About a week ago, my dog, Lukie, got hit by a car and died. I’m not a fan of emo blog posts, so I’ll just say I was a little broken up about it. When he was born and I adopted him last July, I promised myself I wouldn’t get attached since I knew the logistics of bringing a dog home after Peace Corps are a little complicated/still not sure where I’ll be living after PC etc. But this summer the little guy and I bonded, and just recently I made the decision in my mind that he would have to come home with me. People around town were absolutely flabbergasted by all the tricks he could do: Eguapy (sit), Mba’e la porte (shake, but much more colloquial Guarani sounding), Speak, Lie down (those I taught in english), Eka’u (roll over, but Eka’u literally means ‘get drunk.’) Many people had never seen a dog do tricks, and they always put forth the typical amazed reaction, with a widening of the eyes and saying: “Miguel, demasiado letrado nde jagua”, which translates funnily as “Miguel your dog is much too scholarly.” Damn right. Also funny to me was that Lukie would never do tricks for anyone else; only me. I think it had something to do with my unique accent when I said the commands (in Guarani and English as well). Many a time, after hearing Lukie ‘speak’ when I told him to, my neighbors would launch into hilariously fruitless attempts to get him to speak again themselves: “Lukie, eespick. Eespii Lukie.” Lukie would respond by lying down and licking himself.
Lukie was even allowed to come into classes where I was teaching and everyone thought it was completely normal. Also, they aren’t too nice to the dogs here (I have never seen a trained dog, and they often hit the dogs if they are misbehaving/begging for food), but Lukie could do whatever/go wherever he wanted. Once one of my friends saw Lukie begging and slapped him. So I go, “Miguela, Que haces a mi perrito?” (what are you doing to my dog?). And she goes “oohhh No sabia que era tu perro. Lo siento, aca lo voy a dar algo de carne” (OMG I’m so sorry Miguel. I didn’t know that was your dog. Here, let me give him a little something to eat.) And with that she gave him a HUGE piece of meat (very generous, meat is expensive).
So it’s somewhat sad/weird not to have the little guy around anymore. My host family is already asking me if I want another puppy. Right now I’m not sure if I can handle the responsibility of raising another pup in general, let alone the fact that I will be continuously be comparing him to how awesome Lukie was.
On a lighter note, many things are awesome about Paraguay right now:
-Oranges and avocados are in season. I live in an orange grove. Two of my friends have giant avocado trees. Let the fruit fiesta begin.
- My current girlfriend, Shakira, (at least that’s what I tell everyone in my site, believe me when I say it never gets old) performed a concert in Asuncion last Tuesday, her first concert ever in Paraguay. In case there was any doubt, the woman knows how to sing/dance/perform. Unfortunately I couldn’t get the backstage access I thought Peace Corps Volunteers would be entitled to.
-After getting my account filled with over a milllon Guaranies (the local currency) at the beginning of the month, I promptly blew it all on some shopping therapy in the local supermarket (Shotout to Megan and Nika for their middle school project). I bought a ton of veggies and fruit, a cutting board, peanut butter, sunscreen, really strong Brazilian instant coffee, and goodies for the St. Paddy’s Day celebration this week, you know the necessities. I now have fridge full of food that will last me about 2 weeks, and less than $10 for the rest of the month. There are 3 weeks before the next payday. Hopefully I get lots of dinner invitations in March.
-I went for my first hour plus run since I’ve been in Paraguay this morning. Asuncion marathon in August? Maybe just the half.
-I had this weird line of discoloration on my stomach, so I went to the doctor and got it checked out. I was worried it could be a rash, maybe dengue; something that could kill me, or worse. The doctor tells me it's a LEMON JUICE stain. I mean I knew girls sometimes used that stuff to bleach their hair, but I had not idea it could have the same effect on skin. Needless to say from this point forward I will exercise caution when eating lemons (and limes, just in case) shirtless. No more suns out guns out during lunch at my host family's.
Sunday, March 13, 2011
Wednesday, March 2, 2011
Duck, Duck, Pig?
One of the first days I was at my school here in Kilometro 16 back last May, the Kindergarten teacher asked me if I would show her students a new game. As the resident Peace Corps “Elementary Education Expert,” I felt obligated to oblige her. I decided to go with the old classic, Duck, Duck, Goose. How can you go wrong with Duck Duck Goose?
As I organized the kids in a circle and started explaining the rules, I realized that I didn’t know the Spanish word for “Goose.” I continue explaining: “And you walk around like this and touch each person on the head and say duck, but for one of them you must say...” All I could picture was a pig running around in my head, and before I knew it, pig (chancho) had come out of my mouth (just the word, to clarify). And so it was willed that the children of Kilometro learned Duck, Duck, Pig instead of Duck, Duck, Goose.
I haven’t thought much of that incident until today, when I heard some kids (third graders) playing Duck Duck Pig. They are STILL PLAYING EXACTLY THE WAY I TAUGHT THEM. And THIRD graders this time, not even in the grade I taught the game. Duck Duck Pig is clearly catching fire here. Kind of made me think about Malcolm Gladwell’s tipping point phenomenon. Some things are simply destined to catch on due to human nature...digital watches in the 70s, big fat hair and crazy socks in the 80s, hush puppies in the 90s, and the in the 00’s. http://www.webdesigntk.com/hosting-reviews/bluehost-vs-ipage/ Clearly we are only just in the year 2011, and have 9 more years to go in the decade. But I think it may be written that the 10’s are all about Duck Duck Pig, at least in Paraguay. For all the other PCV’s who read my blog, you heard it first here: volunteer Mike Dooley invented Duck Duck Pig (Pato, Pato, Chancho) in May of 2010. When you hear kids in the schools playing it, make sure they know to whom they must pay homage.
As I organized the kids in a circle and started explaining the rules, I realized that I didn’t know the Spanish word for “Goose.” I continue explaining: “And you walk around like this and touch each person on the head and say duck, but for one of them you must say...” All I could picture was a pig running around in my head, and before I knew it, pig (chancho) had come out of my mouth (just the word, to clarify). And so it was willed that the children of Kilometro learned Duck, Duck, Pig instead of Duck, Duck, Goose.
I haven’t thought much of that incident until today, when I heard some kids (third graders) playing Duck Duck Pig. They are STILL PLAYING EXACTLY THE WAY I TAUGHT THEM. And THIRD graders this time, not even in the grade I taught the game. Duck Duck Pig is clearly catching fire here. Kind of made me think about Malcolm Gladwell’s tipping point phenomenon. Some things are simply destined to catch on due to human nature...digital watches in the 70s, big fat hair and crazy socks in the 80s, hush puppies in the 90s, and the in the 00’s. http://www.webdesigntk.com/hosting-reviews/bluehost-vs-ipage/ Clearly we are only just in the year 2011, and have 9 more years to go in the decade. But I think it may be written that the 10’s are all about Duck Duck Pig, at least in Paraguay. For all the other PCV’s who read my blog, you heard it first here: volunteer Mike Dooley invented Duck Duck Pig (Pato, Pato, Chancho) in May of 2010. When you hear kids in the schools playing it, make sure they know to whom they must pay homage.
Sunday, February 27, 2011
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.
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.
Wednesday, February 16, 2011
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.
Monday, January 10, 2011
Dude, that’s So ‘Guay
“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...
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...
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