“Everyone in my town is being so Paraguayan today WTF” - Text I impulsively sent to one of my volunteer friends last Saturday
Paraguay, in the last week since I’ve been back, has been so unbelievably, well, Paraguayan. For my non-peace corps volunteer readership, allow me to brief you on the cultural qualities of Paraguay to which I am referring:
1) Indirectness/refusal to be upfront in personal situations (especially when backing out on commitments)
2) Weird superstitions about things/foods that can kill you when combined
3) Eating ludicrous amounts of meat
4) Unwavering in their hospitality toward visitors.
It is true that my perception of the past few days might be a little altered from the last few months I’ve spent in Paraguay; after spending a few weeks in the U.S. I feel slightly more acute to some of the happenings going on here. But still, here are some of the things people have said to me/have happened to me in the last few days (For bonus points see if you can guess which quality I’m referring to before making it to the end of the bullet point!):
-Two high school students signed up to walk door to door to me to talk with local parents about sending their kids to summer reading camp. One of them mysteriously came down with a toothache the night before and the other sent me a text the morning of saying she had a ‘personal problem’ she needed to deal with. I saw her a couple hours of later and she was hanging out, visiting, whatever you want to call it, with a boy in her front yard. And when I asked the other one the next day how her tooth responded, she was initially very confused, and after 5 seconds of thinking responded ‘Ohhhh yea. That. It’s fine now.’ Like Ron Burgundy when his dog Baxter pooped in the refrigerator and ate an entire wheel of cheese, I wasn't even mad, just impressed. Both of my helpers had managed to come up with excuses within 12 hours of an actual commitment? (After I had confirmed with them continuously.) That's amazing.(1)
-9 a.m. Saturday: I happen to be walking by my friend Toro’s house where my host family has just killed a cow. They are having a 9 a.m. barbeque, straight chowing down on fresh meat. “Come eat breakfast Miguel.” I walk up, “No, sorry, I already ate some oatmeal I’m good.” “Nonsense. Here, come eat this.” As I sit down and look at the food in front of me, I realize there is no way I can possibly finish this bowl of what can only be described as mystery cow parts soupish. And there is a LOT OF IT in this bowl. I eat all I can fit into my stomach, about half of the meat maybe, before coming up with some excuse for not eating the rest of it (I have gotten really good at giving excuses to get out of things). I think the one I used was “Pero ndaipori espacio en serio” (“Seriously, there is no more room”) (3, 4)
-12 noon Saturday: I realize I am about two miles away from my house and will have to walk back to my house to eat. I really do not want to walk 2 miles in 100+ and humid weather while the Paraguayan sun destroys my Irish skin. As if on cue right as I am having this thought, the senora in the house I am visiting (I have never met her before) insists very strongly that I stay for lunch (invite is too soft a word for how hard she thrust her hospitality at me). I fake resistance to see if she truly wants me to stay. It’s clear I will probably offend her if I don’t stay. (4)
-1 p.m. Saturday: After lunch at the same senora’s house, I nonchalantly say one of my favorite Guarani phrases for when the food coma sets in after lunch: ‘Che pila’i’ (literally, ‘my battery little’). Señora Teresa doesn’t suggest, but forces me to take a nap in her son’s bed, and in spite of my resistance puts the only fan in the house directly on my for the duration of my siesta (turned out to be 2 hours…ipuku). (4)
-7 pm Sunday: After my dinner, which included a glass of milk to top off my meal, my family busts out the watermelons. (Watermelon is not eaten by the slice here, but cut in half and eaten with a spoon.) I grab a spoon and start to dive in to a half of one, when my host brother stops me: Whoa Miguel didn’t you just drink milk? Yes... Watermelon and milk don’t mix. You’ll die.” YES. You'll die is the exact translation of what he said to me in Guarani. Not it’ll make you feel bad, but YOU WILL DIE. This is also the case when one mixes grapes and watermelon. I still haven’t died though, I guess I am immune because I am a diplomat. (2)
Like I said, maybe my sense of 'Guay culture is heightened right after spending 3 weeks in the states this December. Or maybe the summer brings out the best in the ‘Guay. Whatever the reason, all of the stereotypes that us volunteers good-naturedly poke fun at have been super resonant here in Kilometro 16 the last few days. And I love it! I easily embrace the hospitality, but even things that could be slightly annoying like the meat and the indirectness turn out to be hilarious with the right attitude.
In other news, I’m getting a fridge, hopefully by the end of this week. So mom you can rest easy, I’ll be eating like a high school wrestler trying to move up a weight class in no time. I’ll also be putting a sink in my house and installing an outside shower, maybe even with warm water! Looks like I’ll still be using my neighbors’ latrine for a while though...
