The Grass is Greener in Kilometro 16 (Just don't get sick!)

“Miguel, in Paraguay, in Kilometro 16, one lives well. I have my cows, my crops, my little house, my wife, on the weekends drink a beer with my friends. I know everyone in this town and most of my family lives right around here. Every day, yes I work hard in the fields, but I do it at my own pace and when I am done, I sip some ice cold, rich terere. Some people might want to move somewhere else, but I am happy here, very happy.” - Florencio, my 50 or so year old neighbor

In a lot of ways, I could not agree more with Florencio. On the beautiful days here, I feel like I am living in a tropical paradise. I go play volleyball with friends, walk through the town and say Hi to damn near everyone. People seem so content, almost everyone knows each other, and everyone works enough but is sure to take their leisure time. I eat fresh mangos from the tree 15 feet from my house, and maybe go swim in the crystal clear river nearby my house to cool off. Life is good.

Still, some aspects of life here, are undeniably 3rd world. One that strikes me the most is the lack of quality healthcare. Allow me to diverge for a second for a revealing subplot:

One day when I was 9 years old I accidentally shoved my arms through a glass window while chasing my friend Ryan. My left arm escaped damage, but I tore a gash of skin on my forearm about a foot in length extending from just beyond my right palm to four inches from my elbow. I distinctly remember being surprisingly calm and collected as the blood spurting out of my wound made Ryan’s dinning room look like a scene from a horror movie. Matter of fact-ly, I asked his mom, “Mrs. Moul, do you think I am going to die?” as she tried to put pressure on the cut with blood streaming out. I was dead serious, too. I thought that was the end. But then the ambulance arrived about one minute later, I went to the hospital, was sewn up with 40 stitches by a University of Michigan surgeon, and came out with nothing but a pretty badass scar witch I occasionally use to tell tall tales of some crazy fishing accident if I get bored.

I rarely think about this story anymore, but the other day it reoccurred to me when my 12 year old host sister Delphi broke her left arm and had to be taken to the hospital by her dad. She was in serious discomfort, and so her dad and she went to San Juan, a 30 minute moto ride from Kilometro 16. The medical building in the city of over 5,000 is clearly inadequate to deal with a seriously broken appendage, so they had to proceed to the capital of the department, a city called Caazapá, about an hour away from San Juan. They arrived to the Caazapá hospital at 7:30 p.m., but it turned out that the doctor who operates on broken bones had just left at seven and would be gone for another couple of days. They then proceeded on to Asunción, the capital and biggest city in Paraguay. There, they were finally attended to, 6 hours or so after the incident. She was operated on, the doctor made a mistake, and she ended up having to go in to have the bone reset again a few hours after the first operation.

Delphi’s incident made me think about all the things I took for granted when I had that little incident: an ambulance arrived within single digit minutes of a 911 call, I was taken to a renowned hospital where I had an extremely competent doctor attend to me, I was given anesthetic so I didn’t have to feel my arm being sewn up, I had follow-up in the hospital so my wound didn’t get infected, etc. My host-dad Antolin and Delphi had to take motorcycles over an hour and a half of half dirt, half concrete roads to arrive at a hospital that MIGHT be able to attend to Delphi, only to find that the only doctor who could help her was not in. Then, the went to Asuncion, and the only reason they were about to make it to Asuncion that night was because Antolin had a political contact in the area who was coincidentally headed to the hospital in Asuncion that same night with a truck (Do you want to ride 4 hours at high speed on a moto with a broken arm?).

I can’t help but suppose what might have happened had her emergency been more urgent than a broken arm, like mine was. My host dad’s dad died when Antolin was 7 years old; he was bit by a venomous snake and died within hours, unable to make it to a hospital. A neighbor of mine here, in his 60s recently contracted a mysterious sickness (fever was all I heard) and died rather suddenly. I thought of the time I had pnuemonia (which can kill you within 72 hours if not diagnosed but if you have penicilan you are cured almost immediately) misdiagnosed on me. And then thankfully an expert looked at the x-rays and prescribed me the right medicine, or I might be dead already.

To sum up the sitch in my barrio in Paraguay: There is no ambulance. Well, there is technically a truck that is 'supposed' to serve as the ambulance, but non one will pay for gas for it, so the ambu never gets used. When I was interned for two days in the local hospital with intestinal dysfunction, I literally had to walk across the street to the pharmacy in my agony and BUY MY OWN INJECTION. And the "bed" I slept in? It was a hard metal cot with a sheet over it. I had to pass through the maternaity ward one time to go to the bathroom (another small detail: the toilet wouldn't flush and there was no toilet paper), and wow did I ever feel sorry for the mothers giving on metal cots. On another note, NO ONE in my neighborhood wears glasses for seeing long distance. I’m no ophthalmic technician (Mom you can weigh in here) but mathematically it doesn’t seem possible that a town of 500+ people could have not one person with a single problem with their vision. More likely almost no one in my neighborhood has been to the eye doctor, ever. Literally, I often have difficulty explaining to people the fact that I am nearsighted and thus need to wear glasses all the time; they don’t understand.

So I can’t help but contemplate my life had I been born in Kilometro 16:

1) I would probably be considered blind with my 4.00 prescription in each eye.

2) I might have died from blood loss, or at least have been substantially maimed from my forth grade window experience.

3) There is a good chance I would have died a painful death from walking pneumonia when I was 21.

Well, on the other hand, I have NEVER seen a glass window here. And the temperature doesn’t drop below freezing so it would be harder to contract pneumonia. And vision??? Who really needs that, it just makes us more superficial right? Maybe I’d be happier without it, with my mango tree, avocado tree and daily swims in the river. Indeed, in many ways the grass is greener in Kilometro 16. Just as long you don’t have to go to the hospital.

One Year in Paraguay Already!

Lukie: my current best friend in site.

On February 10 (so last Thursday) all of the volunteers I arrived with and I celebrated our one year in country anniversary. It’s weird to be now, sort of the seasoned veteran volunteers in the Corps. Talking with one of my friends who got here at the same time I did, we found it interesting how, yes, we have changed a lot, but not in the way we necessarily expected to change.

Allow me to explain. There is a very notable difference between volunteers who have been here for over a year and those who are just arriving. Newly arrived volunteers, often, still have the naive perception that we will march into our site and fix many of the problems of our host community as we enjoy our two years and teach every kid to read, enjoy & embrace the local food for 2 years, be best friends with all of our community, always be understanding and patient with respect to cultural differences, etc. I can say that I did for quite some time.

But after a year in Paraguay trying to fight for grassroots change and be extremely patient with everyone, you start to rethink some things. Should I really accept every dinner invitation to eat straight pig fat, or ‘cow mystery stew’ just so I can become more integrated culturally? At some point, I guess right around one year for a lot of volunteers, there comes this realization that yes, while we are here as grassroots ambassadors for the U.S. and to help people and learn their culture, this is also two years of our life. Do I want to spend two years in my mid-twenties eating every mystery (and often unhealthy) meal put in front of me just to please the locals? After a year, it becomes a lot easier to refuse offers: Miguel, do you want some coffee with 4 spoonfuls of sugar in it? No thanks. Pig fat boiled in oil? Please no. Maybe some fried greasy flour? Maybe later. While these things might seem like no-brainers to refuse, its often a poor person who is offering you the best they have and you don’t want to offend them.

So like I said, the newly arriving volunteers are gung ho about everything, and it’s almost a little cute. “Oh this meat dish? It’s so good!” We’ll see how they sound a year from now. It’s refreshing to see, and makes me feel in the words of Ice Cube, like a ‘vet ballin’ on these rookies.’

Thinking back on my own naïve perceptions of coming to do development work in rural Paraguay, and how I felt at the beginning of service, I feel some things beginning to wear on me. My time in Kilometro 16 has, and continues to give me, though, an appreciation for being a citizen of the U.S. I appreciate so many things: not having to kill multiple tarantulas daily in my house, having A.C. when it’s hot, heating and insulation when it’s cold, having access to fast internet and skype, not having to walk next door to go no. 2 b/c of my lack of bathroom, not having to take a bus an hour and a half just to buy some vegetables, etc. Upon arrival these things were novel and rustic to me. Not only did those things not frustrate me, but I actually embraced them. (‘Oh the cold showers are such a fun rush in the winter!’) But I would be lying if I said I don’t doubly enjoy the hot showers I am able to take when I am staying in a hotel in the city now.

So there it is. Education PCVs do very little in the summer months and therefore we have too much time to think during January and February, so there is more time to become a little frustrated, a little stir crazy. (It’s kind of like being on welfare: getting paid by the government and doing nothing.) The school year starts back up next Wednesday though, so I’ll be busy again and that is good so I can realize once more how much work there really is to be done here. (Read: previous post “Why I am here”).

If this post sounds cynical, it’s not meant to be. I have some mad teacher workshops planned for something new around here called “Classroom Management.” Hopefully I can get the teachers to put away the switches and the whips and use some psychological tactics. (Although I have only seen one teacher use a whip).
Sorry for the lack of posts this past month. I know my WhichGuayNation fans are disappointed; don’t worry, there will never be a month’s lag in between posts again. But seriously, you try typing on a computer (or doing just about anything besides sitting in the shade and complaining about the heat) when it is 110 and humid out, as it has been for the entirety of January.