone service. And she puts the plate of food on your lap, wraps her arms around you and says “Te Quiero Jaime, teeeeeeee quieeeeroooo.” And you say “Te quiero tambien Leslie, me hacia falta”… and you know that you are going to eat that whole plate of food.

After some time out of site, it can be hard to return to the countryside. To the solidarity of living alone, to be the only English-speaker in a Spanish land, to put away your shorts and back-on your long skirts. But it is just the adjustment that is hard. A few days and you remember how you fell in love with how the rain calms the land as it blankets the countryside. You see your little buddies hopping puddles as they head to the molienda and you hear the pito from the soccer field. Fidel asks you to help him practice English and you feel warm inside when you remember he will be shortly leaving for the US to study in a University. You think about some few pending projects and how there are only 9 months left to your service… and you realize you have a lot to do here in this Little Mountain before your time expires.

I have written many times about the struggles I face here. This may be the reason I so often find myself reading such books as those by the Dalai Lama (although I promise you I do read others) and Paulo Coelho. But today, after finishing The Lincoln Lawyer (see I told you so), I decided it was time to bring back out The Art of Happiness.

“Our days are numbered. At this very moment, many thousands are born into the world, some destined to live only a few days or weeks, and then tragically succumb to illness or other misfortune. Others are destined to push through to the century mark…But whether we live a day or a century, a central question always remains: What is the purpose of our life? What makes our lives meaningful?”

-Dalia Lama

I could keep going quoting my favorite parts of this book, but it would be easier just to buy you a copy.

You know what stresses me out sometimes being here? That one day, I will forget what makes life meaningful. I will forget the purpose of life. Because, for me at least, the purpose of life is to be happy. Right here, right now, it’s easy to me. I am doing something I love. I don’t rely on too much, because I don’t need too much. I’m not afraid of losing or ruining what I have, because I have little to lose. No one is judged by the job that they have or the brand of jeans that they wear. I feel more rewarded knowing I helped one child receive a scholarship, than at any job I have ever worked at or pay check I have ever received. I feel more proud jumping up and down, hugging my girls on the soccer team, than any game in any sport I have won in the states.

People have thanked me for joining the Peace Corps. People ask me how I do it. Sometimes I laugh to myself, not in a mocking way, but in a kind of awkward confusion. For me, this experience is a Blessing. I truly feel blessed to be able to be here. I actually fear when it will be over because I do not know if I will ever have the chance to do something like this again. I’m afraid I will lose everything I have learned here. I am afraid I will forget the beauty of this land, of these people, of this experience. I’m afraid I will forget What is the purpose of our life and What makes our lives meaningful.

Last Thursday I sat in a small room crowded with Salvadoran parents, grandparents, brothers, sisters, aunts, uncles, cousins, nieces and nephews. Together we all stood and pledged the Salvadoran flag, approximately 120 Salvadorans and 2 North Americans (fellow volunteer and amigo Brock and I). After a year teaching in the school, I was proud to sing along with the Salvadoran National Anthem. As the song ended, we went to take our seats, but it was then that we heard “Oh say can you see…” on the speakers. We stood back up, as a larger wave of pride rolled through me. A few Salvadorans gawked at us, incredulous to the fact we knew the words…but Brock and I sang along, off-pitch and red-faced. A few others smiled and the bravest of the braved moved their lips along too.

We were at the presentation of 2 students whom we helped win scholarships to study for 2 years in the states. Let me be perfectly honest, by helped, I mean I responded to an email offered by USAID and found a way to pick up the application. I contacted community members to find eligible applicants and was introduced to this young man who will be leaving in August to begin his studies. He is 100% responsible for all of the work he put into winning this scholarship and 100% deserves and needs this opportunity. He was one of 25 out of 400 Salvadoran applicants to win, and standing in the audience that night, I was so very proud. I was proud that he invited me, proud to be a US citizen, proud to be a Peace Corps volunteer, proud to be working in El Salvador and proud of our world.

As I looked around the room, at the smiling faces of family members seeing their loved ones shine, I smiled too. As parents watched with pride as their children exemplified how they would be successful studying the states, I felt pride too. As the children hugged their brothers and cousins, sisters and grandparents and loved them for coming, I loved my family too. As our scholarship recipients, as well as strangers, came to thank us, I felt thankful too. Because who else in the world would ever get to experience something like this? How many people can sit in a room of a hundred strangers, yet feel so recognized? How many people who meet our scholarship recipients in the states, will have shared this moment of joy when they celebrated their success with their friends? How many will know they came from a 2 bedroom house without electricity or covered floor? That they walked the cows to the fields everyday, or cut corn or sang in the church with their little brothers. How many people have gotten to wave and call “Salu!” to them as they marched happily down the muddy road with a pile of firewood on their backs. How many people have gotten to climb to the tippy top of a splashing waterfall with them and then hurry down, nervously laughing as the first few drops of rain began to fall?

As I looked around the room that night at the USAID scholarship recipients and their families, at the smiling faces and the teary eyes, I felt a warmth that I hope to find many more times in my future.

And as I lie here now reading the Dalai Lama, I hope I never betray him in the quest to find happiness.

A lot of thoughts were going through my head as I hitched a ride for the umpteenth time out of La Montanita. The wheels in my mind started turning, as always, to the tune of Bedouin Soundclash "Im on a rocky road, heading down off the mountait slope..." as we rounded the bend and headed toward civilization.

As a kid, I remember getting frustrated with crayons. Id take a break from coloring the pages of my Disney book to eat some Dungaroos (as long as Mommy didnt intercept me first with a bag of baby carrots) and return to a torture chamber: On the table before me lay more than 8 different shades of green (insert scary movie sound effects)...and silly me had left the grass half-painted. Forest green, Jungle green, Lime green, Pleasantville-AYSO-Soccer-Jersey green...how would I ever know the right crayon to use??! WHYYY was it necessary to have so many different green crayons?

And so for years (as 50 cent so eloquently advised)I have been "patiently waiting". Patiently waiting for the day I would come to use all 8 greens of the Crayola pack. The day I would understand WHY my childhood was plagued with nearly-perfect Mickey paintings with just a smear of unmatching green in every field.

Bumping down the mountainside in El Salvador many years and many more crayons later, I yet again have come to curse Crayola. The hills in front of me have clearly been ambushed by those devil page-painters. Not only has each and every shade of green been used until demolishment (is that a word?), but the shades have even been melted down to liquid form and mixed to create EVEN MORE greens. I find myself mesmerized (which I promise you is not an easy feat clinging to the back of a pick up, holding my skirt down, squinting through dust and bouncing voilently) looking at the hills ahead. Each range of mountains is a different green. The layer closest me that lines the road side is Banana Leave Green, the next row in line screams Maguey Plant Green, and that behind reads Rolling Hills Green. There are speckles of Iguana Green and splashes of Bola green. If you look at it all together you get Rejuvinating Green and if you just close your eyes and feel it it feigns Fresco Green.

My point is, I had come to realize why 8 shades of green had been created. The most frustrating part was that for years I cried over those 8 shades, all for the wrong reason. Yes my poor Disney book was scarred with color deviations...but my complaining would get the best of me.

Looking at the mountainside, I realized the problem was not the abundance of green crayons but the lack there of.

I thought again back to my childhood. I remembered watching my older sister receive a painting leasson from one of our tenants. Learning by example, she painted the canvas of a flourishing landscape. I pictured myself doing that now. How I wished I could re-create the sight before me. Preserve it forever. Not only the way the fruit trees spring from the bountiful corn fields, but the way they sway silently on the mountainside. The way the coconuts sound when they break free of their ties and tumbles along the ground below. The pungent smell of podrido mangos and the prickley feel of the maguey points.

I often think, what am I going to do when I can no see and feel this every morning? When I no longer can jump in the back of a random car and show up fashionably late and sexy-windy-frizzy-pickup-truck-hair later at a reunion. When I can no longer go to sleep to the lull of rain pounding on my tin roof and wake up to the sweet chirps of roosters in the morning.

What if it all ends someday?

I blame Crayola.

Natural Disasters

A tickle on my chin and I instinctively slap myself in the face. This self-abuse is shortly followed by a slew of four forceful and panicky nostril-only exhalations and the thrashing of my head violently from left to right. Unfortunately, my obsessive-compulsive-disorder-like-fanatic-cleaning-syndrome, combined with a mosquito net and random Raid fumigating sessions, does little to ward off, as one would say here, “animal-itos”, aka bed bugs or any assortment of crawling, hopping or flying nighttime critters. Furthermore, while (much to his newfound delight at having crossed over into “manhood” ((se cayeron los huevitos)) in a country where the canines run wild and the fish in the sea are plentiful) Vaquito does not sleep inside, but from time to time he does pass on through. I shamefully should bring it to your attention that his cleanliness is comparable to a guanaco bolo who has been on a chicha drinking binge for 9 days straight without not even one huacal worth of a bucket bath and a bed that puede ser the ditch next to the dirt-road-side or the pile of firewood in his neighbor’s yard. Mind you I do bathe him once a week in anti-flea-and-tick product, but even before I am finished he is legs up in the dirt and weeds behind the house. Either that or he’s imitating a Mike Tyson match on the neighbor’s…well, I’ll call it a dog…but there’s plenty of room for argument. Anyway, Vaquito's occasional entrances into the Jaime-cleaning-zone have the possibility and likely threat of leaving behind, (I’ll put it in Spanish for those sheltered-gringitos), pulgas y garapatas. O sea, bugs. (Okay, only a few more run-on sentences to go…)

Well, preventative-health has quickly become a priority of mine due to some recent medical issues and so intermittent nightly face-slaps have now become a pleasant wake-me-upper. I like to know that I can count on myself to be OCD even while I am sleeping.

So, after I finished my morning convulsions and realized there was no scorpion tail jammed into my cheek, nor could I feel any swelling around my eyes to indicate a 10-year delay in organ malfunction, I reached around for my phone. I pressed some buttons and the emitted light burned my dilated eyes: 4:47am. I hadn’t been up this early in awhile. Nor had I gone to bed as late as 11:10pm in the campo since my prior lifetime. Unfortunately, before I even had the chance to consider falling back asleep, my mind was flooded with dreams and visions from the other dimensions…Realizations that often taunt me…

Being a Peace Corps Volunteer is hardest, for me at least, in the moments that you realize that maybe…even though you are a white-(although Salvo-heart-breaking-ly not blonde)-college-graduate-CPR-certified-bank-account-holding-world-travelling-teeth-bearing-North-American….maybe, just maybe, you don’t have all the answers. Maybe you cannot always help.

When one of your good friends, a 64 year old 4’8” lady shows up at your house with a black eye and tells you that she regrettably has to move next month to help out a family with housework to whom she owes money. My dear friend is not complaining, just merely advising me that she will no longer be able to help support me in ways she has in the past: offering me her last cup of coffee, her tattered hammock to put my feet up in, her pansa-shaking funny stories…like the time she visited the mayor’s office forgetting to put on a bra. This same lady has recently lost her second husband and single-handedly raises her grandson, as his mother works in a nearby town making less than $10 a day. My friend has never asked me for a dime, while she often offers to help me hand-wash my clothes for free. She has not 5 years of formal education, while her wisdom astounds me everyday with sayings such as “if you are not excited about tortear-ing you are not going to make pretty tortillas”. She has been a Peace Corps counterpart for 5 years, while her friends continue asking her how we have helped her?

There are 4 brothers in town ranging from 5 years old to 10… and maybe it is because I, too, am a one-gender-only sister of 4, or perhaps it is their ever-smiling caritas, but they have grown very dear to my heart. They often roam the streets dirty, but they skip instead of walk. I can’t think of one time while they have passed my house without a vigorous wave or a song-like “Salu!” and my day is complete with just half-a-hug from either one of them. But their house-of-sticks is in shambles and as the rainy-season starts, the impracticality of the roof is ever-so more apparent.

My neighbors own a store; two parents with a boy and girl, the perfect family with what qualifies here as a steady-income. The music is often playing (some religious tune or another), Dad swaying in the hammock, boy kicking a plastic ball around the front yard. The Mom is watering the banana trees and the daughter is sweeping the store, while tending to infrequent shoppers. But a week has gone-by and the girl has not been seen. As my egg supply is running low, I stop by for a purchase. “Fijese que she has moved in with her boyfriend in such and such town” the mother tells me. “Really? So young?” I think out loud. “She’s 14” the mother replies stoically. Immediately my mind flashes to my baby sister (yes, you’re still a baby) and I want to swallow, although my mouth is dry.

If I could, I would give my friend $1,000. She wouldn’t have to move, she wouldn’t have to worry about her grandchild. I would buy the 4 boys a new house, or at least a durable roof. I would bring my neighbor’s girl back home and tell her, you are too young to have a baby.

But I wouldn’t be fixing anything. The money would soon run out, the roof would eventually falter and another baby would be born into the hands of a child.

I could give talks about saving and investing money. I could start a project to improve houses. I could bring people in to talk about protected sex and planned parenthood.

But my community is over 400 households and I am one person. It’s pulling teeth to get people to come to “talks” and “if you give a mouse a cookie, he’s going to ask for a glass of milk”. (And so the favorite childhood story of Danielle and I, comes back to haunt me as a reminder of an important Peace Corps warning).

I am not trying to be pessimistic. And I have FAR from given up on my work and my community. In fact, the point of all this is that I am trying TOO hard. I want desperately to make people happy. I want to give my community, my new friends, my prestar-ed kids, my Latin family, the world. But some things you cannot change. I can’t sponsor the world with money and I can’t teach a friend a business she doesn’t have the time or patience to learn. I can build someone a house, but there’s always going to be someone else who needs a new house, too. I can suggest planned parenthood, but who am I to tell someone who has been doing housework since she was 4 and is forbidden continued education that she shouldn’t begin to start her own family at 14?

Sometimes, you just have to take things for what they are. I am working hard and I will continue to do the best that I can for my community, but for those of you out there who expect to hear that my village went from mud-huts to stone mansions and that Rosa convinced her “husband” to stay home and watch the kids, so she could return to school, I am sorry to let you down.

I am hard on myself. And I am sorry I cannot help everyone. Sometimes I do look at my community and say “What have I done here? It looks the same as when I started?” It is then that I curl up in a ball in my hammock, hoping if I close my eyes tight enough I will transform into a bear that is about to embark upon a 10month hibernation… That when I next slowly release the hinges of my promising right eye lid, I will see the familiar living room of my New York home. Or, in a tad-bit more practical effort, I call one of my friends.

He may tell me to calm down. That I am helping. That the kids in the Artesania group are learning to make jewelry. That they have an opportunity that didn’t have before. That the girls on the soccer team have a break from washing dishes. That the families who received wheelchairs feel touched. That the kids won’t forget how we ran the field, laughing and tripping, as we tossed water balloons. That one school has new computers and another a fresh vegetable garden. That 2 boys will go from working the fields to studying in the States. That a group of young women have learned self-defense. That a handful of people think, with new-found confidence, (just as I do) that they can speak another language.

Maybe you expect more. To tell you the truth, I do too. I will always expect more of myself. But sometimes, to keep myself from having just a small-little panic attack that leaves me dry-heaving in desperation on my dusty floor, I need to remind myself of these small accomplishments I have made. So, this isn’t for you. I am not here to prove myself or my work. I am just taking a deep breath to think out loud that I AM TRYING. That it is easy to get down as a PCV and we all need to pat ourselves on the back once in awhile.

Every community is different. Every volunteer is different. All we can ask of ourselves is that we try. There is no superstar volunteer and there is no failure. If you are here and if you are trying, you are making a difference.

Because in the end, my community probably won’t remember the projects I helped create. In the end, I might forget Ovidio used to be inside all day before he got his movable chair. But I will never forget the soups Lena offered me or the giggles of little Frankie and Damian. And I hope, and like to believe, that they won’t forget me either. At least the time I ran around foolishly (with pride) on the boys soccer team or had a birthday party with not one person over the age of 8 at my house (my most memorable party yet). The walks to the waterfalls or the chats about chuchos. The most important part of our work here is that. The intercultural exchange and the genuine bonds we are forming between different peoples of the world. And this, for me at least, is done without trying. One by one, sharing in friendship, we are spreading the peace, changing the world one person at a time.

So, I slap myself in the face, one more time, to bring myself back to reality. Peace Corps may do this to you. Once in awhile, 3 hours will pass like a flash of lightning before your eyes, as you come to realize you have been lying in a daze… John Lennon “Imagine All the People…” on repeat in your head… Man, how did I get from the story of my buggy bed to my pensive pondering, I wonder blushing?

Just then, the hammock starts to tremble, but as it dangles freely, I have no way to brace myself. I listen for a truck that may be about to pass, but I hear nothing. Nor is it grumbling from my stomach since it has been 2 months since I finished my Amoeba-fighting-meds and over 11 since I have craved eggs, beans and rice. I live alone and my doors are still locked from the night before, so, it could not be a vagabond child that shakes my hanging abode. And so, I smirk, feeling the vibrations of the earthquake, realizing that there are certain things in life that you just have to accept you cannot control…that you just have to roll with.

Natural Disasters

A tickle on my chin and I instinctively slap myself in the face. This self-abuse is shortly followed by a slew of four forceful and panicky nostril-only exhalations and the thrashing of my head violently from left to right. Unfortunately, my obsessive-compulsive-disorder-like-fanatic-cleaning-syndrome, combined with a mosquito net and random Raid fumigating sessions, does little to ward off, as one would say here, “animal-itos”, aka bed bugs or any assortment of crawling, hopping or flying nighttime critters. Furthermore, while (much to his newfound delight at having crossed over into “manhood” ((se cayeron los huevitos)) in a country where the canines run wild and the fish in the sea are plentiful) Vaquito does not sleep inside, but from time to time he does pass on through. I shamefully should bring it to your attention that his cleanliness is comparable to a guanaco bolo who has been on a chicha drinking binge for 9 days straight without not even one huacal worth of a bucket bath and a bed that puede ser the ditch next to the dirt-road-side or the pile of firewood in his neighbor’s yard. Mind you I do bathe him once a week in anti-flea-and-tick product, but even before I am finished he is legs up in the dirt and weeds behind the house. Either that or he’s imitating a Mike Tyson match on the neighbor’s…well, I’ll call it a dog…but there’s plenty of room for argument. Anyway, Vaquito's occasional entrances into the Jaime-cleaning-zone have the possibility and likely threat of leaving behind, (I’ll put it in Spanish for those sheltered-gringitos), pulgas y garapatas. O sea, bugs. (Okay, only a few more run-on sentences to go…)

Well, preventative-health has quickly become a priority of mine due to some recent medical issues and so intermittent nightly face-slaps have now become a pleasant wake-me-upper. I like to know that I can count on myself to be OCD even while I am sleeping.

So, after I finished my morning convulsions and realized there was no scorpion tail jammed into my cheek, nor could I feel any swelling around my eyes to indicate a 10-year delay in organ malfunction, I reached around for my phone. I pressed some buttons and the emitted light burned my dilated eyes: 4:47am. I hadn’t been up this early in awhile. Nor had I gone to bed as late as 11:10pm in the campo since my prior lifetime. Unfortunately, before I even had the chance to consider falling back asleep, my mind was flooded with dreams and visions from the other dimensions…Realizations that often taunt me…

Being a Peace Corps Volunteer is hardest, for me at least, in the moments that you realize that maybe…even though you are a white-(although Salvo-heart-breaking-ly not blonde)-college-graduate-CPR-certified-bank-account-holding-world-travelling-teeth-bearing-North-American….maybe, just maybe, you don’t have all the answers. Maybe you cannot always help.

When one of your good friends, a 64 year old 4’8” lady shows up at your house with a black eye and tells you that she regrettably has to move next month to help out a family with housework to whom she owes money. My dear friend is not complaining, just merely advising me that she will no longer be able to help support me in ways she has in the past: offering me her last cup of coffee, her tattered hammock to put my feet up in, her pansa-shaking funny stories…like the time she visited the mayor’s office forgetting to put on a bra. This same lady has recently lost her second husband and single-handedly raises her grandson, as his mother works in a nearby town making less than $10 a day. My friend has never asked me for a dime, while she often offers to help me hand-wash my clothes for free. She has not 5 years of formal education, while her wisdom astounds me everyday with sayings such as “if you are not excited about tortear-ing you are not going to make pretty tortillas”. She has been a Peace Corps counterpart for 5 years, while her friends continue asking her how we have helped her?

There are 4 brothers in town ranging from 5 years old to 10… and maybe it is because I, too, am a one-gender-only sister of 4, or perhaps it is their ever-smiling caritas, but they have grown very dear to my heart. They often roam the streets dirty, but they skip instead of walk. I can’t think of one time while they have passed my house without a vigorous wave or a song-like “Salu!” and my day is complete with just half-a-hug from either one of them. But their house-of-sticks is in shambles and as the rainy-season starts, the impracticality of the roof is ever-so more apparent.

My neighbors own a store; two parents with a boy and girl, the perfect family with what qualifies here as a steady-income. The music is often playing (some religious tune or another), Dad swaying in the hammock, boy kicking a plastic ball around the front yard. The Mom is watering the banana trees and the daughter is sweeping the store, while tending to infrequent shoppers. But a week has gone-by and the girl has not been seen. As my egg supply is running low, I stop by for a purchase. “Fijese que she has moved in with her boyfriend in such and such town” the mother tells me. “Really? So young?” I think out loud. “She’s 14” the mother replies stoically. Immediately my mind flashes to my baby sister (yes, you’re still a baby) and I want to swallow, although my mouth is dry.

If I could, I would give my friend $1,000. She wouldn’t have to move, she wouldn’t have to worry about her grandchild. I would buy the 4 boys a new house, or at least a durable roof. I would bring my neighbor’s girl back home and tell her, you are too young to have a baby.

But I wouldn’t be fixing anything. The money would soon run out, the roof would eventually falter and another baby would be born into the hands of a child.

I could give talks about saving and investing money. I could start a project to improve houses. I could bring people in to talk about protected sex and planned parenthood.

But my community is over 400 households and I am one person. It’s pulling teeth to get people to come to “talks” and “if you give a mouse a cookie, he’s going to ask for a glass of milk”. (And so the favorite childhood story of Danielle and I, comes back to haunt me as a reminder of an important Peace Corps warning).

I am not trying to be pessimistic. And I have FAR from given up on my work and my community. In fact, the point of all this is that I am trying TOO hard. I want desperately to make people happy. I want to give my community, my new friends, my prestar-ed kids, my Latin family, the world. But some things you cannot change. I can’t sponsor the world with money and I can’t teach a friend a business she doesn’t have the time or patience to learn. I can build someone a house, but there’s always going to be someone else who needs a new house, too. I can suggest planned parenthood, but who am I to tell someone who has been doing housework since she was 4 and is forbidden continued education that she shouldn’t begin to start her own family at 14?

Sometimes, you just have to take things for what they are. I am working hard and I will continue to do the best that I can for my community, but for those of you out there who expect to hear that my village went from mud-huts to stone mansions and that Rosa convinced her “husband” to stay home and watch the kids, so she could return to school, I am sorry to let you down.

I am hard on myself. And I am sorry I cannot help everyone. Sometimes I do look at my community and say “What have I done here? It looks the same as when I started?” It is then that I curl up in a ball in my hammock, hoping if I close my eyes tight enough I will transform into a bear that is about to embark upon a 10month hibernation… That when I next slowly release the hinges of my promising right eye lid, I will see the familiar living room of my New York home. Or, in a tad-bit more practical effort, I call one of my friends.

He may tell me to calm down. That I am helping. That the kids in the Artesania group are learning to make jewelry. That they have an opportunity that didn’t have before. That the girls on the soccer team have a break from washing dishes. That the families who received wheelchairs feel touched. That the kids won’t forget how we ran the field, laughing and tripping, as we tossed water balloons. That one school has new computers and another a fresh vegetable garden. That 2 boys will go from working the fields to studying in the States. That a group of young women have learned self-defense. That a handful of people think, with new-found confidence, (just as I do) that they can speak another language.

Maybe you expect more. To tell you the truth, I do too. I will always expect more of myself. But sometimes, to keep myself from having just a small-little panic attack that leaves me dry-heaving in desperation on my dusty floor, I need to remind myself of these small accomplishments I have made. So, this isn’t for you. I am not here to prove myself or my work. I am just taking a deep breath to think out loud that I AM TRYING. That it is easy to get down as a PCV and we all need to pat ourselves on the back once in awhile.

Every community is different. Every volunteer is different. All we can ask of ourselves is that we try. There is no superstar volunteer and there is no failure. If you are here and if you are trying, you are making a difference.

Because in the end, my community probably won’t remember the projects I helped create. In the end, I might forget Ovidio used to be inside all day before he got his movable chair. But I will never forget the soups Lena offered me or the giggles of little Frankie and Damian. And I hope, and like to believe, that they won’t forget me either. At least the time I ran around foolishly (with pride) on the boys soccer team or had a birthday party with not one person over the age of 8 at my house (my most memorable party yet). The walks to the waterfalls or the chats about chuchos. The most important part of our work here is that. The intercultural exchange and the genuine bonds we are forming between different peoples of the world. And this, for me at least, is done without trying. One by one, sharing in friendship, we are spreading the peace, changing the world one person at a time.

So, I slap myself in the face, one more time, to bring myself back to reality. Peace Corps may do this to you. Once in awhile, 3 hours will pass like a flash of lightning before your eyes, as you come to realize you have been lying in a daze… John Lennon “Imagine All the People…” on repeat in your head… Man, how did I get from the story of my buggy bed to my pensive pondering, I wonder blushing?

Just then, the hammock starts to tremble, but as it dangles freely, I have no way to brace myself. I listen for a truck that may be about to pass, but I hear nothing. Nor is it grumbling from my stomach since it has been 2 months since I finished my Amoeba-fighting-meds and over 11 since I have craved eggs, beans and rice. I live alone and my doors are still locked from the night before, so, it could not be a vagabond child that shakes my hanging abode. And so, I smirk, feeling the vibrations of the earthquake, realizing that there are certain things in life that you just have to accept you cannot control…that you just have to roll with.

My feet were up in the hammock, fan on full speed, coffee on my coffee table and book in hand. Music hummed quietly in the background and my eyes were softly drifting into oblivion. It was a perfectly relaxing ending to an exhausting day.

It was then that I heard the undeniable buya that came next. The gawking of a rooster in panic and the gnarling of 3 mangy dogs (wait, 2 mangy dogs- 1 was my Vaquito). The rooster screamed, “Holy Sh*********t, wa-baaaaaalk, SH********TTTTTTTTT, balk, balk, balk, AYUUUUDAMEEE!!!!” …as 3 perros pranced around the yard after their prey.

I dropped my book on the floor, poured my coffee on my lap, Jackie Chan-rolled out of the hammock, landing swiftly on my feet in fighting position and screamed “Vaquito NOOOOOOOOOOO!”

As fate would have it, in the very moment I reached my door, broom in hand, the rooster and the siguiendo clan of dogs came crashing into the puerta. Now, I love animals, but I wasn’t about to risk having a bloody massacre in my own “living room”, so do not think for a second I considered opening that door to those little furry warriors. Fortunately, my door opens in 2 parts, allowing me to only open the part above, leaving a barrier to keep the outside world out. And so, leaning over the bottom-half of the door, I frantically began beating the $h*t out of the perros. The broom was only partially effective in scaring away the dogs (or maybe it was my gentle nature), but at least I was buying time. I guess the rooster never learned that it’s best to remain calm in trying situations because he flapped and feathered a storm that obstructed my vision as I did my best to salvage (at least a few more weeks of) his life.

Just as Vaquito had the rooster by the back of his neck, his mara of perros urging him on from behind, my little neighbor showed up and swept the rooster up into his arms. I straightened myself out, as I was still doubled over the door, wiped the hair out of my face and plucked the feathers from my eyes. I retracted my broom and let out a deep sigh, as I tried to determine if David was looking at me, (rooster cradled in arms), with confused disgust or quiet, but grateful admiration. “Will he live?” I asked. “Maybe” replied David.

Later that evening, Marjori thanked me for saving her rooster. She told me that that rooster was the son of a chicken she had received as a birthday present last year, and so, inherently it was her own. I think back to the “Secret Santa” game we played at home for Christmas. As a joke, I had given a machete…but I’m starting to realize a live chicken would have made for a much better gift…

“See every detail around you, smell the air, let everything in the environment come to you.” –Deepak Chopra, The Third Jesus

How amazing moments in time can be…

Lying on your back in the “posa” of a waterfall, nothing but the sound of water crashing down around you, looking up at the falling white “chorreon”.

The smell of a savory chicken soup, prepared above a wood-burning fire, the billowing smoke burning your eyes.

The reverberating laughter of 7 Salvadoran children competing to kill a tarantula as “la gringa” skips around screaming.

Tasting the bitter bite of a mango “tierno”, right-eye twitching, mouth contorted, tongue curling…all in pure enjoyment.

The feeling of a child’s innocent arms wrapped tightly around your neck, a warmth that lingers even after the release.

“Whenever you have a flash of love, innocence, inspiration, awe, wonder, or joy, remind yourself: This is the real me. Don’t let such moments simply pass you by. Stop and appreciate them, and ask that you receive more in the future.” –Deepak Chopra, The Third Jesus.

Appreciate your experiences, but don’t try to own them.

Avoid thinking of the path as “my” path.

Let things come and go without attachment.

Don’t pretend to be more positive than you actually feel.

Don’t exaggerate your experiences, to yourself or others.

Share your path only with someone you trust.

Offer thanks with simplicity.

Don’t allow your experiences to set you apart from or above anyone else.

Quietness has a strange, spongy hum that can nearly break your eardrums. (Sue Monk Kidd, The Secret Life of Bees).

The rhythmic inhales and exhales of my own breath are the only things I can hear as I concentrate on keeping as still as possible. The sound of silence only exacerbates the sense of feeling. The trickle of sweat walking down my forehead, creeping around the curve of my eyebrow, rolling along my cheekbone and crawling up and over my chin is torturous, but I do not dare to expend the energy to wipe it away. Instead, I let gravity do its job as I feel the sweat droplet plummet and splash across my chest. My clothes are in a pile nearby, the cold side of the pillow only lasts 3 minutes before it has to be flipped, and the stagnant air is lightly, but noticeably alleviated by the fanning of flies flirting overhead.

I don’t remember this summer last year. Everyday, I swear I have never sweated so much before in my life. Not after running stadiums in The Swamp at college, not during soccer practice on the Pleasantville high school’s turf, not waiting 70 minutes in line at Disney’s Rock N Roll’er Coaster ride and not walking across the scolding sand at Jones Beach. Certainly, today was the most I have ever sweated.

Soo let me tell you about it. And as sure I am that I will hear at least 4 Aventura songs before I reach Gotera, I am sure that my bus stories NEVER get old, so this is how the morning started. Jam-packed and personal-space-free, I rode the bus to town cradling a 65 year old man on my lap. Not that he weighed more than the backpack hung across my back, but this would have been much easier if I were seated. Instead, I clenched the handrail overhead as old man Michael Finnigan hobbled over (with a line of supertramps on his heels) and setup shop upon my 2 patas without a sense of recognition for their caretaker. Although my baby toes of each foot cried out at each bend in the road, I couldn’t help but laugh out loud and all alone as I saw 5’2” Miguel’s expressionless face and glazed over eyes ride the bus to town, immovably planted upon the gringa. When he finally disembarked La Barca Jaime, his eyes met mine and we shared a sense of closeness and we silently said our goodbyes.

The day carried out equally as beautifully but dreadfully hotter as I entered the Gotera market. I briskly maneuvered the dried fish section, dodged the splatters of oil from revuelta pupusas and coaxed myself along passed baskets of pan dulce. When I finally arrived at the Self Defense for Women training center, I was ready for my first water break.

All complaining about the summer heat aside (I hate whiners), I was ecstatic that 4 girlies from my community were ready to learn about self-defense. We talked about the importance of being a confident woman, of walking with pride and being aware of your surroundings. We talked about the respect we deserve and ought to demand and how to prevent possible attacks. Finally, we got to the fun part. We beat up pillows. I walked out of that course looking like I had just swam 25 laps in the UF pool, but the smile on my face was fatigue-less.

Back in La Montana, it dawned on me that some angel from Gringo-Land had once sent me a package with todavia-untouched water balloons. If any volunteers have been so smart as to read my blog, and lucky to have amazing friends like I have who send you packages, I urge you to pedir water balloons. I filled up about 120, and headed to the soccer field with a guacal of painfully heavy-entertainment on my shoulders (Note: learn how to carry things on head like normal people). The war that endured was some of the most fun I’ve ever head. I hate to brag (you know me) but I kicked some 4 year old @$$.

After cooling down in this 102F weather with some innocent but highly aggressive water balloon-fun, we decided it was time to sweat again….sooo we began to run the soccer field in some plastic futbol, flip flop wearing, skirt flapping, toe-stubbing fun.

Foot-tall Franky got pegged with shot-on-goal #1 but quickly recuperated to retake his position as portero. Older brother Damian had to be Heimlich-ed back to life (do not give out candy before sports) but you would have never known he suffered had you not seen the blue dulce projectile out of his esophagus. Fredi and I ran the field, swerving around pigtail princesses and diaper-wearing-Diegos. But the bee swarm of children running behind me will be an image forever burned in my memory that 24 gallons of sweat could never erase.

I promise you that even after standing under an ice cold shower from 5pm up until the sky was sprinkled with stars, I was still sweating. And so that is how I ended up, sprawled across my bed in a desnuda mess, begging a cold front to miraculously knock three times on the ceiling.

So, the point of it all is, it’s f#ck(ng hot. I hate to complain (obviously) but it can be painful to try to sleep concentrating on moving as little as possible, focusing on not thinking about the heat, but yet the only thing on your mind is the feeling of sweat beads emerging from your pulsating pores. I commend those who live by the beach. I beg sugerencias from those in Usulutan or San Miguel. I welcome the moldy inviernos to this everlasting sauna!

But you know what, it’s worth it. After a day of teaching an invaluable life skill and rewarding yourself with the smiling faces of two dozen children, the heat doesn’t matter. The REAL point of it all is, my job is f#ck(ng awesome. I’d never normally put on a skirt and make-up and run the soccer field in rubber flip flops. But I’ve never had so much spontaneous fun in my life. My feet hurt over the rocky field and slapping the plastic ball, I was certain I was going to trip over my long faldita and the dust burned my squinting eyes… But I ran my heart out, laughed like a maniac and scooped up falling ninos that I’ll love for the rest of my life. The FINAL and MOST IMPORTANT point of it all is, ….

Don’t sort-of-maybe live, but live like you’re going all out, like you’re not afraid. (Sue Monk Kidd, The Secret Life of Bees).

Familia

“She’s flirting with the customs man!” We watched from the windows outside the airport as Christina smiled and twirled her hair in her fingers, the customs man with his back towards us. “So she can speak Spanish?” my friend asked. “Nope. Shes speaking English Im pretty sure” I replied. How long are they going to talk for? Whats going on?

She finally comes outside, curses the heat and enlightens us with the customs man extensive English vocabulary and even better pick-up line “facebook?”

I know I do this with every visitor, but I cant believe she is gone already. I remember a poem I read in high school about the Time Keeper. Sometimes, I hate that bastard. He is pretty inconsistent you know? A veces turning minutes into hours and then just as suddenly hitting fast forward. Don’t you think we should have just a little more control? But then again, I’ve also read time doesn’t exist…

From night 1, to changing in the gas station bathroom and hanging with friends at a Guns N Roses cover band, to night 9 at the same bar we started, burned faces and sleepy eyes, I could not have asked for a better week…or sister (Gracias a Dios, I was given triple).

Day 1, we beat the sun to the horizon and headed to the beach from the dark and dreary Eastern Bus Terminal. The ride was long and sweaty but the viejito behind me only clawed my head with his extra long Salvo nails 3 times (instead of 5) so we pretty much arrived unharmed.

We got down to business and covered ourselves in paint since the Ultimate Frisbee Gringo Tournament was about to start. We played our hearts out, as the photos can tell you, and then ran down the beach to do our best to rinse off in earth’s largest Jacuzzi. The night was spent bonding with volunteer friends, scarred-for-life questioning by Greg and Tyler and the occasional “Ice-ing” (Christina’s voluntarily).

Day 2 was my dinamica for the sis to the Safety and Security charla, so we hitch-hiked our way to San Miguel, to the desvio, to Gotera, to Osicala and finally my community, effectively paying $0 from the $0 I andar-ed (don’t let your debit card expire). We arrived, once again tired and sweaty, (summer’s here!) and Christina “oh shit!-ed” her way through her first ice-cold shower.

We wasted no time traversing my entire community and so my sister met everyone from my wheel chair recipients and scholarship winners, to no-teethed-Tina and always-giving-me-Papayas-Pedro. Before racing the sun, yet again, we had swayed in approximately 14 hammocks and eaten 8 refrigerios. With every food offering, Christina would look at me with wide-skeptical eyes and ask “Can I eat this? Is this okay to drink?” and I would shrug my shoulders while cocking my head and already be swallowing… (Confianza 1, Immune System 0). Note: See blog “Amoebas”.

Day 3-5 were more of the same, visiting my community. One particular day we did a hike through the mountains, visiting a molienda where we watched my diligent piropo-ers turning sugar cane into honey. We tasted the sweet candy they had made, as Vaquito stole sips from the pila. Interesting how dogs are. I leave the little guy running loose without food for a week in my community and yet when I return, he is never more than 4 feet by my side. Actually, upon my return I was sitting outside in my plastic chair and cell-service-spot when he came bounding across the fields and jumped straight up onto my lap, nearly botar-ing me backward and covering me in paw prints of cow dung. But that’s another story…

So, there we were, Christina and I hiking through the mountains, nibbling on bananas and swimming in the waterfalls that irrigate my community. We laughed at how awkward we looked in pictures and lamented at Vaquito’s insistence to be welded to my shin. More than once I was forced to go rescue the helpless canine since he had subir-ed where he was unable to bajar.

And por fin, Thursday had arrived and we were being awaited by La Playa Tunco so we woke at 3:30am, did our best to bathe in the dark of the morning and the wintery water and hopped on the 5am bus to San Miguel. We stood almost 2 hours, since I guess everyone was headed to the beach that morning (actually none were) but at least looked forward to the next “special” bus that would provide us with 2 hours of air conditioning. Much to our dismay, there were no seats left on that bus either and so El Salvador is never a surprise.

The next few nights were spent at the beach, fighting off the local surfers “yes we know you LIVE at the beach, no we’re not going to “date” you, yes that’s cool you’re a local, no we’re still not going with you, yes you have nice abs….”.

We played ping pong and soccer, swam and surfed (AKA watched surfers), ate good food and had good drinks. By day 3 the color of Christina’s skin told us it was time to go and my butterflies multiplied exponentially as I realized her time was coming near.

Back to San Sal for the last remaining hours, the car ride was quiet. The panes were down and we each looked out our respective windows, feeling nothing but the summer breeze across our faces. It reminded me of the serenity of silence. The loudness of the wind that is almost unperceivable as you let it envelope you; Equivalent to the utter calm of water. When you completely submerge your body and head and you are alone, completely alone in the world. It is why I love the water… Because you can go under there and hear nothing but the peace in the world. I think I smile every time I am underwater and I feel and hear the peace and I think to myself “I Love this, I want to live here”. It doesn’t matter if your eyes are opened are closed; it is the greatest feeling.

And so, again, alone in my thoughts on the windy car ride back to reality, I long for another week. But, for the better, I feel my world has changed. They say you live by a city your whole lifetime and may never really get to know it. 19 years I’ve been with my sister, yet there was so much I didn’t know. I blame myself for not getting to know her sooner.

For not appreciating her song-like laugh that is undoubtedly exactly the same as that which she had when she was 4 years old while watching Homeward Bound, and the same laugh I hear when I look at the photo on my wall of her running toward the horsey at my Dad’s yacht club. For not acknowledging her desire to learn and not admiring her shameless yearning to understand the unknown. For not recognizing sooner her incapability of hurting someone’s feelings and not hugging her enough for it. For the maturity with which she carries herself, yet the humbleness that keeps her level (prestame some por favor?) For her genuineness; I don’t think I’ve met someone more genuine. For her confidence and independence, which impressed me more with each passing day. For the way she talked to me and made me feel. For being my sister, for loving me and for letting me love her. For hopefully letting me show her (and believing) how important she is to me and what she means to me. For forgiving me for maybe not showing her sooner.

Because really, my world changed a little since having her here. I realized that estoy enamorada de mi familia.

Just when I thought things couldn’t get any worse, they got 100% better.

Two Fridays ago, around 3:30pm, I was finishing up washing my dishes outside in the pila. I was going to make myself a nice, fresh salad from groceries recently purchased at the market. I had some romaine lettuce with tomatoes, onions and avocado in mind and in my eagerness to get chopping I lifted the large chopping knife out of my guacal of dishes. Overly ambitious, as always, I thought I should start multi-tasking, so I used my left hand to hold the bucket, right foot to start walking, my right hand to grab for the cutting board and cooking utensils, my left foot to shut the door behind me and, running out of usable appendages and just as any right-minded individual would do, stuck the large chopping knife under my right armpit, point down.

Everything was going smoothly until my phone rang. Not wanting to miss the call and waste any of my precious saldo, I reached for it without thinking. The ringing continued, although this time it was in my head, as I stood there in shock wondering what the throbbing was my foot. It was then that I looked down and saw the knife on its side on the floor, blood spurting from a hole in my goal-maker. I had forgotten the knife was there and just as carelessly as I had placed it, I released it- into my foot. Just kidding about the spurting, it wasn’t that bad…but it hurt and I wanted my Mommy. Actually, I wasn’t all that concerned, except for the little piece of meat (as my neighbor described it, carne) popping out. I called the Peace Corps doctors.

A few minutes later a driver was on the way from the capital to pick me up, where we would turn around 4 hours later to head to the San Salvador hospital. A little bit of digging, cleaning, cutting out the bit of meat that was protruding, 2 teeny stitches (embarrassing I know) and some bruised toes later, I was fine. But, being its summer and my site now consists of walking through a daily cloud of dust aaaand I have also been prone to skin infections, the doctors wanted me to stay in the capital a week until the stitches were out and wound closed.

Gracias a Dios, I did stay, because what for the next 3 days I thought was heartburn, turned out to be Amoebas and the little eggs they laid growing in my stomach; A parasite infection from dirty food/water. Once again, I felt my pride in eating everything pisotear’ed upon as I learned my all-ingestive diet had failed me, yet again. But with 3 pills a day, I am slowly recovering. I’ll spare you the details but lets just say my digestive and excretory systems are being to display their proper functions.

Anyway, the point of this story is that things are better! Right… Okay…

So Tuesday, oh aquel beautiful Tuesday, 2 vans pulled into La Montanita: 1 was an ambulance full of Salvadoran workers of Comandos en Salvamento carrying 10 brand-new, bike-tire bearing wheel chairs. The other was a micro-bus overflowing with “White People” carrying regalitos, but more importantly love and smiles.

You see, maybe 3 months ago, I started working with a group of people in my community in economic development. A dear lady of the group introduced me to Angel, a 4 year old boy who can’t walk but wears a smile that is highly contagious. They asked me if I could help him. I felt sorry that I didn’t work in health and could think of little I could do. Time passed. I worked more with the group and I saw Angel more often. He giggled as I took a sip of my juice every time he did and afterwards we raced to see who could finish our cookies first. He got over his pena to give me a hug and showed me how he can swing in his chair. Needless to say, I fell in love and added one more child to my ever-growing list of adoptee candidates.

I carry a list of NGOs in my notebook and one day at the cyber I came across the Free Wheelchair Mission. I filled out an inquiry and sent an email and 3 weeks later I had a response. I thought it was all too good to be true. 10 free wheelchairs, they could offer me! I immediately contacted the Health Promoter of my community and asked if there were others in La Montanita that needed a wheelchair. He knew of 6: 4 kids and 2 elderly. So I opened up the offer to my fellow PCVs. 3 wheelchairs were sent to neighboring communities in Morazan and the final wheelchair was given to a last lady in my community who recently turned 92!

We spent a day working with members of my community to assemble the wheelchairs. I went around the community, seeing parts I have never seen before, taking pictures of the wheelchair recipients, talking to the families, filling out paperwork and inviting them to the ceremony. I walked deep into the outskirts of La Montanita, coming across houses barely standing with bed springs as walls and rooms solely bearing a hammock. I met Ovidio, a 10 year old who’s cuteness gives Angel a tough run for his money; His biceps put me to shame and it was clearly evident he would be the wheelchair master.

And then Tuesday, the vans arrived. The people disembarked and Paraiso descended upon us. We gave the families their wheelchairs and little gifts. There were teeth I had never seen before between widespread lips. Warm embraces. Sweet words. And unforgettable eyes. I am so thankful for the help of these organizations and for the people who came to visit. It’s not often you get an opportunity like that. The 7 Americans were wonderful and it was so exciting for us to host them in our community. I am also very grateful to have a community like mine, to have met Angel and the rest of the gang. I look forward to visiting the wheelchair recipients next week with my little sister, and you will surely hear updates!

What a blessing it is that I was able to join the Peace Corps. And I don’t think Ill ever forget that day or stop smiling when I think about it. The chills I got looking out over everyone in their wheelchairs and their family. It’s those moments that make 75 mosquito bites below my ankles bearable and waking up everyday to roosters worthwhile. It’s the same as I felt when Fidel paid me back $10 I lent him 3 months ago (without me ever asking), or when I saw my soccer team practicing without my lead, my jewelry group making a new design, Lucinda freaking out that I only have 1 year left!!

And just went things couldnt possibly make me any happier. I got one of the best phone calls of my life last night.

I was sleeping because I had to wake up really early to head to the airport to pick up my lil sis (so excited). But I saw the name on my caller ID...low and behold-Fidel. The same kid who just paid me back $10. "He ganado la beca, he ganado!" HE WON. He told me he won the scholarship to study in the states.

Peace Corps emailed me about this opportunity 5 months. I ask aruond my community and came across Fidel. A smart kid who has studied his whole life receiving top grades, working 4am mornings cutting coffee, beans and corn in the fields and spends his evenings with a Youth Group, playing guitar for the church.

He made it to the interview level, but it required traveling to San Salvador. A 4 hour trip to a scary place he has never been. He couldnt even afford the transportation. Reluctantly, I lent him $10, assuming I'd never see it again (but he proved me wrong and proudly paid me back) and knowing its a bad precendent to set, but knowing it was for a good cause.

On Monday, he will have a passport. In months he will be in the US studying Business at the University level. He didn't have $10 and now he will have a formal education. And in 2 years he will return to beautiful El Salvador and do amazing things for his community, I am sure. I am so proud of him!!!

…Help me find a job like this one the rest of my life…

Special Thanks to:

Free Wheelchair Mission

World Emergency Relief

Rescue Task Force

Comandons en Salvamento

And to my beautiful and wonderful community. My angelitos and tan lindo jovenes. Te quiero mucho!!!

Monday, 28 February 2011

Day Dream

I woke up in a cloud. It has been awhile since this has happened, since it is now the dry season, but lately we have been blessed with some passing storms. It rained last night and so this morning, I woke up in a cloud.

It was a combination of that eerie feeling that you get in the beginning of Beauty and the Beast…you know, when Belle’s father is lost in the woods and has to choose between the smoky path and the one soaked with wolves? And a feeling of sweet anticipation for what the day will bring on this road less traveled, as I look through the eyes of Robert Frost.

I’m not sure just how long I was in this day dream for, but I certainly stood there outside my door in my raggity shorts and oversized t-shirt at 6:30am on a Monday, the kids on the street gawking at me through the mist as they waited for the bus, myself in oblivion as my arms hung limp at my side and my head cocked slightly to the left as I peered into my thought bubble. It was lovely to be frozen in time, but just as suddenly as Zach returns from his second-universe narrative to tend to Slater and Screech, I dropped out of fairy-land as Vaquito plowed into my leg. I’m not sure where he goes or what he does between 10pm and 6am outside my squat, but he is certainly excited to see me in the morning. I only know this because of the several laps he makes around my house and the neighbors, swerving in and out of the bamboo fences, ducking below the barbed wire, jumping over the arena pile and sliding down the dirt barrier. He runs like he’s in a horse race, but the grace he has as he dodges the banana trees shouldn’t fool you, as with every lap he makes he is sure to knock into my legs and become disoriented at each passing, forgetting if he were going clock-wise or counter…but then again it doesn’t really matter for the chickens distract him, once again, and he sets off in another sprinting frenzy, roosters squaking, shooting feathers and flapping wildly, as if prey in a video game.

And so the cloud dissipates, the bus honks and the children disappear, Vaquito collapses onto his side in the dirt, panting. I shake my head, rub my eyes, take a deep breathe and see there is only one path ahead of me. And, so, I carry-on to the outhouse. Just another day in El Salvador…

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Sabado, 26 February 2011

I Eat Everything

I have always prided myself on the fact that I can eat anything. “I eat everything” –Brian’s face wants to laugh, yet illustrates disgust, as his mind travels back to my 3-scoop ice cream cone. Actually, being here in El Salvador, that is one of my best traits; that I eat everything. Because there is no bigger compliment you can give your neighbor than to tell them “that is the best tortilla and beans I have ever eaten”. You smile as you crunch on a pile of tiny fish heads, gurgle mmmmmm as you slurp on chicken feet soup, and ask for more of the lizard gizzards. True stories.

But, alas, my ally has become my nemesis. My stomach has literally turned on me. I lie here in my hammock, closed off to the world, to endure quite possibly the first day here in country that I will do absolutely nothing. Why? You ask. Because…

There are bumps on my arms. My neck and chest are burning with the sensation of 1000 fire ant bites. My face has swelled into a form than can only be comparable to Quazimoto. My eyes look like I have been crying for days, (which may in fact come true if I have this allergy one more time). My mouth is swollen and itchy and the hives have only spared my forehead.

This is the 3rd time since January I have been plagued with this unknown alergia. My community tells me its an allergic reaction to the dust, to the cattle hay, the sun, the heat…it’s from bathing at night, playing soccer (is bad for women), I’m drinking too much cold water… I may have gotten sick (Ojo) from a person with the “strong vision”, my dog has passed his fleas, I’m reading too many books and haven’t gone to church enough.

They tell me to bathe with salt water. To rub lime on my arms. Or, wait, I should not bathe at all and I should stay away from all fruit.

I need to go to the Clinic. Or, wait better, see the community witch doctor.

I shouldn’t eat anything. But I need to eat more to become fat. Fat = good.

The first trip to the doctor, I’m tended to for 5 mins and given Benadryl and hydrocortisone. Thank you but I had these in my Med Kit.

The second trip to the doctor entails an additional trip to the Dermatologist. “It’s weird,” he tells me and he is not sure what it is. But it looks like, it could be an allergic reaction to zacate- the shredded plants given to cattle. I am given Benadryl and a cream that is comparable to hydrocortisone.

This would make number 3. I have 2 options. Shower. Take some Benadryl and throw on some cream. Wait for the bus in the sun and dust, likely to increase my itching 10 fold. Sit on the bus. Sweat. Want to scratch my eyes out. Count every passing minute on the bus, swearing there are well over 500 minutes in 2 hours. Want to punch anyone who rubs up against my bumpy arms. Jerk forward 57 times as we wind around the mountain, sporatically and unmethodically using the breaks. Pickup just enough passengers that I essentially am straddling 3 people at the same time, have a baby in one arm and a chicken in the other, a smelly campesino’s machete resting against my back, all while I am croutching awkwardly, so as to not hit my head on the shelf above the seats which has been effectively designed to fit half of your backpack. Finally to arrive in San Miguel a week later on a bus that supposedly takes 2 hours. At this point, the baby, chicken and machete-man have disembarked and I am pushing passed an elderly lady using a stick as a crutch carrying a bucket if tomatoes on her head, trying to get out into the fresh air. Except there is no fresh air in San Miguel and I am, in turn, looking forward to the next bus ride to the doctors office. I will wait at the bus stop trying to ignore the stares (is it simply because I’m a white person or look like quazimoto? And which is less offensive?), the high-pitched voices of belly-shirt wearing-overweight-ladies advertising “yuuuuuuca, papas friiiiiiitas, te llevo tostaaaaaadas”, and the combined smells of fried food and fresh urine. When I do finally see the doctor, there is a 75% chance that they will give me Benadryl and Hydrocortisone cream.

So, that brings me to option 2. Does the 25% chance that they can cure my inflated face vale la pena? Are the abusive bus ride, the sadistic sun, the pestering passengers worthwhile?

Or, do I instead, sit in my hammock. Drink some warm tea. Alternate between reading a book and watching Season 1 of Boy Meets World on my laptop. Sway in the hammock as I hum along to Bedouin Soundclash. Nap…

but I will surely wake up to scare myself in the mirror. Feel the tickle of a bug running across my chest, only to realize the Benadryl has worn off. Beg for the itching to stop. Pray that at any moment the doctor’s will knock on my door and instantly cure me. Swear this is the worst pain I have ever come to know. Worse than slipping and slamming my head into the corner of the door in kindergarten.Worse than falling off the back of my boat onto the swim platform when I was 12. Worse than Mono in 9th grade. Worse than my first heart-break and last cigarette (well, if I smoked).

Well, how did this happen? You ask. Because…

I eat everything. I never say No. I like food. I like other people thinking I like their food. I like knowing that people like that I am liking the food they have given me.

But apparently, I have met my match. Apparently, this so called maranon, this juicy fruit that bears a hidden cashew inside a coffin enclosure, me hace dano. Apparently, I am allergic to it.

And so begins my demise. Its only a tiny red fruit; A maranon, you say. Yes, that’s where it starts. But where does it end? First, it’s a maranon. Then a jocote… a zapote…dare I say it? A mango?? Fruits become vegetables, which turn into soup, which leads to carne and before I know it, I’m saying NO to lizard gizzards. They will stop offering me the curtido with pupusas, they won’t give me pan dulce when I enter their homes, they will turn their backs on me in the streets and shun me in reunions. They won’t remember the soccer tournament, the jewelry group, the wheelchairs, the Art class…I will forever be “the allergy girl”, la gringa alergia.

For the past 2 months, I have been living in the “denial” phase. I refused to believe that this is what has become of me. I continued eating anything and everything in my path. I did not believe that it could have been a food that was making me break out. After all, with all the cold water I was drinking and bathing at night, I assured myself it was one of the two.

I can only hope that once I have come to accept my fate, I will be able to deal with it in a healthy manner. I will turn down food. I will shun my neighbors and reject the refrigerios in reunions. I will regalar all of the mangos on my mango tree and reiniciar my Salvadoran diet.

It’s 10am on day 2 of the inflamed face and I still have not decided on Option 1 or Option 2, but at least I have determined my destiny. But, how can I not, not eat everything?

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Friday, 25 February, 2011

Te Amo

“The greatest weakness of most humans is their hesitancy to tell others how much they love them…” –OS Battista

I wanna be in the front seat of a car; Driving down the highway with the windows down and music fuerte, squinting blissfully into the friendly wind. I could close my eyes for 20 minutes, sleepfully awake, without realizing a second had passed. I would guarantee there had never been a moment in the world that felt better than this.

The sun would warm the landscape and the trees would whistle as we passed through their waving hojas. The music would be loud, but you would only hear the words if you listened. Your thoughts would be rolling, but you could stop them without trying. Your mind is at ease and your body, weightless, yet you are awakened as you inhale every small gust of wind and you feel each pelito on your arm rise.

It would be just me. But the driver would be there too. He would be staring ahead, concentrating on the road but driving aimlessly…occasionally glancing in my direction. Maybe our eyes would meet and they would smile knowingly, or maybe not. It wouldn’t matter. We would drive for hours, not knowing where we were going, but each of us knowing simultaneously when it was time to turn back. The company would be essential but the physical interaction ephemeral. We probably would rarely talk, but the quietness would be the opposite of silence.

Occasionally one of us may say something…the other may not respond. But there would be content smiles. The kind you get when you can feel it in your eyes. Where you don’t need to show it on your face for the other person to know it was there. You would agree without talking, turn to see each other for a moment, and then turn back to your own world.

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I have had many moments like these in my life. Where two birds playing outside my window make me drop my books and forget about work for the day. Where the neighbor’s cow turns his head and our eyes meet and my mind drifts up into the mountains behind him. Where I’m sitting on the front of my Dad’s boat, my hands gripping the rails as we bump forcefully over each passing wave and I want it to never stop. Where the crowd is screaming so loud in The Swamp that the only way for my friends and I to communicate is to lock bright-smiling-widened eyes and throw our heads back in laughter. Where music calms my soul and I don’t need anything more.

I have truly had a fortunate life. People have given me these blessings I talk about. Yet how often do we tell people how we really feel? Especially when we like them- that’s when it becomes even harder. I know that, personally, this is a challenge of mine. I cannot always express directly and in words, how much people mean to me. How much moments have meant to me. I hope that I can become better at this. Because I have been so grateful for the people who have come into my life. For the people who have given me life. For the people who have made my life. For these moments that are unforgettable. Irreplaceable.

“I met this little girl. And what she said was something beautiful; I love all of you…” –Red Hot Chili Peppers

Wednesday, 23 February, 2011

The Toughest Job You’ll Ever Love

“I am fine with just me and my guitar. But sometimes I am wishing on a little more.” -Joe Purdy

I like my community. I like the Peace Corps. I like El Salvador. But sometimes, you just don’t feel right. You want to be friends with the girls on your soccer team, but if you’re always joking around, they don’t take you seriously. You want to teach them discipline, to be serious and work hard, but then they don’t see you as their friend. What is more important: to develop productive and sustainable community projects? Or to have close friends in your community? To be a hard-working volunteer? Or to have fun for 2 years? How do you find the balance?

Peace Corps is hard. It’s different than I expected, but harder than I thought. I worried when I first applied. I worried about not having running water, about not having electricity. I cringed at the thought of cockroaches in my drawers and rats on my roof. I pictured myself as the boy in Slum Dog Millionare falling deep into my latrine. I was certain a natural disaster would leave me homeless and I assumed I’d burn all my money and venture Into the Wild.

I do have scorpions and I often find cockroaches in my drawers. I woke up last night to my bed trembling from an earthquake. I will never feel comfortable again in San Salvador. But that is not what makes Peace Corps hard.

You are put in a community hardly knowing how to speak the language and even less capacitated in getting your shirt clean on a rock without ripping it. But overtime, you begin to understand people without realizing how and you clean your clothes by hand with pride.

You see how smart Rosa is when she helps you with projects, but you hear how little confidence she has in herself. How she doubts she will ever study beyond high school. You see the excitement in Nelli’s eyes when you tell her about a free excursion you can offer her to visit a museum, but the disappointment when her mother tells her she can’t go because she has to stay home and cook and care for her daughter. You see the potential of a community development group and you want to shake them and say “we can do this, we can improve our community” but they want to relax in the hammock after a hard day of working in the coffee farms.

I am okay here in El Salvador. In fact, I am happy. But sometimes I am wishing on a little more.

I worry at the end of the day. I care a lot about people. Some may find this hard to believe if you know me…my sarcasm, my inability to give and/or receive compliments, the difficulty I have in expressing myself correctly in person. But I wish the best for people and I like to help when I think I can. I like to be a friend and it makes me happy when people will have me as theirs. So at the end of the day, when I’ve tried really hard to help someone…when I think maybe my suggestions have made them feel like I criticized them, I feel bad. Also, at the end of a good day, a day of laughter, I wonder if I should have worked harder. If maybe my community thinks I am “solo paseando” and not working hard enough. When I am too stressed out by my projects, when the dust has lined my throat and infected my poors long enough, and I make a trip to the capital to see my friends, I feel guilty watching my neighbors see me leave. When I’m busy in my site holding soccer tournaments and fundraising activities, I regret not calling my Peace Corps friends enough. And then I think of my family and friends so far away at home and I wonder about the 2 years I’ll have spent away and how it has affected us.

There is some consolation I find from all this thinking. And, yes, I realize I often do too much thinking. Sometimes there are people who come into your life and make you see things differently. Sometimes someone says something to you, that sticks with you forever. Rarely, do you tell these people how they have affected your life. I think we all have people and moments like these. Yet the people who have changed us so, will probably never know.

I can think of well over 10 people who have touched my life. Yet they have no idea how. And it wasn’t anything extraordinary. It was a look in their eye when they smiled at me. It was a surprise breakfast bagel. It was a letter. It was a phone call.

These people get me through the Peace Corps. And I can only hope, that maybe, just maybe, Ojala, that I have been that source of help for someone in my community. If not, someone in the Peace Corps. If not here, someone at home. I hope that me being here, does some good, somewhere. And once in awhile, I do see a sign on people’s faces or a reaction that I have done some good. I can only believe that if I am true to myself, and I do things with good intentions, there will be good results.

So while I feel not so right, right now, while I am wishing on a little more, I remind myself to be content with the mini accomplishments I have seen so far. To pat myself on the back once in awhile and tell myself I am going to be okay and I can do this.

February just started and there’s barely a week left. It truly is the shortest month.

Time really flies. They say your second Peace Corps year goes faster than your first, but that is hard for me to imagine. I can’t believe I’ve been here 1 year already.

We rented a beach house to celebrate completing 1 year in this beautiful yet peculiar little country. Can you imagine, $25 for 2 nights, a fully equipped house with hammocks, a pool, a maid, air conditioned rooms with beds, situated on a private beach? Needless to say, it was a lovely time and delightful vacation.

I headed back to the countryside after spoiling myself for too many days at Playa Barra de Santiago, knowing I had a busy week ahead of me.

You see, every month, somewhere in this country, some pueblo is celebrating a Patron Saint’s Day. This means, lots of dances, festivals, community events, etc. Returning from the beach, I was ready for my community’s first time celebrating in my site. I helped plan most of the events so I was excited to see how it would turn out.

Most everything went well. We had a day we celebrated for children: creepy clowns, men dancing on stilts (not too exciting) and a parade (not fun on dusty, rocky road). We had competitions for the men: who can ride a horse and try to grab a greased duck’s head and pull it off (kid you not- see facebook photos), who could climb a greased pole to find money on top, and who could win a soccer tournament (no greasing). We had a dance at night where the girls had a beauty contest. I was proud to have a representative from my Artesania Youth group and my Girls Soccer team. And I planned and hosted a girls soccer tournament with my team, of which we got 4th place (out of 5) but we had a fun time. We also got the mayor to donate money for prizes and tropheys from another institution.

I finished the fiestas with a smile on my face, and decided to make an overnight trip to visit my old host family in San Vicente. It was great to see them again. I can’t believe it was a year ago that I lived with them during training!

Returning back to my site this week I found some lovely packages of soccer equipment from friends back home and dog supplies from my Daddy at the post office :D. I entered my community with successful news that the organization I contact will be donating me wheelchairs for some people in need in my community. I have been working on filling out the forms and checking in on my other community projects.

I decided tonight I needed some chill time so I went to visit some friends.

I decided to stop by my neighbor’s house. A nice little 74 year old lady lives across the street from me. She lives alone and she invited me in for coffee. We spent over an hour talking over coffee. I learned about her hard past, her war-time experience of being held captive, the children who abandoned her and the husband she lost. She told me stories of people in the community, pasts I had never known about. She told me how she gets sad to live alone and how people have robbed many of her precious belongings. Yet she said she was happy. She said there are good people here in El Salvador. She said people will help you. She said she couldn’t live how you live in the US, with so much stress, in so much of a hurry.

She ended our conversation by telling me about a program she saw on the TV about people in Africa. She told me about how poor they were. How some didn’t have clothes and how they would eat just whatever. She asked me if that was true.

She has very little. Yet she does not complain. In fact, she feels for those who have even less than her.

I’m glad I had coffee with her and I’ll be sure to visit her often.

This weekend I head to San Salvador to participate in the “Yo Amo El Salvador” Half-Marathon. I have barely trained and I have seen better days of running. But I believe you can do what you put your mind to. And when I’m in a good state of mind, things come easy. People like my neighbor are my motivation...

Hello Everyone...

First of all, to everyone who has sent me packages, THANK YOU SO MUCH. I know it is really expensive and a pain to do, so I appreciate your efforts to help out mi vida here in El Salvador.

Just a Note...

Anything I have asked for in the past, I do not need anymore. So Please save your money...I´m starting to feel guilty!

Really, the only thing I need right now are 10 pairs of soccer cleats for girls, sizes 5-8 and 12 pairs of shin guards. I am working on seeing if I can get local support here from the mayor, as well as doing fundraising activities with the girls, but it is always a challenge. Currently, we have 10 pairs of cleats and 8 shin guards, but I cannot give them out fairly until I have a set for the whole team! We have temporary uniforms...that are old, worn and oversized, but they are doing the job for now. If anyone has a complete set of at leat 11, for girls ages 12-18yrs, let me know!

If you have the need to throw in something extra... my dog is covered in fleas- if anyone has any remedy for that.

USPS Only Mailing Address Still Same:

Jaime Posa

Barrio Centro

Municipio de Osicala

Departamento de Morazan

El Salvador

America Central

______________________________________________________

If you are interested in learning more about El Salvador, I recommend the following movies...usually available in english and/or spanish.

Sin Nombre (¨Without Name¨- English Subtitles) -- about the gangs in El Salvador

Innocent Voices (Voces Inocentes) -- about the life of a child during the El Salvador war

Romero --The life and work of Archbishop Oscar Romero who opposed, at great personal risk, the tyrannical repression in El Salvador.

_____________________________________________________________

Quick Cute Story:

I was at my neighbors house and they were asking me about my trip home. David was asking me, ¨Does Santa Claus really come in the US?¨ Tough question to answer for kids who don´t get gifts. But he was really precious when he said that ¨You think if I write a letter and leave it outside and maybe and animal or something will carry it to the US and Santa Claus will get it and send me and my brothers gifts?¨ 0:)

“Buenas Morning”. “Como are you?” Time passed so quickly that I cannot believe that I already flew home, spent 2 weeks lying on the couch wondering strangely why I was enjoying touching a chucho and am now back again eating mangos in one of the few places you can’t find on Google Earth. The only blatant reminder that I was, in actually, alla is the fact that 2 weeks without speaking Spanish has sent my mind hayward trying to form proper sentences.

Home was … home. My friends and I had our annual Cotton Headed Ninny Muggin Christmas Party where we overdosed on pasta salad, cupcakes and Pam’s Grandma’s cookies. Not enough people were wondering where my Stuffed Mushrooms are but I was content on the handful of requests for my “meat pie”—its SALAMI PIE people. Damnit. We played the secret santa gift giving game and although Cate may not invite me back next year for giving a Machete to intoxicated men (?), we all walked away smiling, even the 8 people who went home with a Shake Weight. Concluding the night singing the 12 Days of Christmas, in rounds, was the icing to the pastel.

The next day or two was spent on my couch, ahhh cushions, with a few breaks to walk my dog through the winter wonderland outside or get up to go to the bathroom, ahhhh toilet seats.

Christmas Eve was spent gorging at my Dad’s Sisters house. A 50ft long table where all you can hear is New York Italian accents screaming over each other while waiting for the foot and all you can see when the food arrives are the tops of black haired heads working through anti pasta, shrimp cocktail, crab legs, lobster, linguini….

Christmas morning my Dad made a typical family breakfast of sloppy Joes (?) while we waited for Christina to wake up… We then headed to the living room to exchange gifts while Grandma worked on her 5th cup of coffee. Danielle got stuff for her NYC apartment, I got ant traps. Christina got mascara, I got multi vitamins…Then we headed to my Mom’s brother’s house in Long Island where the food binging continued…

The rest of the week was spent relaxing at home. It was so good to be at my house and so nice to have family around. Grandma entertained me by yelling everytime someone drove up the driveway... “Who’s Here?! Someones here!!!”. It was usually my Dad.

And as the days neared my return to El Salvador, my heart beat faster and faster. Do I want to go back? How will I say goodbye again? But, I neeeed hot water. It’s the night before and I just don’t want to go. So I read over the Christmas card my littler sister, Christina, gave me. She writes like she’s been doing it for years. As if it’s effortless. The words she chooses are not only sophisticated but fit in their places in the sentences like pieces to a puzzle. The message reads like a story that you ease through but keep with you forever. And the note is not written with her hands but spilling out from her heart. She makes me look at the Peace Corps in a new light. She talks about not only reaching out to others, but letting them inside of you. She says how she looks at the look on a stranger’s face when she smiles and says good morning. She says “Lili’s waiting for you”. And I am reminded of something I read in Buddhism—Let The World Be Your Teacher. And I know that I need to go back.

I was blessed to have the two weeks at home with my friends and family, catching up with people I haven’t seen in awhile or spoken to in forever. And I am blessed to be able to return here.

It wasn’t easy. It still isn’t. But….life is beautiful.

Day 1- I walked into a house covered in dust and a latrine full of flies- But, that I expected. A firecracker went off sending the bees in the hive on my house in a frenzy stinging me on day 2 and a spreading rash appeared on my arms on day 3, but that I could have even told you would happen. But no one told me they were cutting my mango tree. I sat in disbelief as 2 men hacked away the branches of my beloved tree, in preparation of the new road that will be passing through my community. This was one of the hardest moments of all. Later, I scoured the ground like a scavenger, not wanting to leave a single fallen soldier behind. Oh my dear dulce mangos.

But joy came in other areas. Two representatives from the US Embassy made the 4 hour trek to visit my community Wednesday. From them I won a grant to provide the materials for my Artesania Jewelry Making Youth Group. I was ecstatic with the turnout and so so so very proud of my kids for the presentation they gave to the Embassy folk. I met with my Girls Soccer Team to talk about re organizing and fundraising and they all showed up, ALMOST on time (!!) and planned their own fundraiser event. I successfully (I think) performed conflict resolution with my counterpart over an ongoing issue and I believe I will soon be picking up a set of new computer for my school. Other than that, I am working on stage 2 of a scholarship to study in a US University for a boy in my community and planning to host a girls tournament next month. All and all, I feel I have had a successful week… but never too cocky to count my pollitos before they hatch.

So I keep trucking along, seeing what else may come my way. They can’t take me down. And I’m not giving up my mangos.

************

If you can’t fly, run; if you can’t run, walk’ if you can’t walk; crawl.

–Reverend Martin Luther King Jr.

“HOLA!” I look up from my plastic table and lean forward on the plastic chair I’m sitting on outside. Jose smiles and takes one had off the pile of fire wood he wears over his back, to wave at me. My smile grows wide as I wave back and I lean back in my chair with a quiet, but happy giggle. “Hola” me dijo.

For the past 8 months in La Montanita, 13 year old Jose has been cat calling me. When I walk by, he whistles. When I’m farther down the street “tss,tss” and “venite mi amor, I ‘love you mamasita!” he calls at me. It’s bad enough when the teenagers and old, married men do it to me. But its even more humiliating and frustrating coming from someone barely through puberty.

On my birthday part last month, Jose had the nerve to show up, hover at my door and finally ask for a piece of cake. There were 2 tiny slices left. I put one on a paper plate and walked over to him. I said “You can have this last piece of cake, but you are not going to hiss at me when I walk down the street anymore.”

He still looked up at me with googly eyes when I walked by, but he stopped saying things. Or at least he was quiet enough that I couldn’t hear him.

Last weekend, he was outside while I was loading up a pick up truck with my soccer team girls to travel to an away game. I asked if he wanted to tag along, free of charge, but he would have to ref the game. He agreed.

Today, he walks by my house and says “Hola.”

Sometimes, I get so frustrated here. I work 2 hours at night, planning a meeting for my girls soccer team so that they will be able to own a pair of cleats… And 3 girls show up the next day for the meeting. I offer to help solicit gifts for a Christmas Party for the town (500 of them!) and my community leaders won’t meet with the mayor for the snacks because he is from a different politic party. Maria knocks on my door asking for $3 and Mario laughs as he tells me that he lost all his drawings from Art Class.

No one gets me. I shouldn’t be here. They don’t appreciate my work. They don’t want me here. No one likes me. I have no friends. They just want money. I’m just a big gringa to stare at.

It’s so easy to think like this. I fear this stuff a lot.

But then people surprise you.

Happiness comes in weird ways.

You reap rewards in ways you never thought of.

It just took a “Hello”. An “Hola” from Jose. And I can’t stop smiling. He gets it. I want to be here.

I lean back and good memories come flooding to my mind…

The girls from my Artesania group who came over to my house this week when I invited them. An hour late, but they all showed up. We spent 3 hours making decorations for the Community House for the Christmas Party. We talked and laughed and listened to music…it felt good. One girl even wrote up a description of the community and our project to show my friends at home, as I asked. I was so proud of her. Together we wrote a Thank You card for our Artesania group leader. The message came from the group and it touched my heart. They do appreciate my work.

Last night, some girls invited me to a bull riding show in a neighboring community. We laughed as a soccer game was played while a bull ran loose on the field. Kids trying to make goals while avoiding getting stuck with a horn. Not the safest game but man, funny to watch. We huddled together as it got late and a whole lot colder than I ever thought it’d get here. We giggle, a giant group of girls, arms wrapped around each other. They do want me here. They do like me. I do have friends.

Esmeralda tries to wash her cup from the coffee I offered her during our Artesania Christmas Decoration making session. “Leave it” I say. “No Jaime. When someone offers you something, you return the favor”. They don’t just want my money.

“Hola” Jose called to me as he waved, smiling. I’m not just a big gringa to stare at.

Last week I had a meeting with my girls soccer team scheduled for 1 pm to discuss fundraising so we can travel to neighboring towns. At 12pm I was to meet with Leo to price the jewelry my Artesania group made for me to sell at the Feria Internacional. And my counterpart had just notified me that there was an important ADESCO meeting at 2pm.

I rushed around the house all morning. I ran to my neighbors house to buy some soap to wash clothes. I soak the clothes in a bucket of detergent, feed the pup, wipe down the tables from the cat pawprints from his nightly adventures (I need to get window panes!), seep, yoga, make breakfast, wash dishes, scrub clothes, hang clothes, feed pup…

I run out the door at 11:45am. I lock up and turn around. I face the neighbors horses in my yard…they have eaten all of my first corn harvest and parts of 2 banana trees. Shit, I left the gate open. Ughhh, I run back to the neighbors – how do I get out the caballos? “You just shooo them”- they demonstrate with hand signals. I run back to my yard. “Vaya, vaya!” I yell. I’m standing far too far behind them for my stick waving to have any effect but eventually they bore and trot out my gate. As I walk out behind them, I notice they reciprocated the favor on my shoe.

It was 12:10pm…”I’m early” I thought. Leo arrives at 12:30, he thinks he’s early. There’s chatting…I look at my watcvh…A few girls from my team are getting to the field…it’s 1:05pm. Still missing half the team. Leo is eating pan dulce and coffee….

All meetings conveniently end up starting promptly at 3pm. I run from one to the other. I give up. I stay at the ADESCO meeting. We need to discuss our upcoming Christmas event. We end up gossiping ¾ of the time. ½ of that time is about me. What do I do when I go to the capital? Am I dating Fidel? Brock? Am I gaining weight? Will I come back after I leave for Christmas?

Today, I think about that question. Okay, not to scare people, yes I will come back. But I just got back from vacation. I was in Belize for 5 days. I didn’t have to speak Spanish…but I did anyway. (Its hard to kick the “No, Gracias” habit towards street vendors). I didn’t have to wear long skirts or closed sandals. I didn’t have to say Salu 300 times a day or deny cold cervezas. I just relaxed.

I swam with sharks. I cave tubed and zip lined through the jungle. I layed on the beach and listened to reggae music. I saw dread locks instead of sombreros and I watched the sunset with Jimmy at my side. I felt the wind and salty sea water on my face sitting on the bow of boats. I heard “Ay whats up mon?” instead of “que tal vos?”. I fell in the sand practicing headstands instead of on cement floors and rocky soccer fields. I ate fresh fish instead of fried tortillas and I drank bottled Belikin instead of bags of water.

After 5 days of tranquility I returned to La Montanita…but this time with Jimmy. If 2 gringos at one time wasn’t enough excitement for my village…the names Jaime and Jimmy sure pushed them over the edge. We played cards for countless horas with the neighbors, ate bean soup and refried beans and beans nuevos and…We had a girls soccer tournament- well I did, he had a 3 hour viewing session. We went to a tourist center for the ADESCO’s end of the year despedida party. We watched movies in my hammock. We put up Christmas lights and stocking my Dad sent me around my house. We shared cups of coffee in the morning…I learned I make it way too strong. He met vaquito, my pup. He met the roosters in the morning at 5 am :D We machete’d up a tree that fell in my yard while I was gone. Well, he did- I had an hour viewing session.

But now, I wake up alone. I sit alone, yet again, at my coffee table. I put on music to drone out the silence…the loneliness. I hear the lines “tears taste the same when they splash on our face” and I think of him. I think of my family and my friends at home. I can’t wait to see them. I see the pictures on my walls. Maddie with long hair. My friends laughing at the bar. Standing with my sisters in the upstate waterfalls. My relatives at my grandma’s 80th birthday…that was 12 years ago??? Where does the time go?

I’ll have been here 11 months upon my first visit home. Could I have really been here 11 months? Do I really have 15 more? Will I make it? Will I come back after Christmas?

This will surely be another challenge. I can’t wait to be home. I couldn’t wait for Belize. For Jimmy to come. But it is hard now. I got used to living alone. I got used to my community. But to have someone here and then taken away is really hard. And now I will have all my friends and family at home within reach. And I’ll have to say goodbye once again. Ughh.

You know, some days its so easy. Alls it takes is a hug from Lili. A “Buenos Dias Corazon” from Jose. A movie in the hammock with Vaquito. The sunrise over the mountains. A walk down the trail to the waterfalls. Someone giving me their seat on the bus. El torogoz birdie perched on the tree outside my window chirping.

But other days its so hard. I want to see Amanda playing tennis… and I want to help her pass math! I want to meet up with Christina and Danielle in DC to have lunch. I want to put up Christmas lights with my Dad. I want to set the table while my Mom cooks dinner. I want to go running with Sam and then sit on the couch with her while she growls at Amanda. I want to see my Grandma on her new bike and eat her salami pie. I want to lay on her shoulder while she pets my head. I want to laugh with my friends at the diner and get dressed up and go out.

I think about my most recent meeting with Intervida. The guy in front of my playing with his machete. The girl to my left breast feeding a baby just 15 years younger than she. The girl to my right sporting prom shoes. The guy behind me passed out, head dangled forward, rocking a hat that reads “CRAZY”. How did I end up here?

I have learned a lot this past year. I have seen a lot and done a lot. But I have missed so much. And it will be so hard while I’m home to realize what I am going to be missing next year. I often forget while I’m down here that life is moving on at home. I forgot that it was summertime at home. I forgot seasons were passing and kids were graduating. I still think it will be February 2nd when I get home. Christina will be in high school and living at home. My friends, all how I left them. I just hope nothing changes too much. And that everyone will wait for me to move back in 2012!

"Zapo Verde" literally translates into Green Frog. A lot of community members from La Montana said this to me this week. When pronounced, it sounds like Happy Birthday in English. It is very amusing to my amigos aqui...

I have smiled a lot the past few days. My birthday, lets be honest, really is not a big deal. I turned 23...not a monumental age...and the celebration was not meant to be anything grandiose. I did not tell many people about my birthday but I wanted to use the day as an excuse to sit around with all my favorite community members.

One of my counterparts and dear friends made me a lovely birhtday lunch...sponsored by another pc volunteer and friend...and then we headed to my house for a small cake I purchased. I invited my closest neighbors in the vicinity...totaling about 15 kids. I turned around with cake in my hand and looked into the eyes of 78 toothless smiling little faces.

My other counterpart showed up with a pinata and we all held flashlights as kids dodged the swinging piece of wood in Jose's hands. I took pictures and laughed as the kids ran all over the place. I tried to rescue little Vacito from the trampling feet as best as I could. And I accepted the dirty hands smearing cake cream all over my face. Unfortunately, the small cake only allowed less than a sliver for each child, but no one complained...although I did spend most of the rest of the night picking up paper plates and candy wrappers from every corner of my house and yard.

I spent the rest of the night cleaning, burning trash and packing for a long weekend. I woke up at 3am to shower in the pitch blackness but serenity of the night/morning and soon began my journey across the country. I barely put my phone down throughout the day, reading texts and answering calls from my far away family and friends...and my cheeks are still sore from smiling.

I was thrilled to receive a call from the PC El Salvador country director inviting me to participate in an international event at the US Embassy next weekend. Did I say that I won a Grant to support my Artesania group from the US Embassy? Things are going pretty well.

Excited to continue the night celebrating with my awesome Peace Corps friends...Chelsea wants a shout out for her awesomeness in particular...and will bring more updates next time. For now, thanks to all of you my dear family and friends! I love and miss you all!!!

Okay, I know it has been awhile. Perdon. And I actually have a few good stories to share. Espereme. But first things first.

MIRACLE #1:

A local community organization would like to setup a Christmas event for my community. The community will be providing the staff, food, music, pinatas, etc. My counterpart, a sweet lady named Dora, who I am very close with, has asked me to help donate gifts. We are going to put on an event so that the children can come celebrate Christmas and win some small toys.

That being said, if anyone is interested, please send any cheap, small toys, games to the follow address. USPS ONLY.

Jaime Posa & Maria Auxiliadora Sorto Sanchez

Barrio Centro

Municipio de Osicala

Departamento de Morazan

El Salvador

America Central

I have never had a problem receiving mail to this address as long as it is sent USPS. However, it is a little pricey so, con cuidado. If you would like to help out in another way, please email me. Posa.Jaime@gmail.com. There are other options I have in mind and I'd be more than willing to work with you!!!

Suggested items:

Think Cheap! Seriously!!

Decks of Cards

Balls

Stuffed Animals

Bubbles

Marbles

Spanish Books

Grocery Store Toys

Soccer ball pump!

Nothing big, fancy, elaborate or expensive. They won't know or cherish it's value!

MIRACLE #2

One of my schools is looking to set up a computer lab. There is an organization that Peace Corps is currently working with that sells cheap computers to schools and institutions here. If you would like to help out or have any ideas for projects, please contact me: posa.jaime@gmail.com

MIRACLE #3

Okay, my Birthday is next week and Christmas is coming up. I would ask that if you have any desire to buy/send me something, do it in the name of my community. Please contact me or my sister Danielle first if you are thinking about it so I can make sure there are no duplicates. Here are my thoughts:

1. You help out with one of the above projects.

2. My girls soccer team would LOVE some uniforms, so we could have a full set. I was thinking it would be awesome to get their names on the back...but we'll see about that.

3. We also need a soccer ball pump and whistle. Any other accessories you have lying around. But again, contact me!

4. I would love to set up a women's exercise class. Yoga Mats would be ideal. Plus healthy snacks as rewards/motivations. And to remind them, chips are not a good dinner plate!

Feel free to email me at anytime. I love to hear from you!

My next blog will have some interesting updates and stories. Te Prometo!

lots of love

I woke up shivering this morning. I tossed and turned for a little bit. I thought to myself… I’ve rested enough that it’s time to get up. But I don’t want to untie myself from the cozy ball of my blankets. I’m still cold. And I have to pee. I want my sweater. And I want my latrine. I turn and look up at my “ceiling”. There is a little bit of light peeking through the crack in the middle, but not enough to illuminate the room. I estimate it’s 5:30am. I pull back the mosquitero, climb under, and slip on my flip flops. I reach for my phone from the shelf where service hits and look at it from beneath squinting, sleepy eyes. 5:26am. I pull my sweater over my head and head outside.

It’s so quiet at this time and I smile when I look around me. It’s been 8 months. Will this view ever get old? Will the backdrop of the mountains and the pearly white waterfall in the distance ever seize to inspire me? Will I forget the way the clouds blanket my neighbor’s farm at dawn? Will I miss the sound of crickets, birds, roosters and cows? I barely hear them anymore. It’s just music in the background now. It’s just so quiet. Well…it was. There goes Carolina’s music echoing from down by the futbol field. “And still I see no changes…” is now rapping through La Montanita. Pues, Tupac, ya tenemos a black President.

I turn on the water faucet with my small coffee tin in hand. Shit, no water. Good excuse not to shower today? It’s so cold! My mind flashes to my US bathroom. Less than 3 months until hot water…

I scoop some agua up from the water basin. I peer down into it. No mosquito larva? Cool. Luckily, I cleaned the pila Thursday. I put the water on the stove and wait for it to boil. I can already smell the coffee and I haven’t even opened the bag. I wonder how crack addicts do it.

Its 5:45am. I have 2 meetings today… First one being at 10am- girls’ soccer team practice. I’m still so proud of them for playing their first game without me being there. Sustainability!  (INSERT: Request for friends and family at home to send an old soccer cleats you have lying around. 80% of my team plays barefoot…if you think that’s impressive you should see the “field”. Not exactly the Pville turf.) Second meeting, Artesania. I’m so happy that at least 20 youth have been showing up every Saturday. We are learning how to make a lot of cool stuff and I hope to start selling in the next few months.  (INSERT: Let me know if you would be interested in buying!) I’m really proud of them for also managing their own fundraiser. Man people can be shy here. Selling raffle tickets to a bunch of strangers started out as a terrifying day. But I was really proud of my girls who ended up selling over 60 tickets. Anyway… I have 2 meetings today… I should start planning. But I’m still cold and my eyes are still sleeping. My hammock is just swaying there taunting me. I pull my blanket off my bed, wrap it around my shoulders, put on some socks (Is it really this cold? December in New York?) and grab “Buddha” (the book) off my table.

“You’d be better off with an honest living that doesn’t depend on another man’s sweat”

…I read after 20 minutes of hammock time. I think about my future. In a year and a half, I return to the states.

Wandering down the streets saying hello to friends and sharing many cups of coffee will be esoteric. A workday consisting of running the soccer field will be non-existent. And trying to find a job that is not 9-5pm is unheard of. I worry about my future. I think about this statement above. I want to work hard and I want an honest job. I want to appreciate life. I like to believe money is not that important… but than again I’ve never lived poor. I’ve never really struggled. Even now, lets face it, I have privileges my community does not. I want a job I love, I want to say “who cares what it pays if I love it” but I also want to support my family. I want to be able to give them everything. Will it be possible?

I underline this part of the book and head outside. Again, I am taken aback by the site before me. Am I crazy? Too much of a visionary? Will reality someday hit me and I won’t see the beauty in all that is simply before me? Whatever. Right now, I am happy. I take a deep breath and stretch my arms up to the sky. Ah I am so lucky. I want to feel this way forever.

Sometimes when I’m writing these blogs, I forget that they are public. I am writing what is on my mind without the intention of offending, pleasing, entertaining, confusing or scaring anyone. I am just writing what’s on my mind. Today, my mind is heavy. So I don’t know how this blog will end up.

I feel like this:

You see that glass of anisette before you? Now you just see anisette. I, on the other hand, because I need to be inside everything I do, see the plant it came from, the storms the plant endured, the hand that picked the grain, the voyage by ship from another land, the smells and colors with which the plant allowed itself to be imbued before it was placed in the alcohol. If I were to paint this scene, I would paint all those things, even though, when you saw the painting, you would think you were looking at a simple glass of anisette.

-Paulo Coehlo, Eleven Minutes

24 year old Maria* was intriguing from the day I met her. She boasted about her 5 year old daughter who is excelling ambitiously in school and just won a dollar for dancing the best at Student Appreciation Day. Maria is beautiful without trying and so animated when she speaks that sometimes you have to remind yourself to blink. She shows up to meetings on time and participates willingly. Maria greets me by my name everytime she sees me. But just the other day I learned about a new side of Maria. She was orphaned at the age of 3 and moved houses a lot with her only sister, growing up without a home. She fell into the hands of an abusive boyfriend who is now the father of her child and owner of her house. She desperately wanted to continue her studies and to be a professional and now she needs to get permission from this man to leave her house, and who knows what awaits her when she returns.

6 year old Saira lives with her grandma and family of her 3 year old cousin, Katie. She doesn’t know her father, who left for the States while her teenage mother was pregnant. The same mother now lives 2 hours away and seldom comes to visit. Saira calls her mother by her first name. Katie is the baby and cute as a button. While Saira is washing dishes, Katie is playing with new toys her grandma brought from the market. When grandma comes home with 2 new pairs of shoes, and Katie likes Saira’s better, Katie gets those shoes. Katie whines and cries for the shoes loudly, but Saira weeps. Saira is quiet and often falls out of the picture. But her eyes light up when you acknowledge her.

I had all of my students write down 3 things they like on the back of their name tags. Many read like this:

-I like to look for firewood for the house

-I like to clean the house (coming from a young boy)

-I like to wash dishes

-I like to spend time with my family

-I like to help my mom

I smiled reading them. I don’t see little Joanna anymore. I see a 7 year old girl, proud to contribute to the family work. I don’t see Erick, but an innocent boy who does not know what “machismo” is and is happy to help with household chores. I see kids who are appreciative, hard-working and beautiful; each in their own way.

I think about how I saw my community when I first, first walked in. I saw a broken road, heard noisy farm animals and smelled burning trash. I felt the dirt floors I walked on and did not understand the language that passed through my ears. I thought to myself, how different this place is.

But now, I see my community. I didn’t see it before. I see the suffering, the struggles and the hardships. I see the longing, the hope and the aspirations. I see the kindness, the warmth and the selflessness. I don’t see Maria and Saira anymore. I don’t see my students or my canton. I see much more. When Maria greets me, I see a strong woman who is lost and asking for help. I see strength and determination in her eyes but I can feel the weight of the chains pulling her back. When Saira runs up and throws her arms around me, I don’t see a 6 year old child. I see a heart throbbing for love. I don’t feel her hug, I feel her relief. I think about people from back home and realize how similar this place is.

It is raining non-stop for day 6 now. I have not seen the sky since last Friday and the past 2 days I have not even been able to see the tree tops. Classes are canceled til Monday. The country is alternating between Red and Orange Alert, while evacuating thousands of people and clearing countless landslides. My road is flooded and my washed clothes still hang sopping wet on my lines. The rain pounds hard on my tin roof, but I don’t hear it.

*The stories are real but the names have been changed.

Tomorrow, the 15th of September, marks Independence Day for El Salvador. Today, I finished celebration #2, and am awaiting #3 tomorrow. As much as I am enjoying this time, seeing my community have pride in their country, I can´t help but think back on my past celebrations of Independence Day in the US. Sitting on the front of the boat with high school friends and my Dad up at the wheel, the Macy´s fireworks sprinking down upon us.

My days pass as usual. Moments of ¨what in the hell am I doing here¨ and moments of gratitude for this opportunity. I quickly looked away as we passed a dead horse, splayed in the middle of the road on our way back from town. I thought about how precious life is. I ignored the graffiti´d walls of the nearby canton and acted oblivious to the whistles from the men lurking in front.

But I turned and smiled at Naun as he yelled ¨Salu Nina Jaime!¨, as I hopped off the back of the pickup, passing a quarter to the driver and grabbing my basket off the dirt road. As the truck left me in the dust, I hesitated upon opening the fence to my little farmhouse. ¨I am so lucky.¨ I thought with a smile as I looked out at the view of the mountains and a trace of a waterfall in the distance. What a beautiful world.

I find myself having numerous moments like this. Moments that make me take a deep breathe and inhale all that is wonderful around me. Moments that make me close my eyelids and take a moment to appreciate everything before me. Moments where I smile from the beautiful thoughts that come to my mind from my precious community in the mountains. Even moments that brings tears to my eyes, but I´m not quite sure why.

I open my tiny square window in the morning to let in some light. I watch silently as Lesli and cousin Kilmer, my 6 year old nieghbors, splash happily through the giant puddles the nighttime rain has left. Their giggles make it impossible for me not to crack a grin and the buckets of ground corn they wear on their back seem weightless. This country holds so many stories...

With the news of a flight available to send me home for Christmas, I find myself spending most waking hours thinking about it. What will I do? What am I going to wear? What should I bring home? Will I remember to throw the toilet paper INSIDE the bowl? I actually started convince myself that this trip was going to be next week, instead of about 4 months away. I am more than ecstatic to see my family and friends, to shower with hot water, to eat a toasted bagel and new york pizza, to curl up on a couch with a blanket, to go running with Sam, to watch a tv...in English...and a show NOT being a soap opera...but mostly, to see my family and friends. I miss everyone so much.

And all the pride that is being spread this week in the name of El Salvador´s Independence Day, makes me all the more homesick. I am so proud to be here during this time and I am also really proud to be an American.

Some other more light-hearted news:

I believe I have acquired myself a new dog. A mangy street hound, also known here as a chucho, has set up shop on my patio-like-area. One day I was doing some cleaning and came across what used to be (before some insect munched it to pieces) a bag of Barro´s dog food. I threw it into the yard, where my new chucho came-a-running. Terribly ugly, I thought, he´s kinda cute, and threw him some more of Barro´s old junk I found. He hung out for awhile, but as the day passed he set out to look for Tramp and the junkyard dogs. Last night, I walked out to find chucho curled in a ball in the only spot my patio roof wasn´t leaking from a massive storm that hit us last night. I smiled. I kinda like my new dog.

Double Posa has officially ended and I am back to being the sole gringa in La Montana. Having my sister here for a week was an experience that I will undoubtedly remember forever. As I hand wash mounds of ropa, shaking away shards of glass and scrubbing out mud stains, I reminisce on the excitement we shared in just 7 short days. I’m filled with beautiful memories of our time together, yet overwhelmed with the current absence of her presence. My shelves are now filled with foreign food and unread novels, but my second coffee cup is empty at my table in the morning. I am so very grateful for everything my sister brought me, but it was HER that made our time so special and not the tangible amenities she spoiled me with.

I woke up at 3:30am and hitched a ride with my neighbor / landlord at 4am to the town center. I hopped out at 4:30, not a street light around, leaving behind a bottle of water, umbrella and banana in the car; 3 very missed items on a long bus ride in the rainy season. At 5am I waited for bus #2, still in absolute darkness, waiting for the door to open so I could choose my temporary bed for the next 3 hours. Que lastima que a friend recognized me and started up a rather un-entertaining conversation for me at the ass crack of dawn. About an hour into the trip, I politely said “please stop talking so I can go to sleep” and promptly passed out on the window pane. I awoke to the chanting of “terminal oriente, el terminal, terminal!, opened one eye to a slew of buses out the window and slowly prepared myself for bus #3.

I treated myself to a nice breakfast without 1 egg, nor 1 bean, reveled in an ice coffee and an air conditioned restaurant and reminded myself of the few things to be grateful for in the capital. Next, a cab to the shuttle, which was probably 3minutes away and yet cost me 4 dollars. I paid the same price to travel 3hours in the bus from my department to the capital. Again, que lastima. Then, I waited for the 10am shuttle to the airport, which would have been quite a pleasant little trip since I was the only one in there, had it not been for creepy looks and smiles from the driver via the rear view mirror.

Needless to say, I was ecstatic to see my sister emerge from the baggage claim area. My first visitor and family member I had seen in over 6 months, I was shaking from head to toe with excitement. I, for one moment, shared with the Salvadorans the excitement at seeing a gringa and just about whistled. Her backpack bulged like Santa Claus and side by side may have been bigger than her, and yet she came with just the clothes on her back. Fortunately, we had a rental car and I realized just how different the country is with your own set of wheels. The car itself is a long story on its own, but maybe Danielle will like to share that with you….

We headed off for la playa Tunco (that’s a beach) where we enjoyed the sun with friends for a couple of nights. Avoiding bolos walking down the beach, hooka nights and bar dancing, ice-coffee mornings at Dale Dale, learning to hammock and loving Anonas.

Leaving the beach was hard, physically and emotionally, but I was ecstatic to show my sister the community I live in. Albeit we had a few detours, and a 5 hour trip became more of a 9, we made it safe and sound.

We spent Sunday shopping at the morning market. We got some great CDs for 1 dolar, (can you pronounce “dolar” correctly yet?) and made a show haggling for some machetes. Danielle got her first “tipico”, eggs and beans, for lunch and then we crammed the bus to head back to my community.

I introduced Danielle to about 20 families and 20 conversations started the exact same way. “Pero como se parecen! Casi gemelas. Ella es la menor?” Yes we look alike. No we’re not twins. And No, I am not older. I wasn’t convinced that this was an insult…until someone asked if I was her mom.

I then took Danielle to our Adult Literacy Class…and she received a hand-made bag from one of the members (where’s mine?) She purchased the first hammock made by our community members :D and enough jewelry from my Artesania leader to allow him to leave work for the day and hike us through the mountains to the waterfalls. We house visited a bunch of families…of which one killed, roasted with spices and delivered to my house a full chicken. Try the “huevitos” the lady insisted. Questioning whether or not I was about to bite into the chicken’s balls entered my mind but I pushed it out as my cook watched me smiling.

My sister and I spent some quality time talking in my house, which ended in Danielle passing out in the hammock and me going for a walk to buy some stuff to make lunch. And soon we headed out for our next destination. We had to drive across country because I had another few days of training with a bunch of volunteers. She made the most of the time there, although I wish we could have spent the time doing other stuff together. But still, I was happy many of the other volunteers got to meet her.

Parting was hard, and almost a week later, I still gravely miss having my sister around. I still see her awkwardly approaching the hammock, certain its about to topple. I miss the nutella-choco-bananas. I’m still making-up car stories to the villagers. I had to put up 2 extra clothes lines to dry all the clothes we wore. My bed feels bigger than ever. I have yet to convince Freddy that Danielle does not want a long distance relationship with him. 5 community members are making hammocks because they think she will buy them all. After I answer the questions “when did she leave” I have to answer “when is she coming back”. And I long for internet connection in my house so I could flip through the pictures of our time together. It would be easier if the community would stop asking about her! Especially the police…..

“CALIFORNIAAAA, Here we coooooome!” I really appreciate the torrential downpours on my tin roof during moments like these. Nothing feels better than belting the words to The OC’s theme song in bed at 7pm on a Friday night. Especially when you know no one can hear you.

Unfortunately, being that it rains everyday, usually twice now, I have gotten really used to singing at the top of my lungs in the comfort of my own home. The problem is, I forget sometimes that its NOT raining. And I don’t have window panes. I was mid-lyrics of “No es amooor, lo que tu sientes…”, sung an octave too high for me and arms outstretched in yoga’s volcano pose. My head tilted just far back enough to meet the eyes of my neighbors peering through my window with a bucket of my clothes on their head. Oh how I wished it were raining at that moment. If they didn’t think my squeaky Spanish was bad enough before, they sure didn’t appreciate my version of Aventura’s “Obsecion”.

That reminds me of 2 other things. Recently, I had been starting to feel better about my Spanish. Using new verb tenses, throwing in the occasional “figese que” and definitely using “si” less. Then I started teaching. The schools here are very different than the US. There are no windows, doors remain open, and there is no hand-raising. Sometimes I pause writing on a board with a marker that doesnt work, look at the kids running around outside, hanging from the rafters, bathing in the pila and wonder if I’m at Mountain Creek Waterpark or a school. Man does sound travel easily. I have started to become a little naseous by the sound of my own screaming Spanish voice by the third class of the day. So surely me “singing” an off-high-pitched bachata was not well-received by the eardrums of my latin friends.

The other thing: why my clothes were balancing on their heads. I have fought off many-a-money-borrower of my community. But my neighbor keeps coming back. The other day, after 20 mins of me saying NO, she started bawling. It was hard to keep denying $1 when someone is crying on your doorstep. So I decided instead of lending money, which is a bad precedent to set…and often is not so much lending as giving…to pay her the $1 to wash some of my clothes. I think it was a win, win for both of us. Big sheets on small-wash-rock thing equals a crappy morning for me.

What’s a not so crappy morning? Hiking to 3 of the most beautiful waterfalls I’ve ever seen. The morning started by a pick-up truck ride to the neighboring town, of which my friend and I were the bread slices to a cow sandwich. We hopped off smelling slightly like dung and met some Salvo friends (also with their own special scent) who would lead the way. An hour up the cerro de San Lucas, we got a beautiful view of the mountains. Actually looking out at the range where I did the last hike (Perquin). One of the guys with us was in the army so he brought along a great pair of binoculars. It was cool to look down at all the communities: a bunch of scattered cantons appearing to contain of much of the same- mangy chuchos scavenging chicken bones, half-naked bichos playing with marbles, men hacking the milpa with machetes and women washing clothes and dishes at home. This is what you see looking in on the outside. Living there on the inside you see Lili’s smiling eyes when you place her on your lap, you feel Otinia’s soft grandma hands on your back when you hug her goodnight and you smell freshly cut herbs on Justo’s clothes from a day of honest work.

Moving along, we pushed through coffee fincas, talking about the higher profits the men await in November. Opposed to the $4 days they see now, chopping corn from 5am-1pm, they look forward to coffee season where they will make $6. We frowned as we came upon a large slice of land where many of the few pine trees in the area have been chopped away, adding to the country’s devastating deforestation levels. It was hard to be depressed for too long, though, as we stumbled upon the first waterfall. It was a beautifully placed fountain in the green hills, fruit trees growing all around. Sungano, zapotes, mango, limon, coffee, maiz…it was a great location to be midday. And with the sun high, bathing in our clothes was just what we needed.

We spent another few hours hiking the mountains and finding 2 other large falls. Saul threw a fruit at Javier, hitting him in the back and splattering rotten pulp all over my shirt. Saul #2 always stayed 10 steps ahead, clearing the path with his corbo. I wondered as he glanced back over his shoulder if he was trying to impress Glenda. I climbed up through one of the waterfalls, blindly, since the water was pounding me in the face. I swallowed a good deal of it trying to breathe…and also from laughing. Glenda finally decided to jump in the little water pool after I convinced her it wasn’t deep and I wouldn’t let her drown. She didn’t let go of my hand the whole time… and by the way I was giggling and splashing with her I was shocked when I stood up and realized I was a big girl.

The day that can arguably be one of my favorite in country at this moment, ended as my blog started: Rain. Nearly at the bottom of the mountain we felt the first drops hit. By the hike down we had dried off from our little swim and my camera was full of our day’s memories. The drizzle abruptly picked up with the crack of a lightning bolt and Glenda looked at me with raised eyebrows and said “corramos!” We waved goodbye to our friends, grabbed hands and sprinted off, laughing and splashing mud in all directions.

¨You don´t feel weird wearing that dress¨. My counterpart´s daughter casually asked me as she swayed back and forth in the hammock. I looked down at what I was wearing. It goes to my ankles, it doesn´t seem inappropriate. Is a brownish-red a bad color on me? ¨No, why? You don´t like it?¨ I questioned.

¨Well you can see right through it.¨ I was pleased she waited until 4pm in the afternoon after I had paraded around town to inform me of this. In her defense, she thought that wearing see through clothes was normal in the US. In my defense, its very dark inside my room so I was unable to tell that I was essentially walking around naked.

¨Wow! Look how fat you are!¨ My other counterpart said to a lady approaching, selling tamales. This is literally how what she said translates. The sentiment translates a little different but I still can´t get over this part of the culture here. Imagine if you said that to a girl at home?

..........

This week began the first week of the classes I am teaching at 2 schools. At one school, I teach English to 4-6th grades on Mondays- 3 hours in the afternoon. At the other school I teach Art to 2-9th grades which involves 5 hours in the afternoon on Tuesdays and 5 hours in the morning on Wednesdays. I thought it would be nice to leave Thursday and Friday free…

However, since my counterpart is away, I also transformed myself into her position, teaching her Literacy class to adults from 4-6 in the evenings this week Wed-Fri. Throw in 2 town health meetings lasting over 2 hours, hand washing 2 weeks worth of clothes, grocery shopping in the nearest town, writing a grant proposal for resources for our Artesania group, longer that wanted unexpected house visits… and I successfully left myself 5 mins per day to relax.

One positive of the fact that I have passed out by 8pm the past 3 nights is that I easily woke up at 5am each day and had an hour or so to work out before the heat. Most importantly, less people were out at 5:20 to see me go running. If you didn’t know, people don’t just run here. Unless you’re a 7 year old bicho running after a passing bus (which they often can out run on a packed day) or are leaving your neighbor’s yard with an uprooted banana tree, there will be no running.

So while there were not many people out at 5:20am, there were enough to make me question several times whether I wanted to keep on running. Unfortunately, the people who ARE out at this time are mostly the men heading out to the fields to chop hemp plants for the 1,405 time in their lives. You can compare me running by for them to someone falling down the stairs in high school for you. There is just no better amusement to a monotonous day.

I’m not kidding, 4 out of the 5 men I passed were hysterically laughing and he who was not I assume began to after the utter confusion finally dissipated when I was out of sight. Throw in a handful of wandering (and equally as bored) dogs, women heading to grind the corn who know me, calling “Para onde va?” and a bus passing on a narrow curve and you have an interesting morning run. For the dogs, I learned to slow down when approaching, casually, but swiftly, grab a rock and telepathically send an amiable greeting. For the women, I stopped for those who beat me to asking where I was going before I could yell “adios!”. And for the bus…well I’m typing this write now…

When I returned to my house, I put on some instant coffee and got to work on the laundry. I was down to the last shirt, my knuckles raw from scraping against the cement, when the water stopped falling. I looked down into the pila, at the water that was life (half empty or half full?), and wiped the sweat from my forehead. I decided to move on to cooking breakfast and writing my Agenda for the Literacy class, in order to give the water some time to fall back into my life. The water never came back, but fortunately the pila was Half Full, and I had a bucket’s worth to just barely cool myself and get me “clean”.

As for my first 3 days for teaching, I am happy. It was exhausting, some games & lessons were more or less a failure, but kids laughed. I laughed. They learned. I learned. Well, kinda. It’s been a very long time since I have had a geography course, and I hadn’t intended on teaching one. However, I was trying to explain why I am here and using the school as an opportunity to explain myself, the Peace Corps and US culture to the kids.

We started out with a trivia question: How many departments are in El Salvador? 14! All the kids yelled. Correct! Wow this is great. We Continue. What I proceeded to find out was that there are 2 continents in the world, 1 being Charamo- the town Leslie lives in. I was happy to find out the kids know where I am from: New York……which is a pleasant little place located in La Union (the eastern most department of El Salvador). Canada and Los Angeles are 2 of the most popular states, with Honduras close behind.

I decided to confuse the kids even more: In the US, we don’t eat 4 tortillas at every meal; hardly ever actually = WTF? stares. Dogs live and sleep inside the house = jaws dropping. We don’t drink out of plastic bags = yells of MENTIRA! (translation: LIE!)

Eventually, we moved on. I think that little culture exchange session actually got their attention. Granted I may have scarred some for life by the tortilla comment and others now think New York is a far away land that inhabits aliens. But I think it was good. Hopefully they will be excited for next weeks classes when we begin practicing art…with no resources :/

Peace Corps El Salvador has a monthly newspaper that goes out to all the voluteers serving in this country. I decided to submit this piece after being in my site for 1 month. (It was published, but don´t be too impressed--most people get in.) Anyway...That was a very hard month, but the letters and support from my friends and family got me through it. I´m sure I´ll have these letters for the rest of my life and I wanted to thank you all for always giving me so much support.... and not just the letters, but the gifts, the packages, the emails, the calls...the facebook ¨like photo¨ thumbs up, and all. I´m here for El Salvador, for the people, for Peace Corps, for myself... and I´m here because of you. If you´re not quoted in my article, please don´t be offended! I´ve read them all and continue to read them all!

Here it goes...

Never Pass Up the Opportunity to Use the Toilet: Advice from a Newbee

“Be careful in the different country.” My Grandma wrote this to me in a letter that I read on the plane here, as I took one last glimpse of the lights and buildings of NYC with tears in my eyes. I believe she still thinks I’m in Africa, I know that she tells people her granddaughter is saving babies and every time we talk by phone she is flabbergasted that the connection is possible… but I love and miss her very much.

Before coming here, my older sister collected letters from all my family and friends who wanted to tell me how they felt about my upcoming adventure. Every few nights, I take one out. I smile at some, at others I laugh, and at most, I cry. I’ve been in country for almost 3 months now and barely have 1 month at site, and I already can see that these letters will be part of what keeps me here…Even if the last piece of advice in my Mom´s was “if you think you’re gonna crack, come back.” I am fortunate to have so many special people in my life and it just reminds me that the relationships we make and build will be the foundation of our future. The tortillas as we know them will cease to exist when we are back in the states but the bonds we have built with our communities will come with us.

I wonder if Maria from my high school volleyball team knew just how easy it would be to ¨meet amazing people and learn from them¨ or if Leah has also experienced ¨spreading enough love that it makes the overhead compartments burst open.¨ I feel so lucky to be where I am already and can only hope that I can give to my community what they have so quickly given to me. Granted at times I wonder if Gary was right when he said ¨I think you are kinda crazy for doing this¨. But I know that if I didn´t I would have just as much regret as my manager from my former internship who confided in me, ¨I always wished that I had done that¨. And many others have said, in words not so eloquently as Matt´s, ¨I think it´s really groovy that you´re taking this adventure¨.

¨Push yourself to the limit!¨ My cousin agrees with me that it is often the times of biggest sacrifices that bring the greatest rewards. When we fully exert ourselves, we truly find who we are. And if I ever feel like I just no longer have the will power to go on, I´ll have to remember the obligation my best friend Lisa made me make to Whinnie the Pooh Bear: “Promise me you’ll always remember you´re braver than you believe, stronger than you seem and smarter than you think”.

My father´s advice was not quite as deep, but nonetheless, words of wisdom. He once told me “Never pass up the opportunity to use the toilet.” After my first experience using newspaper to wipe, I have also added “never pass up the opportunity to steal a little toilet paper for later” to the quote. But after the sight and smell of overused latrines, stories of people hanging off the back of pick-ups, and others who have just gone for it in their pants in public, I can now really appreciate a good toilet.

“The luxuries will be few but the rewards will be abundant” warned Patrice, a long time family friend. Luxuries in the sense of hot water, pasta dinners, air conditioning, clean feet and bug-less rooms, yes, there are limitations in Peace Corps El Salvador. But I have already been rewarded more than I deserve. The cool breeze that passes through the mountains bringing a taste of the waterfalls and allowing breakfast to fall from the trees onto my lawn each morning is just one specialty of my site. As I was picking up the mangos this morning, I smiled at little Marjorie when she called ¨Buenos Dias, Nina Jaime¨ over the fence as she was collecting firewood from her yard. I am still trying to convince my counterpart that I am fine living on my own and she does not need to move into her chicken shed so that I can live in her house. And as my friend John is sitting in his ¨cubicle at 4:31pm in Washington D.C.¨ waiting for the work day to end, I will be sitting listening to Juan play the guitar with his friends singing along, waiting until the night brings a tranquility that only the occasional bravo barking dog can disturb. There seems to be no limitations to the rewards.

I have a lot to look forward to in the next two years and when times are challenging I will take out these letters that contain so many important reminders, as well as the hearts of my family and friends. Right now, I am focusing on that little aspect of ¨confianza¨ with the community. So where am I at?

Well, I use “estaba” at least 5 times as much as I use “estuve”. I alternate between “si” and “mmm” whenever I don’t have a clue what someone is telling me. And where the eff is ¨figense¨ in the dictionary?” I hope that despite my days of incoherent blabbering, my canton will see my passion to be here, as I run alongside the men in uniform on the soccer field, present a gift to Marjorie´s third grade class as Madrina, and make lopsided tortillas and exploding pupusas with my counterparts. Because one piece of advice I have noted myself from one of my favorite authors, Paulo Coehlo is that “There is one language in the world that everyone understands. It’s the language of enthusiasm, of things accomplished with love and purpose…”

“Hibiclens has antiseptic activity and persistent antimicrobial effect with rapid bactericidal activity against a wide range of microorganisms”

…reads the box of my shower contents.

Moldy clothes from weeks of rain, tiny bugs that creep through my mosquito net to spend the night at my side, a 4- hour “bush-whacking” hike across the Honduran border, open wounds from playing futbol on a tick infested and rock covered cancha, and being in El Salvador

…reads my list of possible causes.

My neck has a lump that makes me wonder if the large spider that perches above my shower is a Black Widow and my underarms look like they have hosted a small population of mosquitos for the past week. There is a hole in my foot, my right knee is, lets just say unpleasant to look at, and my ankle is not stuck between 2 boulders but at times I still find myself planning how to amputate it. I’m effing itchy.

So I finally made my way to the capital, Hibiclens’ed my body and pray that the skin infection will soon pass with the help of 2 sets of pills and lots of soapy shower time. I miss my wounds healing. Oh the things you take for granted.

I did get some time to appreciate the small things this weekend as a group of us hiked from one volunteer’s site to another in the Northern part of the county. Hagan lives in a really chill little pueblo where teenaged boys wearing Orange County Chopper shirts sit on the corners to stare you down as you pass. Even a gang full of gringos feel insignificant in the eyes of these guys. Donkeys greet you at every feeding ground and caballeros ride by the pupuserias, leaving behind a trail of their cigarette smoke in the night. It was a tough site to leave, but our hiking shoes were eagerly awaiting the scree and our lungs- the pine filled air ahead.

The walk was long but the time passed too quickly, as I sit here longing the view of the San Miguel volcano as a peak among layered mountains. Green fields to mucky soil, red land to blue swimming holes; Overgrown maguey to hidden pineapple plants, star fruit to trail mix; donkeys and mules to long-lost Cantifla. The trip was never lacking moments of precious surprises. When my face got too sweaty, there was a river to dunk my head. When Joanna got bored we stumbled upon a vertical incline. Brock prevailed over a nearly-lost maimed finger. And we were guided to salvation by Hagan’s unrelenting machete and Jim’s overflowing camel pack.

After just a few bruised elbows, burnt belly-buttons, purple midsections, wet pants and bumpy armpits, we were there. Jim lives in a cabin built on a cliff by the volunteer before him, where light comes in the form of starry nights and sun sneaking into the cracks in the wood in the morning. Maybe it was just one night for me but it made living without electricity too serene to seem difficult. His host family entertained us through pull-up contests with Broccoli and nearly more yummy plates of beans and rice than cute giggley children…but it was anyone’s game. When we knew it was time to rest our legs…we heard the waterfall crashing in the distance, so we set back out for one more conquest.

And yet now I lay here defeated. In a hotel bed with nothing to show for myself except my itchy infection. I’m closing my eyes and unsure if the music is coming from my Mom’s cassette player from her room in New York or the humming from my viajeros in northern Morazán, but its saying “Take me home…”

There is this guy that stands on the side of the road holding a piece of wire. He is there pretty much every time I ride the bus to town. He is just standing there, his feet planted in the same exact place everytime I go by, with the wire rather carelessly dangling in his hands. It is attached to something, I assume, but nothing appears to be happening. As we bump on by, he turns, squinting with his eyebrows in a perturbed arc, as if questioning what in the world we are doing passing by on this motorized vehicle. I stare back, mimicing his expression. I assume we will have this staring contest for many months to come.

There are many types of plastic bags here. There are the typical grocery store bags, that you occasionally have to pay a couple centavos for... and maybe a few extra if a little child tears it from your hand and fills it with your groceries before you can beat him to it. There are the large black ones you get when you want to hide your packages from the campesinos so they don´t ask you for some remesa money. But the most intriguing of plastic bags are the small, transparent zip-lock without the zip-lock ones. They come in 3-5 different sizes of small, but are NOT interchangeable. The tiny-small ones can only be used for Charamusca...aka frozen kool-aid. I once tried to use a medium-small one and got laughed at by a 6yr old who eerily resembled a kid from the Kool Aid commericals Dane Cook rants about. The medium-smalls are only used for bagged fruit & snacks. Anything from sliced mango topped with salt, lime and hot sauce to enchiladas that are really just deep fried tortillas with shredded lettuce on top is acceptable. The large-small ones are often where you find your soda being poured or agua de coco. If you are at a classy food stand, you get the straw placed in opening. But, most of the time you bite the bottom corner off. You spit it out on the person sitting next to you and then drink 20oz of soda in 30 seconds so you dont have to worry about falling asleep on the bus with a bag of soda spilling out on your lap and onto the person you just spit the corner on by accident.

There is a box of random pieces of old, useless items sitting in the corner of our Community House. There is an empty bottle of liter soda. Some rusty wire. A shoe. Some leaves and probably a family of bugs camping out. At first, I thought ¨cool, there first garbage can in La Montana.¨ But then I watched as a member of my class of adults belched and then dropped his large-small plastic bags of empty soda on the floor. Modesta brushed her hand across the table to get rid of some pieces of thread from our hammock project and her son ripped out pages from his notebook and let them sail across the room, to land just outside the box of useless items. Next week, Dora would grunt as she swept the accumulated garbage out into the landfill-of-a-futbol cancha... only to be the first one to drop some more basura at the start of the next class.

There is a fear in Peace Corps that if we give someone something, they will forever depend on Americans to hand stuff over to them. I usually refrain at all costs from setting this precedent. Yet, my refrigerator is full of gifted bananas that will surely go bad before I get the chance to overdose on Potassium. Last night I made the mistake of eating dinner before I visted 3 families and then had to eat 3 more... Which leads me to the lady who fixes my clothes for free. After the 4th reparation to my pants, I reeeeally feel like I should be paying. A couple days ago I walked through the community with just books in my bags and walked home with a brand new bottle of Avon lotion, half-full bottle of body oil and a tube of antibiotic cream. Maybe its because I have bug bites, cuts, scrapes, scabs and unidentified marks forming a Connect-the-Dots puzzle from a Highlight´s magazine on my legs... and a likely staff infection on my foot...but still.

There is an ever present knot in my gut that grows everytime I see a soda can tossed out the window. My curiosty about the wire man is still there but the lift in my eyebrows has subsided. I am very careful about the choice and usage of plastic bags... and readily accept any gift that comes in them, as long as I make a mental note of their name and repay them with a smile and promise of future visitation.

There was a spider sitting on the wall by my ¨kitchen¨ for the past 2 weeks. My first 2 weeks in this house, I beat with my shoe everything that moved, which more often than not turned out to be a leaf. But this guy was different. I had grown so accustomed to the spider watching me peel potatoes that I didn´t want to kill it. But it wasn´t the most pleasant sight to eat my breakfast next to. So, when it would get too close for comfort, I would slap the wall below it...sending it scurrying up to the window. But sure as the exponentially increasing mosquito bites on my body, the spider would be there the next morning. Last night I walked into my house and stopped at the wall by the kitchen. The spider was gone and in its place a little scorpion. Him, I didn´t have a problem wailing with my shoe. This morning, the wall was bare. I was eating some cereal topped with rotten banana and I turned to the barren cinder blocks.

I missed the spider.

There are things about this country that I will never understand. There are things I have accepted. And there are things I have come to love. That parts my favorite.

“Are you flexible? How well do you work without structure or direction?” I remember when I was applying for the Peace Corps and these questions were asked during the interview. What my recruiter was trying to tell me was that if I am not EXTREMELY flexible, I will never make it through 2 years of service because there is absolutely NO structure and nothing will go as initially planned. I still don´t know if I can make it 2 years without Haagen Dazs Coffee ice cream at least once a day…but I have learned to accept the local Neveria´s offerings. So, Yes, I can be flexible. In other ways too…

Saturday I was supposed to meet with my Artesania group to discuss our Business Plan. I woke up early and had it all planned out…spent the time to lookup all these technical terms in Spanish. Low and behold, come 2pm…3pm…4…no one showed up. It was semi-expected since it was pouring and people don’t like to leave their house when it rains. I don’t blame them since it takes me about 20 mins to walk 20 feet through the swamp that used to be the road to the Community House. Can someone send me a pair of boots?

But since my meeting was a complete failure, I did get to watch the entire USA-Ghana game… I got to watch the 4-6 open shots on goal the US had and every single one miss. About halfway through the game, the storm picked up and the signal went from fuzzy to barely visible and I got a headache as I scooted my plastic chair up inches from the screen and frantically tried to distinguish between static dots and the ball. I heard the “GOOOOOOL!!!!!” about 10 seconds before I could actually see who it was that scored in the overtime and my heart raced in that time before it plummeted in my stomach when I saw Ghana cheering in a huddle. Well, at least I won’t get anymore headaches from sitting in front of that television…

Sunday morning was spent sweeping out my house and throwing water. A peaceful Yoga session interrupted by 17 neighborhood children walking into my house, attempting a Half Moon pose and wandering back out, bored and confused. Organizing the hundreds of books, notebooks, magazines, papers, folders I’ve accumulated in 5 months. Fixing the plastic walls of my shower. And waiting for the rain to stop. Eventually, at 3:30pm, it subsided and I decided I was going to get my garden started. Phase 1: make organic compost. The real reason I decided to start the garden on this particular day was that my bag of fruit and vegetable peelings was near overflowing and the fruit flies had begun to form their own army. So Nina Edith lended me a few machetes, a shovel…and 5 of her children…(all under the age of 12 –but hey, it was voluntary) and we went to work in my hard. At first I felt bad that these 9 year olds were machete-ing my overgrown lawn but then I saw their faces light up when I said we needed to collect animal poo poo, so I let them go at it. It was a sight to see… 5 little smiling girls and boys, sprinting into my neighbors yard, bare-handed, scooping up cow and horse dung. And running back to me like I was their proud Mama. I did kinda feel that way…

And Yesterday I woke up early to head into town. I had to use the internet before my interview with the Mayor. I got my research done and walked into his office where I waited almost an hour. Then our meeting started. I asked 1.5 questions before someone else walked in to get him to sign something. Followed by another 7 people and 13 more phone calls before I got to question 10. When I asked how his relationship was with my community he took his glasses off and rubbed his eyes and head for 11 seconds before he said “figese que…” which roughly translates into “I’m going to kinda bullshit you right now because, the thing is, I’m going to say what you don’t want to hear”. I assumed this was coming since he is from a different political party that the majority of my community and so he refuses to work with us. As it sounds, it was another very successful meeting.

After that, I took the bus to one of the schools my community uses, where I was supposed to help with a Computer Class. Waited another 30 mins for the teacher Not to show up and then decided to call it a day. I headed home by foot, initially, but after a few minutes the sky unleashed some more fury so I hopped on a passing bus. I jumped off at my counterpart’s house, where the teacher that was supposed to be teaching my computer class was sitting having a cup of coffee. I asked him what happened and he said “figese que…”

I, too, welcomed a cup of coffee and got comfortable in my plastic chair. For the rest of the day I would surrender to the Salvadoran ways and tomorrow I would get back to trying to find a way to organize work in a structure-less society.

I really want to get my yard into shape. Another thing that happens when your gone for 3 weeks, is your yard becomes a jungle. Besides the fact that I cant walk to the letrine without getting covered in moisture from the tall grass, I want to plant a garden.

I was inspired during pre service training 2 last week to make a garden after visiting the sites of other volunteers. Organic composting. Growing my own food. Eating healthy. Setting an example for the community. I´m in.

So my landlord-neighbor was walking by and I asked if he had some tools I could borrow to fix up my lawn. Sure he said with a smile and walked off towards his house. I went back into mine and continued my yoga (also in 3 weeks, you lose all flexibility you gained from the first 2 months of yoga). Just as I was reaching up into the sky, balancing on my left leg in tree pose, I saw Don Emilio returning with 2 large tools in hand. A horse and her colt. Less labor for me I thought. Although, I have to admit, I was semi-excited about hacking the crap out of my lawn with a machete. ¨Just make sure they don´t eat the yuca plants and baby mango trees¨ Emilio warned me. Right, because 1. I can distinguish between the roots of a yuca plan and the weeds that are rampantly growing across the entire manzana of my yard and 2. if that huge caballo walks over there to the mango tree, I´m going to know how to call him away in campo-spanish-horse language, while simultaneouly beating him with a stick.

Don Emilio brings me to my next train of thought. If there is one thing about El Salvador that will be sure to impress any of my visitors (my first is on her way: my older sister Danielle!!- August)…its the zippers on pants. If you are running late for your flight, Danielle, and wearing jeans, have no fear, there is NO NEED to zipper up here. It´s simply accepted that we don´t zipper our flies. If they are in the front, the back, the side, they stay open. After chatting with other volunteers, we still haven´t come to the conclusión as to why the population of El Salvador wears their flies undone, but some of us have opted to assimilate and forgoe the effort of zipping up before heading out into civilized society.

Lastly, we are knee deep into the Winter here. Winter here means rain and frogs. That´s the only way to describe it. I may have said this already, but a frog here is not a frog. It is the size of a squirrel and impeccably more annoying. They don´t really move. They just sit their fat asses at your door step and croak all through the night. They even show up in your shower, sitting their behind the curtain…making you feel uncomfortable as they watch you in the nude. It POURED the other night. I mean, Emilio´s house had a lake out front. And guess what, that meant infinitely more fat toads. The wáter and the amphibians spilled over into my yard, and I swore, as I lie in my bed reading that I was perched on top a lily pad, and surely into the night I would morph into one of those disgusting critters. It didn´t help the fact that all these Little nats were flying around my head lamp, just watiing for me to stick out my tongue and suck one up. I didn´t, but if it would scare them away for the night to let me sleep in peace, I´d consider having them as a midnight snack.

That being said, hope you´re excited to come Danielle! We´re going to have a great time. It´s sooo relaxing here :D

Maybe some of you are actually interested in my WORK here and not my interesting observations of life in the campo. Well, you´d be pleased to know that, as often happens, my meeting with an NGO to help out with my Artesania de Jewelry got canceled. But hopefully he will come through next Wednesday. We´re trying to get our group organized so that we can start a business out of it. Training was helpful as that I plan on sitting down with the leader of the group this week to make our business plan.

I have made 2 appointments for next week to interview a local NGO and the Mayor of my Municipality to discuss their work and projects. I will be starting classes next week at both schools that the youth of my canton attend. At one, I will teach physical education- sports (others besides soccer- they might be flabbergasted to know they exist), yoga, stretching techniques and the importance of being healthy, other fun games. And at another the Director wants be to teach art which I´m pretty stoked about. Still working on the soccer team for the girls…the men dominate the soccer fiel d on the weekends so its been hard to organize time there. And the community wants to start a fish Project where everyone has their own Little pond. I know NOTHING about how to go about doing this so we´ll see when that happens. Also have to start writing a grant proposal for some Money that has been offered to our business group. Before I tell my community about this, I´m going to try to get them to do some fundraising of their own. However, if any of you at home has old sports equipment laying around…balls, softball gloves, bats (is there a way to send that?) feel free to send them! Also, drawing-art supplies.

I miss everyone at home IMMENSELY. Now that I´m back in my community without the other volunteers, the loneliness returns. I miss home, I miss my home…and while it´s nice when I refer to my community as ¨home¨, its a Little scary. I think about everyone at home all the time. The weirdest things remind me of my family, like the tea bags that my friend sent me make me miss my Mom. And sleeping with the teddy bear my Little sister gave me makes me miss my friend and Mr. Bear. I love and miss you all! Come visit!

Where is the House I left Behind?

Arrived yesterday at approximately 5.27 pm at my site in Morazan. I jumped off the bus, watched the cobrador drop my 2 backpacks into a puddle of mud as I opened the fence to my house and sighed as the bus drove off into the distance. 3 weeks I was away for training. Do you know what happens in 3 weeks? Scorpions come out from the woodwork and successfully place themselves in unsuspecting areas so that just when you turn the page of a suspenseful book you look up and gasp in horror at a stinger and two claw- like appendages in your face. Spiders create an obstacle course of webs stretching from doorway to window to refrigerator to chairs so that by the time you have walked through 17 and swallowed a couple pieces more, you have stopped noticing they are there. Clothes mold. Flip flops. Pillows. A stove burner (I didn’t know that was possible). Towels. Tables. Everything grows fungus. Dust coats everything so that you feel like your house has been abandoned for years. Swarms of mosquitoes make it impossible to use the latrine without getting bitten at least 3 times on the most difficult part of your body to scratch in public. Your pila grows green algae and larvae, requiring you to clean it thoroughly with bleach in the dark of night so that you have some clean water to wash the mud off your hands from the suitcases…

It is not the same as the lively little house I left behind. It is dirty. It is gloomy. And it is quiet. Barros toys are tossed on the ground. Dirty and smelly but still with his teeth marks. There is no music, since my iPod decided to break after downloading about $200 worth of music and videos. And my friends are not here. After 3 weeks of training, surrounded by other volunteers, and a beautiful weekend at the beach with my friends…. My house is suddenly a very different and unfamiliar place.

Just as quickly as I entered, I left. I walked down the dirt road to Doras house, knowing that her cute little grand children would be sure to cheer me up. And even before I got there, at least 3 families stopped me with bright smiles upon my return. Jaclyns father actually got up from his hammock and walked over to the fence, as opposed to his usual wave to welcome me. Marjorie and Caterine called my name from the hill above my house and I could even make out the smiles of their limited teeth supply in the dark. My dear little Karime road up on her grandpas horse…a 3 year old clinging to his back- picture perfect. We shared stories and hugs at Doras until my yawning become way too uncontrollable to have pleasant conversation any longer…and I headed home. It started pouring and I hoped that the awkwardness of my time gone was being washed away. I pictured the dust, the mold, the spiders and scorpions cleansed away. Barros belongings tied up away in a bag, awaiting a new recipient. And the rain became my new music to lull me asleep. I am ready to start working in my community!

Happy Fathers Day

I took some time to reflect today about my Daddy…I don’t know about your dad, but mine is really talented. He can perfectly remove the stems of strawberries so that alls I have to do is dip them in sugar without worrying about a little leaf sneaking in. He can give horsey rides and play hide and seek better than any 5 year old…even if it means winning by falling asleep in the basement. He can build pools and swing sets, drive motorcycles, boats and planes, cook breakfast and grill steaks. Most importantly, he can always make me laugh. Maybe at times it has come down to the “pull my finger” trick… but he always can. And I miss him a lot today. I love you Dad! Happy Fathers Day.

RIP Barro Zeus

I have now come to terms with the fact that Barro, my little puppy, has passed away. So I am saying goodbye and would like to share it with my friends...who mostly never got to meet him, but seemed to also revel in his cuteness with me. He became very ill for the 3rd time and this time he couldn't pull through. He passed away in the night last week, the 8th of June. I came home to him vomiting and severely dehydrated and skinny after 3 days without food. He looked up at me, his eyes barren, tried to take one sip of water, and had little energy left for anything else. He crawled to a nearby bush and I covered him in his towel. It started to rain and when he didn't come inside, I knew he was saying goodbye. I am very sad that he is no longer with me, but I'd like to think he had a happy little life with me. The truth is, he suffered a lot and perhaps it is better this way. May he rest peacefully now.

a Barro, con carino...

Tengo un dolor del corazon,

Porque no estas aqui conmigo.

El tiempo que tuvimos fue corto,

Pero siempre estaba contenta contigo.

Se dice que duermes en el cielo de perros,

como en el pie de mi cama dormiste.

Espero que sigas sus amigos alli,

como cualquier lugar you fui, tu fuiste.

Pieno que tuvieras una buena vida,

pero sufriste un poco en realidad.

Ahora, puedes descansar en paz...

muchisma gracias por tu amistad.

A poem for my little guy. Since I did not get to give him a proper burial... and his home is not here, at the San Vicente training center but in my site in Morazan, my plan is to have a little curial for him when I get back. With this poem.

The next few months I will focus on myself and my community...perhaps it was too soon for a puppy. So don't be sad for Barro, because he was always sick and now he is not in pain. And don't be sad for me, because life goes on!

And I promise my next entry will not be so depressing!

It´s here. The raining season has officially started. And no one needed to tell me, ¨Gringa, es invierno. Va a llover todos los dias!¨ Instead, the clouds have dumped bucket upon bucket for the past week and there is an ever present puddle on the left side of my fridge. Those misty mornings turned into torential (why can´t i spell anymore?) downpours, washing away my poetic moments of cloud watching at 6am.

You can compare the sound that echos in my cement house with tin roofing to 50 drums being banged simultaneously, inches from your face. Its loud. Anyone who has tried talking to me on the phone while its raining can guage for that.

Besides for the hours I go questioning if I have lost my hearing, the only other major downside of the rainy season is the fact that your clothes don´t dry. I urge anyone down here NOT to wait 2 weeks to wash nearly all of your clothes...its a struggle to find something to wear right now. My clothes have been on the line, inside my house, for 3 days, and show no signs of drying.

So, being that I have to pack all these clothes to go to San Vi for the next 3 weeks, I decided to lug them into the nearest town to find a drying machine. After much skepticism from everyone in my canton, I finally stumbled upon a Lavanderia. With a drying machine!! I was shocked to see it. After 4 months of handwashing, I had begun to believe the whole world used a stone and their strong hand to clean their ropa. I shall head back there shortly, to see if it is true. That clothes CAN dry in the rainy season.

Besides for the rain, I´d just like to reflect on Awkward Moments. Is there every a day without them?

My counterparts granddaughter decided the other day, that she was craving some milk. Breast milk that is. And after much whining, her mom finally gave in a whipped out her right side. Mind you, the little girl is 3 years old. But she was satisfied when she soon realized her mom was not lying. ¨Y Usted tampoco?¨ She asked me. No, me neither.

I have given in to spitting on the floor. I brushed my teeth the other night in my bedroom. I brushed and I spit toothpastey water all over my floor. It was kinda nice. Liberating.

Vendedors on the bus can sell ANYTHING. I giggle to myself everytime they come on and I hear their pitch. ¨Think 1 dollar is too expensive for this pen, well I will give you 2 pens. Still too much, well I´ll give you 3!¨ But nothing excites the ppl more than when he brings out the highlighter.

And now I head back out to get pelted by the rain.

This Friday marks the last day at my site, for 3 weeks. Our group is heading back to San Vicente for 3 weeks of training.

While I´m excited to see everyone again, it´s going to be weird to go back to the training classes. Where days are structured, there is a lot of speaking English and I live with my host family.

I´m worried my Artesania class will fall apart while I´m gone for 3 weeks, but I do have a lot of faith in my community.

I run out of things to say in my blog, and I fear that this is because the novelty has begun to wear off. I still pause and watch the cows in the morning, and now the newly born baby horse, on my way back from the letrine. And I still enjoy yoga in front of the misty mountains just before 7am. But less and less mangos fall from the trees. The exhilaration from being on the back of a pick-up is gone. And I can safely say my taste buds have gone numb to eggs, beans and pupusas.

I have a long list of projects that my community wants to work on when I return in the end of June. Hopefully that will bring some new excitement.

In the meantime, I live vicariously through emails from home and photos on facebook.

It´s weird to think of summertime in NY without being there. I am desperately nostalgic. The May weather. The flowers and rain. The end of school. Parties in my over ground knee-deep pool :) Train rides to the city with half of pleasantville. Hot morning bagels. Cold afternoon ice coffee. Dinner with friends. Sun bathing... on pavement in NY.... or Martha´s Vineyard! and I can´t even begin to think about the chicken fingers at the diner (preferrably at 4am)...

But ah, alas, I am still in El Salvador. Where the weather ranges from really hot and humid, to slightly hot and humid. Where you complain about the dry weather, because the dust burns your throat and eyes. And you complain when it rains, for you can hardly walk in the mud. Where there is no variation in the food, and no parties for anyone except the bolos. Where coffee grows nearby in the mountains, but the only thing people drink is ¨NesCafe Instant Coffee¨.

So I think back to the reasons I joined. And bit by bit it comes together. I think of another Paulo Coehlo line, ¨Maybe the desert was created so we appreciate the date trees¨.

A Journey:

I was headed to Jocoro, normally about a 2 hour bus ride from my site, to visit a friend who is a volunteer there. He has art classes and I would like to have the same at my site, so I was excited to observe. I waited out front of my house for the bus, but a pick-up came first. There were people in the back so I decided it was safe to hop on.

Since the closest spots to the cab were taken, I clung for dear life on the back corner of the truck, clenching my bag between my legs and occasionally daring to lift a hand to readjust my dress. In the nearest pueblo we lost most of the passengers (by choice, they didn´t fall) and I was starting to get comfortable. By this I mean I had lost feeling in my thighs, my backside was numb and my neck was stuck slightly cocked over my right shoulder. But I had the best seat in the back of the truck. Just then, it started to rain. Luckily, the driver pulled over and let me get inside the car. I was hesitant, but there was a little old lady in the front so I figured it was safe. Also fortunate, I could get a right practically all the way to Jocoro.

Once there, or at the diez y ocho, I waited in the pouring rain for the bus to take me to Brian´s site. Many people asked for my umbrella, and while I was slightly ashamed to be the only one sheltered by the rain, I wasn´t about to give it up. I was in a dress! I quickly boarded the bus, leaving behind a slew of dripping Salvadorans at my heels, only to sit down next to a lady who was either drunk, crazy or I had hit one too many bumps in the back of that pick up. The 10 min bus ride consisted of me buying some weird fruit filled marshmallow that was placed on my lap by a cute 6 year old boy that I coudln´t turn away, desperately trying to avoid eye contact with the lady screaming profanities in my direction, and taking only the minimum breaths possible to keep my blood pumping, as I´m pretty sure someone on the bus had pee´d themselves.

I was entralled when I finally reached my destination, despite my very dirty feet, wet dress and the awkward taste that coated my mouth after the marshmallow ¨treat¨.

The art class and visit were what was expected. Now that I´ve reached the point of my journey... let me get on to the travel home.

Seeing it was 3:30, I knew I had to catch the very next bus from the diez y ocho, for the last bus from the pueblo to my canton was at 6. I patiently waited, as someone who I thought was a nice young man, advised me when the next bus was coming. He worked for the bus route and was explaining how soon all the buses would use tickets, to be more accurate, blah blah. And certain as the sun sets, the conversation ended with him hitting on me and me feeling extremely awkward and without an emergency exit route. When the bus pulled up, I practically cried in relief and spent most of the bus ride praying I never encounter that man again. Note: do not wear dresses while traveling ever again.

The second bus, on the way to my pueblo, I sat next to another seemingly nice ¨lady¨ (well she had a mustache). She lived in my pueblo and was a kindergarten teacher there. We talked for a long time and I concluded she was very nice... but was also questionably hitting on me. She gave me her number, and I took it, just glad I didnt have to give her mine. We pulled up at the pueblo at 5:58 and she watched me longingly as I sprinted for the next bus......which pulled away just as I arrived. I took out my phone, ready to call my new ¨friend¨ when I remembered I knew someone who lived on the corner. The problem was really that my dog was alone in my house. The guy on the corner was the first genuine Salvadoran encounter I had all day, and he, gracias a dios, had a friend with a pick up who was heading to my canton.

And so the story ends as it started. Me on the back of a pickup heading to my house. This time, I was surrounded by approx 30 men coming home from the fields, and I was in no mood to talk, or should I say be harassed. I stood in the corner, looking up at the sky, thankful that I would make it home before the last ray of light.

I hopped off at my counterparts house, not wanting the herd of men to see where my house was located, and then ran home to my Barro. He had successfully eaten everything in the garbage, including half a styrofoam plate, a new sponge from my shelf and had finished chewing up the sandal he had started on yesterday, but he did manage to poop (solid!) only inches from the door. And so I was happy. I collapsed on my bed at 7pm.

Whoever said, ¨Its not the destination, its the journey¨ must have served in peace corps el salvador.

First, a Poem I spontaneously wrote this morning...

Misty Morning

Looking out the window on a misty morning.

Everything is very still and quiet.

Nothing moving except for a few leaves on the nearest tree.

A blanket of undefined clouds weaving in and out of the coco trees.

I can´t help but want to just sit and watch all morning: The nothingness.

That makes me think of everything.

Until the rising sun burns it away.

The fog creates a calm feeling in me.

A sort of peaceful serenity.

Like the warmth of your bathroom, the moment you step out of a hot shower.

Barely able to make out your contour in the misty mirror.

The feeling is that that I get from leaning over a steaming up of coffee,

The moment when my body has just gotten up

but my mind is not yet awake.

The warmth of the rising heat enveloping my face.

The cloudy treetops, the dream-like opaqueness of the scene captured by my tiny window lense:

It reminds me of the split second of sky diving when I passed through the clouds.

A feeling of gentle coolness that relaxed my whole body.

For one moment, the adrenaline subsided and I was floating in the exhalations of my breath on a cold day.

If I close my eyes I can be in that moment. All those moments.

If I open them to the scene before me, I wear the same complacent smile.

And if I look, I can find those moments everywhere.

Next, a proposition...

Walk Slowly

The next time you have an opportunity to do so, walk slowly. I mean, mentally concentrate on it. Walk at least half the pace you usually do. Instead of thinking about your destination, pay attention to your surroundings. Listen to the sounds of your surroundings. Hear the interaction of your feet with the ground. Notice the buildings or trees you are passing by. Smile at people. See children laughing or couples hugging. Smell the different aromas of the area. The food or the flowers. Enjoy these moments. It will slow things down. It gives you an appreciation for the world. For me, it is extremely calming. Try it!

Back to My Regular Thoughts...

(Not related to anything above, nor to one another.)

Thought 1. I was watching Friends on my iPod the other night (after reading)...the episode where Joey is reading The Shining and he puts it in the freezer when he gets scared. Also, Little Women when he gets sad. And I thought of my trip to Vietnam with my sister. Danielle, remember when you were reading American Psycho (and me The Art of Happiness... say something about us? lol...) and you got so disturbed, that you threw it out? Not just left it behind the many places we had hip-hop-ed to and from. Or gave it to someone else. You had to throw it out. And then I thought of the Friends episode (and you) again when I got sad putting my Kindle in my drawer in the morning. I have an obsession that has led to starting at least 5 books at once. Have any ¨must read suggestions¨?

Thought 2. My older counterpart started laughing as she walked with my the other day. ¨I forgot to put on a bra!¨ She proclaimed. Umm, since when does that matter here? I thought to myself.

Thought 3. I took out a deck of cards to play with some little kids. My instincts immediately went to Egyption Rats Screw. I´m sure Kim, Jackie, Lisa, Cate´s do too! I think its fortunate that I would never be able to describe how to play to a group of little spanish-speaking kids. The community may never feel the same about me!

Thought 4. I texted my friend Jordan the other morning ¨How long is it unacceptable to stay in my hammock for?¨ I thought back to college. Freshmen year. Kristen, remember when we would stay in our beds, all day, side by side watching Americas Next Top Model ReRuns? The only time we left was to make repeated trips to the dining hall. Where I would eat chicken nuggets, sandwiches (patiently waiting for that very very slow lady to mayonaise), rice and more, while you had your vege platter. Only to return back to our cocoons in our below freezing dorm room?

WISH LIST

Supplies for an Arts & Crafts class

Dog bones

Yoga books, CDs, DVDs, music and other exercise materials

Yoga pants & tank tops

This week has been my hardest yet down here. For one thing, it´s my Mom´s 50th Birthday and I´m not there to spend it with her. You never really appreciate things until they´re not right there with you do you? I wish I had spent more time with her while I was home. Happy Birthday Mom. I love you. I miss you every day. I read your letter all the time, and cry everytime.

Every single person that meets me down here asks to see the picture of you. ¨Y la foto de su mama?¨ You´re more important here that I am! They say you look like a doll. They can´t believe how young you look. And how beautiful you are. You stole all my thunder! And they haven´t even met you. They haven´t laughed at your corny jokes or eaten your special chicken dish. They haven´t seen you play softball or go bowling. They didn´t see you rub my back at night when I would cry about leg pains. They don´t know that the reason I don´t mind sweeping my house everyday is because I think about how you told me ¨its good exercise¨. They know you´re beautiful, but they don´t even know how special you are.

I hope you have a really good day and I hope that lots of happiness always finds you. I love you mommy.

The other reason is because I thought my dog was dead. 2 nights ago, he started vomiting. He tried to walk to the door, but fell. He was shaking, even his head was trembling. He wouldn´t eat or drink. He was just lying there, crapping himself. I thought for sure he would die. An hour into his seizure, a scorpion ran by on the floor. As I frantically tried to kick it away from Barro without getting stung myself, in sandals half falling off, since Barro had eaten the strap of one, I wondered if maybe he had gotten stung. Or maybe it was something he ate. WHY does he have to eat poop, balloons, leaves, bugs, FROGS? Or maybe he had eaten ant poision. I don´t know. But I was hysterically crying watching him suffer. There was no vet, let alone a person down here than actually CARED about animals. So I wrapped him in a blanket and sat on the floor with him (and his falling feces) on my lap, crying my eyes out on the cement floor. After 2 hours of desolation, I used my last 10 cents of saldo on my phone, and called my counterpart. In the middle of the night, she came over with her granddaughter who shortly fell asleep in my hammock. It was really nice of her to come, and I was really glad for the comfort of company. Unfortunately, she told me Barro had ¨Ojo¨. A sickness only cured by witch doctors. I was NOT allowed to bring him to the AgroServicio aka ¨vet¨. Instead, she took a chicken egg, rubbed it all over his head and body. Gave him a bath in alcohol covered leaves that made him smell really bad and attracteed A LOT of bugs. And told me to crack the egg, dig a hole outside, and bury it. For the disease was now out of his system and in the egg.

I don´t exactly believe that the chicken egg saved Barros life. But 2 days later, he can walk again, is not vomiting, ate some food this morning (still has a rancid lime green diarrea) and is alive. I hope that he will be okay. And now he will be staying on a tight leash. It was hard to think I was losing my best friend and roomate here. As big of a pain in the ass he is, I love him.

The other reasons, are the normal homesickness. I miss life back home. I want to share stories with Danielle, probably about guys or going out, laughing on the couch. Maybe looking in the mirror about whose stomach is fatter. Are you still detoxing? I want to watch Christina from across the rooming, typing on her computer. So concentrated that she can´t hear me talking to her. I want to help her get ready for college. Tell her about my experiences and get excited with her about how much fun she will have. Are you sure you wanna go to Maryland and not Florida? I want to hug Amanda...I want her to be a baby again when I would rock her to sleep on the blue chair or make her say bad words with my friends. Oops. Or at least I want to watch her grow up. 7th grade! Thats when everything starts getting bad... I had my first boyfriend...but we didn´t hug til 8th grade dont worry. I DONT wanna be there to help with math, but I DO wanna be there to see your 100s! Not even kidding, Justin Bieber is on in the Internet Cafe right now! I wanna be watching him on YouTube with you in my room :( I want to be with my Dad, eating strawberrys that he has cut the stems off of for me. Or sitting on the couch while he cooks me eggs and then watching Goodfellas for the 70th time together. I want to do situps on the floor with my Mom. Go grocery shopping with her and be really excited for juice on sale but spending way too much on Warm Delights and Chocolate Chip Cookies and then hiding them in unsuspecting places in the house. I want to sit in Grams house, watching her cook dinner, smelling the sweet tomato sauce, and afterwards re using the tinfoil for the 15th time. I want to be with my family.

But I´m building a family here. I have started an Artesania group. A guy in town makes really awesome jewelry out of natural seeds that grow here and he wants to teach people. I am in contact with an organization to request materials or funds for our group. Once everyone can make stuff, we are going to try to sell them at tourist fairs or larger pueblos. People are really excited about it. We have a group learning to make hammocks. Including me. Does anyone at home realize how comfortable these things are? I haven´t been to a house yet that doesn´t have one down here. Anyone want one at home? I am also going to give art, gym/yoga and english classes at the school. I´ve been observing classes this week at 2 schools the children attend here. And I´m helping teach adults reading, writing and general education. It´s nice now to walk through the community and hear these people, who I call friends and hope to call family soon, say Hola Nina Jaime, instead of stare and whisper Gringa, like they did before. It also helps playing soccer on the guys team every Sunday, but I´m pretty sure the group of teenaged guys would have accepted me before I did that anyway...

And I just read an email from our Peace Corps Country Director here. In it was a section about rebuilding the Guinea program. It made me think about how different things would have been if I actually ended up there. I was told I would have contact with home once a month. No water. No electricity. FRENCH with a local dialect. Learning 2 languages! A desert with hardly ever rain. The ivory coast. Could I have done it? I don´t know. Maybe there´s a reason I ended up here. But maybe I could have. Everything is about your attitude. It´s all in your mindset. You can do anything you really put your mind to. And I´ve learned here that its not about whether you have a mud hut or house of cement blocks. Its not hard to take bucket baths and you get withstand eating beans everyday. What matters is people and relationships. I could have survived Peace Corps Guinea. Maybe I would have turned out more like Bear Grylls, than the slightly less high maintenance form of myself that Ive become... but I think I could have done it with the help of the people of Guinea around. I´ve been asked how to change the world? Is it possible... I don´t know. But what´s the hurt in trying. HOW is the question. For me, this is it- people. Loving people. Seeing the beauty in everyday, even if it means finding it. Appreciating what you have, even though it may be less than others, or not much at all. Doing things that make others happy... and will... without a doubt, make you happier in return. Holding the door for someone. Saying hello, or ¨Salu¨ to people who pass by. Maybe you can afford to give back in bigger ways. Do things with good intentions. Follow your dreams- its one of the HARDEST things to do. But if you do what makes you happy, it will rub off on others. Think that we were all born the same, we all want to be happy, and we all deserve to be happy. So have compassion. Don´t let little things make you angry, and don´t be angry at other people. It does nothing for yourself. Guinea would be hard place to live. But people there deserve to be happy...and people there are just as sweet as the people here in El Salvador. So as much as I miss home, I will keep appreciating the little things here. The greenish blue bird that sat on my tree this morning, singing me a morning tune. The baby horse that Barro and I watch frolick behind his mama...never 3 steps away. The easy access to freshly fallen mangos, papayas and avocados. Doing yogo infront of the misty mountains in the morning. Hugs from little kids I barely know and even kisses on the cheek. Living Life.

As I said, yesterday I was invited to do something called the ¨via de cruz¨ or also known as ¨la oracion de cruz¨. It was some sort of religious celebration for the dia de Santa Cruz.

I put on a nice skirt and shirt. I had on my fancy sandals. I fixed up my hair the best I could in this humidity and wore some dangley earrings. No one had warned me for what was to come.

The walk started off nice, me and a few kids, one man leading the way. It was a hot day in La Montana (this is the name of my canton and foreshadows whats to come). The dirt road was rocky, as always, but a relatively flat plain. Then it got steeper. Gradually at first, and then abruptly. We made a left turn down a smaller dirt road and then a right into a path that was only marked by the man ahead cutting through the brush with his machete. By the way, machetes here, on guys, are like handbags for girls. You dont go anywhere without them. Church and the letrine included. And there is even a ¨machete¨ coat check at some supermarkets. Anyway, in a matter of minutes I found myself lost in a maze of green.

My legs were cut and my skirt dirty. I stretched my limbs more than I do in my morning yoga sessions. I was drenched in sweat. I lost an earring. My hands clawed for something to grab above to hoist myself up on large boulders. My legs were more sore than the day before when I played soccer for an hour. But when we got to the top, 40 minutes later, it was all worth it.

There was about 25 people gathered in a small clearing in the middle of the tall grass, corn fields and green trees that surrounded. I caught my breath, only to lose it again when I looked out over the cliff side. You could see mountain range after mountain range until they disappeared over the horizon. There were birds circling silently overhead, and you could only tell the clouds were moving by the shadows that changed the colors of the fields below. There were no houses, no cows. It was so quiet, that only barely could you make out the sounds of the chickens in the distance. But it wouldn´t be El Salvador without that.

Next time, I will wear hiking boots, bring carabeeners, rope and a camel pack. Long pants. Bug Spray. Maybe a helmet and knee pads. Energy drinks and sunscreen. Trail mix and a first aid kit. Well maybe I´m exaggerating...

I will bring my camera. My sketchbad. A book to read. I will come alone. And just be inspired by la naturaleza.

Or maybe I will bring nothing. Maybe I will just do the entire hike without stopping. Exert all my energy to the point of exhaustion and then collapse in the clearing. Surely the sweat with torture me as it trickles down my forehead and dissipates on the earth below, but I will just let it happen. I will take every moment for what it is. I will not interfere with the nature of how things work. I will revel in the simplicity of the experience. Lying there, all appendages open and responsive to the world. Completely relaxed and still, except for the rise and fall of my chest as I breath in the fresh air. After absorbing it all, how the wind interacts with the trees and the mountains with the clouds I will close my eyes and reflect...

Just as I did during the Via de Cruz yesterday on mountain side. I tried to listen at first to the words of the Bible. I did enjoy the songs. But soon my mind drifted away from the disciples, as I stared past the preachers and into the faces of the mountains in the distance. I pictured myself on the back of a motorcycle, clinging onto my sister´s shirt and laughing as we bumped around the mountains of northern Vietnam. I closed my eyes and felt the same breeze as I did that day. I floated over to Honduras, to the island of Utila. I was sitting on the dock of the bar, Tranquila, that protruded out into the sea, where you could see the mountains of the Honduran mainland in the distance on a clear day. I got a little lightheaded when I thought of the terrain of Bolivia, and how at some points, if you avoided the altitude sickness, you almost felt like you were in a state of euphoria. I drifted back 5-6 years, to a cliff in Portugal with my best friend. Salty sea water splashing in our faces as we admired our tans and giggled about the cute Portuguese boys we had met the night before. And I smiled. I opened my eyes back up to the beautiful view, and I smiled at the beautiful people around me. Many smiled back, with their eyes, as they sung along thanking God for the bread, the rain, the sun... I was thankful too.

Because, as the Red Hot Chili Peppers often remind me....

¨I know. I know for sure. That life is beautiful around the world.¨

Barro Lives!

I now wake up differently each day. Wait, Clarification: Did I ever explain why I have to go to the bathroom in the morning so bad? Well my latrine is approximately 100 feet from my house, good thing because nobody wants a pit full of feces in close proximity to where they eat and sleep, but not a good thing when its the middle of the night and you have to go. I get a little scared walking out there. For one thing, there are cockroaches, giant toads to avoid and my dog´s diarrea. But I dont want anyone to snatch me or enter my house in the darkness. For this, I am in pain in the morning.

So anyway, today I woke up to the cat. The cat came back. I was wondering why Barro was running circles around my bed. The cat had climbed through my window once again to steal the food that Barro does not eat. It was 515am, I ¨chh chh´d¨ the cat away, put some coffee on the cocina, and sat on the hammock until my eyes adjusted to the light. But, on a good note, after I wiped away the boogies from my tear ducts and regained full vision, I was pleasantly surprised to see a semi-solid poo poo on the floor. Clarification: Barro lives to see another day. He has had 2 injections, and will only eat chicken and tamales, (he is quite an expensive pup), and I force some vitamins, of I know not what, down his throat every morning, and one or the other is helping him surpass his ameobas or parasites.

The muscle that I pulled in my quad last week has healed and so I resumed my position on the futbol field Sunday. This time I introduced myself to all the guys, hoping this would encourage them to actually involve me in the plays. I was hoping that changing in front of them also would have helped, but it didn´t. One guy, proud that he knew some English, told me, in English, ¨I will always pass to you.¨ Clarification: You will never get the ball. I think maybe I got 2 passes, because they ricocheted off the legs of someone else and landed by me, but it was still fun. I was happy to play again. Afterwards, I brought the softball that I had purchased by mistake, to the cancha and got a group of girls to play. Before I knew it, boys were running over, leaving the futbol behind, the neighbor was chopping off a tree branch, rocks were placed at first second and third base and we had a game going. By the time we shattered the third bat (branch), my finger was swollen (its hard without gloves), and we could barely see the ball. Time to head home to bathe before its too dark and scary.

So I get to use the internet 3 times in one week this week. It actually kinda sucks coming into town because its very hot and the buses are crowded. Plus it wastes a lot of my day. But since Barro has been sick, I´m obligated to take him to the Vet for 3 days. Later, I´m going to do the Stations of the Cross. I kinda got suckered into it, but since no one has made me go to church yet, I´m trying to build confianza and I also am kinda interested to see this procession, I´m gonna go... con ganas.

Here are other ways I have built confianza:

After numerous refusals to give my number to my little lover... also my necklace, my bracelets, my soccer cleats, my watch... I finally gave it. To a piece of my pupusas. I ripped a piece of and went to hand it over. Before I had a chance to retract, he had taken it with his mouth. In front of about 1000 people. Oops.

I made tortillas with my neighbor the other night. And for the first time they actually came out circular.

My counterpart gave me a dress. Its bright red, with polkadots, It is tight on my chest. There is a large slit up the side. I kinda look like I´m going to the prom...50 years ago. But I wore it at her house for the evening....

I made choco-bananas at my house, with 7 neighborhood kids, and we distributed them to friends passing by. I also brought guacamole to my counterparts house and everyone was shocked to see that there were no eggs involved.

I got my third offer for a beer. But refused. Its tempting but not good for my image.

Off to be productive. Love hearing Lady Gaga leaving the internet cafe...

How do you guys feel about Jaime being here in the community?

Bien….Good.

That´s how my General Assembly meeting ended. Pretty much sums it up. I talked for about 30 mins, showed photos of my family, talked about my hobbies, showed my sketchpad, explained the Peace Corps, pointed to posters I had made, revealed what I had learned about the community and where I thought I could help... all while about 90 expressionless faces stared at me. Some were talking to there neighbors, semi-oblivious that I was talking. Some clearly had no effing idea what I was saying, some slightly mesmerized by the chele gringa standing before them speaking spanish, and maybe a handful listening to what I was saying.

And after all that talking, mine and those who were talking over me, an awkward silence ensued. I smiled awkwardly. Not sure if I should bow or something. Or not knowing if an applause was coming or if maybe I should say something else.

But finally some guy wanted to know how the community felt about me. And in a place where ¨pena¨ or embarassment is at the forefront of everyones personality, I was happy that I actually got a response. Even if it was just Bien. Good- they liked me.

Anyway, my boss said that the meeting went well and was as thoroughly surprised and impressed as I was at the turnout. I was worried at first since the meeting was supposed to start at 130 and at 2 there were about 10 ppl there. But before I knew it, there were ppl spilling out of the Comunal House and passerbyers on the street were pausing for a glimpse at me in action. It felt good.

For me it means that I have a community who wants to work. People will help me find ways to improve the houses, the roofs, the streets. People will show up to learn how to make hammocks, jewelry, soap, bread. I will be able to form committees for education and youth groups. The girls will assemble to form a soccer team. We will find a way to improve the water system to the lower part of town and possible irrigate the fields. Adults will show up to learn how to read, write, multiply and even learn how to be better parents and role models. Maybe we can start farms, maybe we can make a business out of selling their fruit, maybe we can find new ways to prosper from the hemp that grows here plentifully. All I know is that I am lucky to have a community like mine and I need to start to find ways to capitalize on the human resources I have here.

Unfortunately, I have been pretty occupied cleaning up diarrea that seems to be spraying from my dogs backside in all directions. Sorry to be vulgar but its just how it is. I can´t sugar coat it. And it went from funny, to disgusting, to pull my hair out annoying, to mornings where gagging got me out of bed even before the kidney infection onset. And now, I´m scared. He has had diarrea for 5 days. He is tired. He refused to eat besides his frequent visits to the neighbors lawn for a helping of cow caca or chicken shit if thats all there is to offer nearby. Probably the cause of the parasits or amoebas which I´m fairly positive he has. He may die. Either from the diarrea or from the injections that I have succumbed to letting the AgroServicio (pretty much means chicken breeder) give him. And I haven´t decided whether the beetles, spiders and ants he eats are good or bad for him. He needs protein from somewhere...

Lets think funny thinks so I dont worry about him too much:

My little lover, a 20 year old, semi-bolo who I cant understand but have received several marriage proposals from, repeatedly blew me kisses and interrupted my interview with my boss to ask if we could go somewhere together.

Showering in the rain feels really awesome.

I ripped my pants during a house visit. I swear Im not that fat its just scrubbing jeans with a brush does a lot of wear and tear..... mas yoga. And since my clothes are instantly dirty after 5 mins out in the campo, I have amassed 2 large bags of dirty ropa and I will now be paying the neighbor to do half on her rock.

I may or may not be counting down the days to a beach reunion with other volunteers :/

I am now cooking refried beans and platanos on a daily basis. But throw in some pasta every so often. I also average 5 mangos a day. And have learned that you can eat fruit here at any stage of the game. While in the US we only like fruit ripe, here you eat them ripe, semi'ripe and unripe, all are different flavors. And I now like green mangos better...

One of the many ninos that run into my house as soon as I opened my door asked if she could pee in my bathing area yesterday. I said, well there is a letrine over there. And she said, yea, but can I pee here? Okay. Not sure why but I guess thats fine with me...

As for you Amanda, yes I think you need to start my own blog because it now takes me just about as long to read your comments as it does to write a new post. Danielle, you always have underestimated me. And I miss you both, plus Christina even though she is too busy with high school drama to read my blog! Mom and Dad, I love and miss you too.

Other friends who read this, thanks :) Glad to know people still remember me even though I am lost in some little piece of central america.

xoxo

I woke up this morning as always. I had to pee. Not just had to pee, but fairly certain that if I waited any longer I would end up with a kidney infection. Nonetheless, I turn over on my side for just a Little bit longer. Feeling a Little less pressure on my abdomen, I peered into the eyes of my puppy looking up at me.I believe, for an instant, we shared the same longing to run outside and squat to our great relief, but somehow we were both stuck in our respective sleeping areas. The instant passed and Barro relieved himself on my floor… and I was left contemplating just how much it would suck to hand wash my sheets today.

It was 6am and I thought about just how much I could get done before the heat actually arrived in La Montana. But I really just didnt want to do ANYTHING. Unfortunately, the same wave of emotions was going through my head as always, just as certain as I would tomorrow wake up with the fear of approaching kidney infection. One moment I smiled at just how much you could accomplish here before 8am, and the next momento I was lying in the hammock with Barro on my lap. He seems to share the same emotions as me.

But after Reading a Little bit of ¨Salvador¨ and becoming depressed, laughing a Little bit at ¨The Life and Times of the Thunderbolt Kid¨ and finally regaining my strength to start my day from Paulo Coehlo (thank you Danielle for the kindle) I jumped off the side of my hammock, Barro fell and together we searched for breakfast.

I opened the fridge to find a cup of carrot juice, 3 limes and a giant papaya that I had accumulated all in a matter of 10 mins on my walk home past my nieghbors last night. This made me smile and for the next hour or so my mood was up.

I felt my luck continue as I the bus approached and I thought ¨Wow, I´m going to get the last spot. How lucky¨. My spot was hanging out the door with the cobrador barely holding on by one finger and in a position behind me that would in any other place and circumstance be grounds for molestation. But here there is no such thing as personal space and on the bus you just accept it. But as we pulled over to pick up 3 more ppl, I realized, I was far from the last person to get a spot on the bus. The cobrador kept caling ¨walk to the middle, theres space in the middle¨. But clearly there was not and he should have isntead said ¨sit on someone´s lap, stick your face farther into someone elses deoderant-less armpit or get off.¨ It was the first time in my life I didnt know where my left arm was.

But lets see, whats going on in life. A couple weeks ago I was asked to be the Madrina for the 3rd grade girls class in school. After I mistakenly bought a softball instead of futball, I frantincally rushed to clean my own soccer ball so I had something to present the class. But that was a cool day. I found some sort of Iguana called a ¨chenga¨living in my kitchen area that occassionally also uses my bathing area and is supposedly deadly. I also found a cat behind my fridge who likes to sneak in through my windowless window and eat my dog food. I have killed 2 scorpions in my bedroom and seen 1 other running on the ceiling. A cockroach fell onto my lap in the letrine and I´m pretty sure I have ¨regalale¨-d all my mangos away to the neighbors.

As for the Salvador book, it was written during the war period and is an interesting perspective on the history of hte country. One part that stuck out was a quote about how many people here smoke cigarettes. The author noted that the chances of living long enough to die from the effects of cigarettes was so slim that the health risks weren´t a concern. I wonder how the statistics have changed today with the increasing homicide rate, upper respiratory infections and diuretic problems. This is sometimes why your emotions get down.

But other Little moments make me laugh and bring me back up. Like walking into a house and seeing a women in the nude bathing…but thinking about how scandalous it is to have part of your thigh exposed in a daring pair of shorts. Or when my counterparts granddaughter sits on my lap on rubs my legs because they are so smooth. Yes, I still shave! And if she is not doing that she is rubbing my chest. I dont know, apparently boobs are nothing here. I am now only offered a fork 1 out of 2 times I eat and only end up using it 1 out of 3. A Salvadoran friend visited my house and was shocoked I could leave my cereal box out because I didnt have rats.

I dont know. These Little moments have to make you laugh.

But Thursday I have my Asamblea General. My boss is coming to my Little community and Im supposed to present myself to my ENTIRE community (expecting they show up), explain the Peace Coprs and my program, and talk about what I could possibly do here to help. Needless tos ay, Im stressed and procrastinating. I have to still give out over 60 invitations, make some posters and trying to sound like I make sense in spanish and am somewhat sophisticated. We´ll see…

This blog has once again turned out to include about 10% of what I wanted to say, is mostly rambling, a Little bit of compaining, and nothing of real importance. I will try to work on that…

want to kill myself because an hour of writing just got deleted. another time...

Time is so weird here. I´ve been on the internet for 30 mins now and I´m rushing. I slept in til 6 am today...and then read another chapter of my book. Yes I´m reading Twilight still. But only because I wanted something that would completely take me out of El Salvador for the night and not make me homesick. And yes, reading about vampires and warewolves does just that. Not that I don´t like it here, I love it, but sometimes you just want a break from refried beans, chicken shit and gravel dirt roads. Otherwise, I have to admit, I´m not a Twilight person. And if it weren´t for the fact that I mistakenly read New Moon before the first book (I was pretty confused the whole way through), I would not have read more than one of the series. I hope the Twilight fan club will take it easy on me.

Anyway, I´m rushing because I have lots to do. After I finally got out of bed, swept...like usual but it´s gotten much harder. Usually it just sucks because no matter how much you sweep there´s still dust and halfway through you can´t see through the cloud of dust...but now my dog attacks the broom. So either I kick him aside or wait til he gets smacked in the face (if you´ve seen me clean you know I´m rather aggressive) and learns his lesson. After I showered, water was actually running today :), outdoors, looking up at the sky ... and my neighboors who live on a hill above me :/ ... I studied some spanish and headed to my counterparts to see what we had planned for the day. I remembered I had to go to town to make copies of some paperwork to use for my upcoming community census. I ran to the 10:10am approaching bus only to realize I forgot the paperwork. It worked out okay though because Barro has been biting the crap out of me so I figured I´d run back to the house and leave him there.

After waiting 20 mins without any sign of a bus or pick'up, I decided to start walking. Shortly after, a couple fellows from Intervida, the NGO I will be working with, drove by in a pick up and stopped for me. I even got to ride INSIDE the car and I swear, maybe it was the wind, but I felt air conditioning. We chatted a lot and my spanish was fortunatley going smoothly this morning. Without surprise, the conversation ended with ¨how old are you and do you have a boyfriend¨... and I didn´t have to pay for the lift :)

See one of the benefits of being a gringa is that people are amazed by you. It doesnt matter what you are wearing or what you look like any certain day, you WILL get cat calls. People will stop and say ¨buenos dias¨ or ¨salu¨ as you pass by, offer your fruit if you visit their house and give you free rides to town.

A downfall is that sometimes you DONT want to be noticed. Cat calls as I exit the latrine, still make me uncomfortable. Sometimes I just want to have regular small talk with people without explaining the mission of the Peace Corps or comparing life in New York to life in the Campo. I´m not complaining, its just sometimes you don´t want to be the gringa. I kid you not, even the cows meander over to the fence in the morning to stare at me as I brush my teeth.

Anyway, back to time. I´m rushing, even though I´ve been here an hour now...because after internet time I have to make photo copies, visit the post office to introduce myself and make sure I´m actually using the right address, go to the grocery store and get home before my dog dies of heat exhaustion in the house. Or eats my soccer cleats. one or the other.

Othertimes, Time passes slowly. My mommy asked me what a daily routine is like. Hmmm, right now, I wake up btw 5-6am, sweep my house, straighten up a bit. Let my dog out or pour a bucket of water on the floor if he´s already peed it. Oh that reminds me, he´s lucky I tuck my mosquito net in because he falls off the bed an average of twice a night and I wake up to find him crying on his back trapped in the net. He´s cute, but not the brightest pup. Anyway, next I eat some sugarless cereal with bananas, about the only healthy thing I eat all day, bathe, relax, listen to some music, study and then head to my counterparts at about 8-9am. Its about a 3 min walk down the dirt road with my pup at my heels. There we chat a little. They tell me we are going to town at 9:30am so I know to be ready to go at 11am. I´m sure to receive a second breakfast of greasy eggs and beans with 2 tortillas if I can´t get to them first to say ´solo uno´. I gulp down some coffee and eventually we get our day started. The day can consist of actually going to town on the 30min bumpy ass bus ride, shopping, meeting people and sweating. Or visiting neighbors houses. Playing soccer. Going to the river with the kids or the waterfalls. Anything really. This week I am starting the cenus though. I need to visit all the families to do an evaluation and start doing needs assessments. I will walk around with the Health Promoter to do this since he knows the houses the best. Sò I´m rushing today so that can get it all done and home before I am too exhausted to get up tomorrow for a longgg day of repeating the Peace Corps mission, my program, why Im here, yes I´m Catholic, no I cant talk about ARENA or FRENTE or anything about politics here, sure I´ve have another cup of coffee and some pan dulce, no I dont have money to give you guys, yes the climate is different here, my name is Jaime, not high-me, yes its funny cause its a guys name here, not Yaimy, just Jaime, no I can´t understand your 2 names even if you say them 3 times and, vaya pues, I have 378 more houses to visit so I must go.

I have a little over 2 weeks til my boss comes and I have to present my findings to her and the entire community... so I don´t feel like I have much time. But as I sit at the table listening to Juan play the guitar under the stars tonight with the drunk bolos singing along, I´m sure to feel like I have all the time in the world and enjoy every passing moment.

After reading the comments-posts from my sisters Danielle and Amanda on my last blog... I got my first real feeling of homesickness. Being here is such a roller coaster of emotions. Everyday I am learning new things. Before I came, I feared the bucket bathes, the bugs, the intermittent electricity, the unknown. Now, I can honestly say I enjoy bucket baths and how each pour of cold water momentarily takes my breath away. I still don´t like the bugs, and my legs look like I have the chicken pox, it never ceases to amaze me how big they can grow (and oh. my. god the toads are like squirrel sized) and how ear piercing the sounds are at night. The canton sounds even a little bit more tranquilo when the lights go out ... and the best part of it all is that I never know what the next day is going to bring.

Other times are hard. I still can´t get over how dirty my toes are ALL THE TIME. and there´s just nothing you can do about it. Its dirty, its dusty, when it rains its muddy. You just have to accept dirty feet. But it sucks. I´m still not great at spanish and campo spanish is so hard. The slang makes certain sentences impossible to decipher and I´m pretty sure my counterpart is making fun of me on a regular basis. This also sucks. I just want to be able to put into words what I´m really thinking. Everyone asks you ¨how much did that cost¨ and it gets annoying. I´m sorry I spent 40 dollars on my dog but I don´t want one of the mangy, rabie breeding flea infested street hounds that you guys like to kick in the face.

Most times are confusing. You live in a beautiful countryside surrounded by mango trees, zapote trees, jacote trees... mountains, waterfalls, rivers...and yet you taint it all with garbage. The people are so happy and so friendly, yet there are an average of 13 homicides a day, making El Salvador the top 10th most dangerous country in the world. You can´t wash your hair when its cold out or you will get Gripe. You cant shower after exercize because you will get Gripe. Your dog will die if he has a bathe at night. Your dogs hair will fall out if you give him beans. If you drink too much cold water you will get fat. Certain aspects of the culture shock you will never get used to.

But the hardest part is doing things like reading my sisters comments. Danielle has been the best support I have had since making the decision to come here. It kinda surprised me... maybe because I´m used to her sticking pieces of glass in my mouth as a toddler, having fights in middle school where we would throw cat poop into each others rooms, or seeing my clothes on her in facebook pictures...recently. But I don´t think I could have done this without her.

Amanda is growing up without me and I can see that from her amazing writing skills (are you copying my papers?) and reference to *achem boys* wtf!?

Christina, where are your comments? You must be busy studying for APs ,) But I´m so sorry I can´t be there during your last year of high school and transition into college.

I miss seeing my family everyday and laughing with my friends. I miss eating out of the gallon carton of ice cream. I miss Sam even though I have a new dog. I miss having regular conversations with my Grandma that don´t always start with ¨¨Where are you again? El Salvador!?¨ I miss penne alla vodka. Filet mignon. Qtips that dont bend when you try to clean your ears. Air conditioning. The feeling of home. It´s starting to get there...but I don´t think it will ever really feel like home without the people I love around me...within arms reach.

Fortunately, I have a cell phone, I can get to the internet, and I know my family is there for me. I am lucky for many reasons. And very proud to have the family and friends that I have. Thank you all for everything... I REALLY could not be here without you.