From philosopher John Rawls: "A just society is a society that, if you knew everything about it, you'd be willing to enter it in a random place."
I am still in California, and have been reading a good bit about the Jordan Davis/Michael Dunn case, including pdfs (available on-line) of many of Dunn's letters written from jail. I also watched portions of testimony on youtube, including by Dunn to the police the day after the shootings. I'm deeply troubled by the jury's finding that Dunn had engaged in three counts of attempted 2nd-degree murder of (Davis' friends in the car), while not finding that Dunn had intended to kill Davis himself. Maybe I'm missing something about the legal definition of 1st-degree murder.
What I know is that I'm upset about what feels like a long history of open-hunting season of blacks by whites in this country. Challenge my authority? Dead. Look at my woman wrong? Dead. Walk or drive in the wrong part of town? Dead.
I'm disturbed by what appears to be an increasing trend toward justification of violent -- even deadly -- action against those whom we perceive as threats. "Stand-Your-Ground" law does not require efforts to evade or retreat from threat, even when these courses of action might readily be taken by a frightened potential victim. Stand-Your-Ground law allows the perception of threat to function as a defense for the use of "deadly force." (As an aside, California's "insanity defense" is not satisfied if the
defendant believes his/her actions are justifiable based on personal
standards for moral behavior, but recognizes that the actions would
violate general standards for moral behavior. In the case of
Stand-Your-Ground laws, it appears that the defendant's stated personal perception is what matters.)
Florida's Stand-Your-Ground law was not invoked during Dunn's trial. According to Dunn's testimony to the police, Davis had a weapon in hand and was opening the door of the car in which he'd sat in the back seat, having explicitly said he would kill Dunn. Dunn told police that he should have just backed his car out of the gas station parking spot (to leave), but instead reacted in fear for his life by grabbing his gun from the glove department, loading it and defending himself. He stated that he continued shooting at the car in which Davis sat even as that car's driver backed it out and drove off. He said that he didn't know until the next morning that Davis had died from his gunshot wounds. (That last part is believable to me since, by his report, he and his fiancée ordered pizza after returning to their hotel room, and did not report the shooting to the police.)
A basic tenet in the field of psychology -- one I believe is true -- is that we do not respond to what is happening but rather to our perception of what is happening. I imagine that's why police and military undergo special training in order to decrease reactivity in hot situations. Even so, I figure we're all still human and we are biologically inclined, if you will, to defend ourselves and those we care about when we perceive threat.
What is particularly disturbing to me now is the deepening notion -- reality? -- that, in the eyes of the law, perception can be enough. Enough to kill another person.
If the NRA had its way, teachers would be in a position to perceive threat from the angry parent (the angry teenager, the angry custodian, the angry fellow teacher) down the hall and shoot that person, all in the name of self-defense and of protecting children and other school staff. There doesn't have to be a weapon, just the belief that there is a weapon, the perception that the other person's movements are related to the existence of a weapon, the perception of a shadow or a shape as a weapon, the perception of someone as being in a suspicious location. Well, we've bombed a wedding party in Iraq for as much as that. (USMC Major General James Mattis was quoted as saying that a wedding was implausible in that particular case: "How many people go to the middle of the desert… to hold a wedding 80 miles (130 km) from the nearest civilization? These were more than two dozen military-age males. Let's not be naive." I don't know; maybe they thought it would be safer away from town?)
In my work with children, I've watched (perceived) them accidentally bump into each other on the field and make accusations of intentional shoving. I've seen (perceived) a child take a drink of water from the fountain and then straighten and turn so fast that the water sprayed the next child in line -- who insisted that he'd been intentionally spat upon. These interactions can get aggressive very quickly, particularly when the children have behavioral difficulties to begin with. In these situations, my work was to help the offended child consider the possibility that perception might not be reality -- so it's important to, e.g., ask a question: "Hey, did you just spit at me?" My work was also to help the perceived-as-offending child understand how an unintended behavior might provoke an angry response -- so it's important to be aware, and to apologize for accidents.
Would I do better to counsel children to act on their perceptions of aggression so they can protect themselves before the other child hurts them? Imagine the career path of the principal -- or the therapist -- who called a child into her or his office after a scuffle and said, "Now Billy, from what I understand, you thought that Tommy was looking very upset and it looked to you like he'd balled up his fist, so you hit him first to protect yourself. You did the right thing."
I cannot help but think of Oscar Grant, Amadou Diallo, Mohamed Bah, and Trayvon Martin, among many others.
Going through quite a few of Dunn's letters from jail, I was struck by how decent he could be (e.g., in his letters to his daughter): just a typical, loving father trying to guide and support his young adult child. I was also struck by how crass he could be, as when he wrote, "I was thinking to suggest [to an apparently suicidal jail cell neighbor] an easy way to die would be to ask a car load of thugs to turn their stereo down! [smiley face drawing] Somehow I don't think that would get the laugh I was going for." In one instance, what he wrote reflected for me the worst of Stand-Your-Ground and NRA potential: "This may sound a bit radical but if more people would arm themselves and kill these fucking idiots when they're threatening you, eventually they may take the hint and change their behavior."
Much has been made of Dunn's negative comments re: the music of "thug culture," which he describes in one letter as espousing violence toward women. If that's the definition, I'm with him in not liking it. I don't see myself shooting any singers or musicians over it, nor those who choose to produce it, sell it, play it and/or listen to it. I feel the same way about anti-woman and anti-police video games, and "first-person shooter" games, some of which have included links (ultimately removed) to information about the purchase of weapons shown within them.
In one of his letters, Dunn wrote, "The jail here is almost all black prisoners. You'd think Jacksonville was 90-95% black, judging by the makeup of the folks in jail here! I've never seen a group of people so racially divided. The blacks hate the whites and the whites hate the blacks up here. My fear is that if I get black [sic] on my jury, it will be a mistrial, as I am convinced they will be racially biased."
In a different letter, about his wish for a change of venue, Dunn wrote, "The fear is that we may get a predominantly black jury and therefore unlikely to get a favorable verdict. Sad, but that's where this country is still at. The good news is that the surrounding counties are predominantly white and republican [sic] and supporters of gun rights! Remember that saying: Rather be judged by 12 than carried by 6! However, I don't wish to be pre-judged and the blacks around here are doing just that. I'm falling into the same trap -- pre-judging the blacks -- but they're making it very easy to do by their actions." (Self-awareness followed by dismissal and finger-pointing.)
I don't know how Dunn interpreted the "90-95% black" composition of the jail in which he awaited trial, but I suspect it was not a social justice interpretation (i.e., that blacks were being unjustly charged and incarcerated at rates much higher than their white peers). I was attentive to Dunn's concerns regarding the potential for a biased jury, based on their being "predominantly black." That shoe has so often been on the other foot, with black defendants (as well as the families and supporters of black victims) concerned about predominantly or all-white juries -- and that's where my assumption lies regarding the high percentage of blacks in this country's jails and prisons.
"A just society is a society that, if you knew everything about it, you'd be willing to enter it in a random place."
As a white woman, I wouldn't be willing to enter US society randomly. Whoever you are, would you? It's worth thinking about who would stand to have an easier and/or safer life by doing so.
with love, meg February 19, 2014
Wednesday, February 19, 2014
Friday, January 17, 2014
Videos: Yasmim & meg about Casa Grande Foundation
Now I want to return to writing about my travels outside the US.
As part of that story, at the bottom of this post are a couple of links to videos about the Casa Grande Foundation (FCG in Nova Olinda, Brazil). The first link is to an interview with Yasmim (with English subtitles), who is one of the many delightful and articulate young participants at FCG.
The second link is to a video of me just winging it about FCG at the end of my first week there. Though the thoughts I expressed at that time were early impressions, they continue to ring true to me after a total of seven weeks spent at FCG on two separate occasions last year. Yasmim and I knew nothing of each other's videos when we spoke on camera, but I think the videos make a good pair.
About my phrase that the children are "learning to be owners of art and technology and connection": In using the word "owners," my intent was to describe the sense (and reality) of personal choice, investment, engagement and responsibility that the children have regarding their endeavors.
A story:
During my second visit to FCG, the children were all on break from school. Nevertheless, they showed up every day (or close to it) in order to do their jobs, continue learning, play and spend time with friends. Everyone associated with FCG was also preparing for an important event to take place later in the month. That meant lots of cleaning, washing, painting, dusting and reorganizing.
F, in his early teens, is in charge of the comic book library, and one day I was helping him there. On this particular day, I was dusting comics and other graphic arts books, giving them new protective plastic covers if they needed them, labeling piles according to author or illustrator, and setting the comics out on shelves. F's logic for organizing things wasn't clear to me so, after a spell of simply putting things where I'd been told, I asked him about this. How did he decide which comics went where?
F explained to me that some comics went together because the covers were particularly wonderful, others were organized by theme (e.g., super-hero, fantasy), yet others by author or illustrator, etc. F's choices made great sense to him. "Hmm," I thought. "This library is open to the public. How would community members know where to find the comics they wanted?" This was not the kind of library system to which I was accustomed. I continued to ponder this, and realized that anyone searching for a particular comic book would naturally discover any number of other comic books along the way, many of which would likely be enjoyable for him or her. It would be like hunting for a particular tree in the forest and discovering the beauty of other botany on the path.
The next time I spoke with co-founder Alemberg, I told him about my journey regarding the organization of the library (including my tree-hunting epiphany), and asked him how he thought about it. Alemberg replied that he always wants to leave space for others to enter, have an idea or a feeling about something, and take responsibility for getting involved. If there were only one way to organize the library, it would be a static place with no room for personal engagement or innovation.
As a fan of theater improvisation, I should have recognized this as very familiar territory; nevertheless the sky cracked opened for me. What a concept! To structure with the goal of engagement rather than that of uniformity or predictability! Imagine living that life.
Here are the videos:
Yasmim
http://www.youtube.com/watch?
meg
https://www.youtube.com/watch?
with love, meg January 17, 2014
Tuesday, January 7, 2014
Welcome... back?
December, 2013:
I sit here outside my very dear friend's home in Felton, California, where the sun is shining on the tree trunk-sized branches of the huge "live oak" trees (a kind of oak, for those who do not know them); where small birds are flitting, chirping and chattering; where the red-headed woodpeckers hammer their cache of acorns into the holes they've drilled into the massive, thick-barked pines; where the morning frost sits on the rooftops (demarcating the shadows, as my friend pointed out, even as the sun melts the exposed areas); where other dear friends live below (this is their house) with their two silky cats whose dappled fur blends in with the dry-winter colors of the peaceful landscape. I have landed softly here.
The soft landing followed an uneven travel transition. After a tearful farewell in front of LHI, I'd had a long drive with a relaxed and lovely family: a hired driver, his wife and their three children who, by the time they dropped me off at the airport, had graciously invited me to visit them in their home outside Antigua on my next trip to Chajul. When I arrived at the airport just after 9 PM, I was told, "The airport is closed." "You're kidding, right?," I asked, knowing that the man was not kidding. He replied, "Here in Guatemala, the airport closes at 8 PM." Fortunately, there was an area outside the airport's cafeteria where I was able to spend the night, mostly sitting on my backpack on the floor, grateful to have a free indoor place to pass the time till my 7 AM flight.
Having come to associate Guatemala with the Ixil region, I'd lost virtually all sense of being there by the time I'd arrived at the Guatemala City airport. It is modern: large, all right angles, sliding doors, polished metal and lots of glass, digital monitors, people walking about in nondescript clothing while interacting with one or another kind of hand-held technology. There was none of the exquisite traditional textile worn by the women and girls of Chajul and the neighboring towns. Apart from being addressed in Spanish by airport staff (e.g., the security guard who came around at midnight to ask everyone in the cafeteria area -- now closed -- if they were "authorized" to spend the night there), there was little to suggest that I was not sitting on the floor of a US airport.
My transition back to the US had continued with a series of flights, the first of which took me into Houston for my passage through customs, immigration and the agricultural check. The immigration agent who reviewed my entry form was suspicious about my having been in so many countries. Really? All those countries? Was I carrying any tobacco or alcohol? Nine months of travel? Why had I been traveling? Was I carrying any tobacco or alcohol? (Yes, he did ask me again, perhaps thinking he'd catch me in a lie.)
On the immigration and customs form, I had not known how to respond to the question about having visited a farm because I was unsure of the question's intent. I had put a question mark, and this had landed me in the agricultural check area. In a huge room of conveyor belts and luggage scanners, where my entry had interrupted a conversation between the only two people present, I explained to the agriculture agent, "Well, no, I wasn't actually on a farm. But in the town where I lived, the streets were always full of farm animals: cows, horses, pigs, donkeys, chickens, ducks --" He cut me off, "Okay okay. I get it. Did you actually touch any cows? Will you be around livestock here in the US? Fine-okay-you can go." In Houston and then in Los Angeles, the airport staff often struck me as apathetic and stressed, if not actually rude (limited eye contact, sucking of teeth, rolling of eyes, audible complaints about one thing or another). Throughout my travels, really poor people with truly difficult lives had been overwhelmingly warm, kind and positive. I was not feeling happy to be back in the US.
January, 2014:
Having spent two weeks in Felton, nurtured by my generous friend and by nature itself (hmmm, nurtured by nature), I am now house-and-cat-sitting in Santa Cruz. This opportunity arose just before I left Guatemala, which was remarkable timing. My friend in Felton had told me I could stay with him for as long as I wanted -- just as my friends in other countries have said the same -- but it's always hard for me. How much generosity and good fortune can I accept? The airy, sunny and peaceful home in which I am now staying sits at the end of a generally quiet street, has a large backyard with lots of birds, and shares the grounds with a lovely neighbor (whose dog, cat and chickens I also get to enjoy). I love curling up with the cat each night, feeding the birds, and playing with the neighbor's dog.
It's hard for me to put into words what I am experiencing here in the US, and I'm not sure I even fully understand it. What follows are some odds and ends of my experiences and behaviors here, some of them embarrassing or shameful to me.
As soon as I arrived in the US, I craved sugar generally and chocolate specifically. In Felton, I shopped for some food at a mostly organic local food store, lay low for a day or so, reviewed the various financial and other records that my friend had so impeccably kept in my absence, and got into my car (which I was indeed able to drive). I used the car to run errands, because there is no public transportation near my friend's home. I avoided walking around the central street of the downtown area, because I didn't want to deal with the pre-Christmas crowds and the shopping energy, but I did "swing through" Trader Joe's to buy some things I needed. It was shockingly easy to do this. When I finally screwed up enough -- what? courage? -- to enter Costco for the vitamins and calcium I needed (wanted), I found myself picking up and examining jeans and jackets. These are items I do not need at this time, still having the worn but fully functional two pairs of pants with which I traveled for nine months. A friend's son gave me a warm, virtually new jacket, and I was extremely grateful yet found myself thinking, Do I want to get a women's jacket instead of keeping this men's jacket? Fortunately, I did come to my senses. When I went to my storage space to get some warm clothing, I grabbed two pairs of old jeans. Really? Two pairs of jeans? Two? Do I really need two more pairs of jeans? To my horror, I found myself continuing to look at the computer screen in front of which I was sitting when a friend called, even typing something briefly as we talked. I have returned to the gym, where I am thankful to be regaining some strength and flexibility. I have missed living my life in languages other than English. I miss the simplicity and directness of my life in the places I volunteered. I have a different tone of voice here. I went to see a musical for which a friend (in the production's orchestra) had given me a comp ticket, and I appreciated its complex and opulent stage set. I want to see movies. I can't stop noticing the enormous wealth of this country; the word "obscene" comes to mind. I am an active participant in all of this.
WHO AM I???
I talked with two friends from another country, about what it was like for them to be immigrants here. In particular, they are from a very warm, relationship-based, gracious and slower culture. I felt that I have some sense now of what they are missing. One of the friends talked about his experiences being/having a housemate in the US. He said that, in his country, housemates share everything; in the US, people decide whose shelf is whose in the refrigerator. I could relate to that entirely, having experienced the former during my travels, and the latter in my own shared living situations in the US. The refrigerator shelf now feels like a huge metaphor for so much of how we live in the US.
As soon as I landed in the US, I felt as if my almost nine months of life elsewhere had been erased. It was so easy to re-enter a way of moving, talking, interacting. At the same time, I often feel outside myself, noticing and questioning how I move, talk and interact. Some people have welcomed me "back," and I don't quite know what that means. Apart from rejoining some specific communities (e.g., a women's solstice circle, the theater improvisation community), I am not "back." I don't live here and I don't work here, yet I am not visiting here. There is an important chapter of my life unfolding here as I figure out what is next. I don't yet know where "what is next" will unfold, but I suspect it will not be here in Santa Cruz. When I do get "back," where will that be?
with love, meg January 7, 2014
I sit here outside my very dear friend's home in Felton, California, where the sun is shining on the tree trunk-sized branches of the huge "live oak" trees (a kind of oak, for those who do not know them); where small birds are flitting, chirping and chattering; where the red-headed woodpeckers hammer their cache of acorns into the holes they've drilled into the massive, thick-barked pines; where the morning frost sits on the rooftops (demarcating the shadows, as my friend pointed out, even as the sun melts the exposed areas); where other dear friends live below (this is their house) with their two silky cats whose dappled fur blends in with the dry-winter colors of the peaceful landscape. I have landed softly here.
The soft landing followed an uneven travel transition. After a tearful farewell in front of LHI, I'd had a long drive with a relaxed and lovely family: a hired driver, his wife and their three children who, by the time they dropped me off at the airport, had graciously invited me to visit them in their home outside Antigua on my next trip to Chajul. When I arrived at the airport just after 9 PM, I was told, "The airport is closed." "You're kidding, right?," I asked, knowing that the man was not kidding. He replied, "Here in Guatemala, the airport closes at 8 PM." Fortunately, there was an area outside the airport's cafeteria where I was able to spend the night, mostly sitting on my backpack on the floor, grateful to have a free indoor place to pass the time till my 7 AM flight.
Having come to associate Guatemala with the Ixil region, I'd lost virtually all sense of being there by the time I'd arrived at the Guatemala City airport. It is modern: large, all right angles, sliding doors, polished metal and lots of glass, digital monitors, people walking about in nondescript clothing while interacting with one or another kind of hand-held technology. There was none of the exquisite traditional textile worn by the women and girls of Chajul and the neighboring towns. Apart from being addressed in Spanish by airport staff (e.g., the security guard who came around at midnight to ask everyone in the cafeteria area -- now closed -- if they were "authorized" to spend the night there), there was little to suggest that I was not sitting on the floor of a US airport.
My transition back to the US had continued with a series of flights, the first of which took me into Houston for my passage through customs, immigration and the agricultural check. The immigration agent who reviewed my entry form was suspicious about my having been in so many countries. Really? All those countries? Was I carrying any tobacco or alcohol? Nine months of travel? Why had I been traveling? Was I carrying any tobacco or alcohol? (Yes, he did ask me again, perhaps thinking he'd catch me in a lie.)
On the immigration and customs form, I had not known how to respond to the question about having visited a farm because I was unsure of the question's intent. I had put a question mark, and this had landed me in the agricultural check area. In a huge room of conveyor belts and luggage scanners, where my entry had interrupted a conversation between the only two people present, I explained to the agriculture agent, "Well, no, I wasn't actually on a farm. But in the town where I lived, the streets were always full of farm animals: cows, horses, pigs, donkeys, chickens, ducks --" He cut me off, "Okay okay. I get it. Did you actually touch any cows? Will you be around livestock here in the US? Fine-okay-you can go." In Houston and then in Los Angeles, the airport staff often struck me as apathetic and stressed, if not actually rude (limited eye contact, sucking of teeth, rolling of eyes, audible complaints about one thing or another). Throughout my travels, really poor people with truly difficult lives had been overwhelmingly warm, kind and positive. I was not feeling happy to be back in the US.
January, 2014:
Having spent two weeks in Felton, nurtured by my generous friend and by nature itself (hmmm, nurtured by nature), I am now house-and-cat-sitting in Santa Cruz. This opportunity arose just before I left Guatemala, which was remarkable timing. My friend in Felton had told me I could stay with him for as long as I wanted -- just as my friends in other countries have said the same -- but it's always hard for me. How much generosity and good fortune can I accept? The airy, sunny and peaceful home in which I am now staying sits at the end of a generally quiet street, has a large backyard with lots of birds, and shares the grounds with a lovely neighbor (whose dog, cat and chickens I also get to enjoy). I love curling up with the cat each night, feeding the birds, and playing with the neighbor's dog.
It's hard for me to put into words what I am experiencing here in the US, and I'm not sure I even fully understand it. What follows are some odds and ends of my experiences and behaviors here, some of them embarrassing or shameful to me.
As soon as I arrived in the US, I craved sugar generally and chocolate specifically. In Felton, I shopped for some food at a mostly organic local food store, lay low for a day or so, reviewed the various financial and other records that my friend had so impeccably kept in my absence, and got into my car (which I was indeed able to drive). I used the car to run errands, because there is no public transportation near my friend's home. I avoided walking around the central street of the downtown area, because I didn't want to deal with the pre-Christmas crowds and the shopping energy, but I did "swing through" Trader Joe's to buy some things I needed. It was shockingly easy to do this. When I finally screwed up enough -- what? courage? -- to enter Costco for the vitamins and calcium I needed (wanted), I found myself picking up and examining jeans and jackets. These are items I do not need at this time, still having the worn but fully functional two pairs of pants with which I traveled for nine months. A friend's son gave me a warm, virtually new jacket, and I was extremely grateful yet found myself thinking, Do I want to get a women's jacket instead of keeping this men's jacket? Fortunately, I did come to my senses. When I went to my storage space to get some warm clothing, I grabbed two pairs of old jeans. Really? Two pairs of jeans? Two? Do I really need two more pairs of jeans? To my horror, I found myself continuing to look at the computer screen in front of which I was sitting when a friend called, even typing something briefly as we talked. I have returned to the gym, where I am thankful to be regaining some strength and flexibility. I have missed living my life in languages other than English. I miss the simplicity and directness of my life in the places I volunteered. I have a different tone of voice here. I went to see a musical for which a friend (in the production's orchestra) had given me a comp ticket, and I appreciated its complex and opulent stage set. I want to see movies. I can't stop noticing the enormous wealth of this country; the word "obscene" comes to mind. I am an active participant in all of this.
WHO AM I???
I talked with two friends from another country, about what it was like for them to be immigrants here. In particular, they are from a very warm, relationship-based, gracious and slower culture. I felt that I have some sense now of what they are missing. One of the friends talked about his experiences being/having a housemate in the US. He said that, in his country, housemates share everything; in the US, people decide whose shelf is whose in the refrigerator. I could relate to that entirely, having experienced the former during my travels, and the latter in my own shared living situations in the US. The refrigerator shelf now feels like a huge metaphor for so much of how we live in the US.
As soon as I landed in the US, I felt as if my almost nine months of life elsewhere had been erased. It was so easy to re-enter a way of moving, talking, interacting. At the same time, I often feel outside myself, noticing and questioning how I move, talk and interact. Some people have welcomed me "back," and I don't quite know what that means. Apart from rejoining some specific communities (e.g., a women's solstice circle, the theater improvisation community), I am not "back." I don't live here and I don't work here, yet I am not visiting here. There is an important chapter of my life unfolding here as I figure out what is next. I don't yet know where "what is next" will unfold, but I suspect it will not be here in Santa Cruz. When I do get "back," where will that be?
with love, meg January 7, 2014
Friday, December 6, 2013
The Work of Daily Life in Chajul - Saliva in a Glass
I am sitting on my bed in my rented room in Chajul. The bed consists of two thin flat mattresses (the owner kindly and spontaneously gave me a second one after I moved in) on a wooden frame. The room is about 6'x10', with one concrete wall and three of wood planks. The floor is brick. There is one window, which is a small door that opens directly to the outside with no window pane. There is a single bare bulb hanging from the ceiling, and there is one outlet on the wall next to the bed. The room has a small bench at the foot of the bed, and one chair next to the head of the bed. There is a shelf over the door, a narrow board runs around the room (also functioning as a shelf for, e.g., my toothpaste and toothbrush), some nails are hammered into various boards for hanging what I want to hang, and there are two pieces of art on one wall. There is no heating, but my bed has two warm blankets under an open loaner sleeping bag.
Without exception, all the locals who see the room comment admiringly on how luxurious it is.
The toilet is in a separate wood plank bathroom building around a corner, about 30 feet away from my room. The walkway is protected from rain by corrugated metal roofing. The bathroom is filled with basins and buckets, each of these filled with water, for bathing and for flushing the toilet. The floor of the building is concrete, with a couple of simple drains. When I want to bathe, my landlady/host, DE, heats up water for me on a concrete wood-burning stove and I mix this with cold (or, sometimes, ice cold) water from the "pila." I do not dawdle when taking bucket baths on a cold floor in a cold room; my baths are all business.
As is the wood-burning stove, the concrete pila is a centerpiece of daily life here in Chajul. This pila is huge, the size of a small hot-tub. (Oh that it were!) Water is delivered daily (or almost daily, depending on available water pressure) through a long above-ground network of narrow PVC pipe. As the pila is filling each morning, I do my daily chore of carrying buckets-full of water to the bathroom to refill the various basins and buckets there. Then I refill the water filter container from plastic jugs that are sitting on one wall of the pila, after which I refill the jugs. The pila has two "sinks" that are washing areas also made of concrete, completing a large rectangle in which the water trough area has the shape of a T. There is one raised spigot between the sinks, with a plastic bag wrapped around it and draped into the pila to function as a kind of hose for filling the jugs off to one side on the wall of a sink. It works great. There is a small cutaway into each sink to avoid overflow of the pila, and a drain at the back of each sink carries water into the ground.
Almost every pila I've seen has been outdoors, and most are about one-sixth to one-fourth the size of this one. Pilas are used for washing dishes, fruits and vegetables, and clothing, as well as for preparing some foods, hand washing, and bucketing out water that might be needed for any other purpose. The water is generally clear (but not clean/potable), though often slightly sandy or muddy. After washing dishes with soap of some kind, a small bowl-shaped plastic container is dipped into the pila and the water is then poured over the dishes to rinse them. The dishes are then stacked in an open-weave plastic basket to air dry. When I asked another woman from the US about the hygiene of using this unfiltered water to rinse washed dishes, she said that the bacteria don't survive air drying... "or something like that." Whatever the reason, people don't appear to get sick from this process and I've generally done fine here.
The pila has green algae streaks on the pitted walls. One day I wondered if and how the pila is cleaned, and I got my answer within a couple of days when the water level was relatively low. DE and I hauled out buckets of the remaining water into every available container (just in case there was no water delivered the next morning), and then she pulled the plug at the bottom of the pila. After it had drained, we used bristle brooms and brushes to scrub down the walls, sometimes using diluted bleach solution and then rinsing with non-bleach water. After we finished (algae still present in some areas), DE replaced the plug, moved a rock on top of it to avoid accidentally pulling it back out, and that was that. Happily, there was good water pressure the next morning and the pila filled back up.
As for the wood-burning stove, it is a box-shaped concrete affair with a round metal pipe at the back to carry the smoke away. DE builds a fire each morning, using pine tinder (which burns particularly easily), dried bare corn cobs, and large pieces of cut firewood. She is extremely practiced and, for her, the fire-building process is effortless. She pays attention to a number of details, such as the the particular shape of her stack inside the stove, and making sure that the firewood is placed so that only the ends are in the pine-and-cob tinder to begin with. It will catch more easily that way. Once a fire is going, the cut wood is pushed inside bit by bit as it continues to burn. Any visiting person might take responsibility for doing this -- as do I -- in order to keep the fire going. People also re-arrange the firewood as they sit near the stove, to suit their particular ideas of what the fire needs.
The upper part of the stove is a sheet of heavy metal, with circular pieces that can be removed to allow for more direct contact between cooking pot/pan and fire. The heat of the fire can be quite intense, and is truly delicious on cold days; these fires are the only source of heat here in Chajul. DE has a wood-burning stove outside, as well as one in her kitchen. She also has a gas stove in her kitchen, which she seldom uses. On particularly cold days, DE's two cats like to lie right against the side walls of the wood-burning stoves. One of the cats will gradually move onto the top of the stove as the fire is going out at night. DE brushes the top of the stove with lime to keep it clean.
On an almost daily basis, DE makes corn tortillas. She has a storehouse of dried corn from her land (elsewhere), and this gets cooked for hours in a huge pot, after which it is taken to the miller for grinding into a corn masa. Spanish has a verb for making tortillas, an indication of the importance of this activity, and I've been slowly improving my tortilla-making skills. I'm nowhere near ease or full size, however, and my efforts bring smiles to some women who watch me struggle with a skill that has already been mastered by all young girls here.
Where do the bare dried corn cobs come from, and how do those kernels get removed from the cobs? Well, kernels can be removed by hand if there aren't many cobs to deal with. If there are lots, however, they're put into a large-mesh bag placed on a tarp, and then you beat the hell out of them with a heavy wooden stick. The dried kernels fall off and through the mesh onto the tarp. The bare cobs are then saved for use as tinder.
The corn here is typically harvested old and dry (from plants up to 15 feet tall), and is incredibly beautiful. It comes in a wide variety of yellows, oranges and sometimes other colors; the rows are often twisted, and the grains themselves are quite large. When DE's sister brought her many bags of harvested corn over for sorting and prepping, I spent a good part of the weekend helping out with that process. The rest of those working on the corn laughed at my repeated oohs and aahs over the colors in the huge pile on the ground. Botanical homogeny is an agribusiness invention, and it is a great pleasure for me to see real vegetables with a variety of shapes and colors.
Over two days, we worked for hours in a process that sometimes felt like spinning gold from hay. First we sorted the corn one ear at a time into three piles of quality: perfectly good, middling good (would need further work) and rotting (would be given to pigs). After putting the perfectly good corn into a storage area (where it was sprinkled with some kind of nasty powder to protect it from pests), we went to work on the middling good corn. Ears of corn were again examined one at a time, this time more specifically, for rotting kernels or those with tiny holes (indicating the presence of a small moth worm that would later destroy the whole ear). The offending kernels were flicked off the cob, and the "repaired" ears of corn were then carried to the same storage area.
Some of the corn had been harvested, by intention, within the husk. These were prepared by cutting the stem end with a serated kitchen knife, then carefully peeling off the corn husk leaves one at a time to be used for wrapping tamales. Sometimes it was easy to find the edge of a husk leaf, and other times it was like looking for that edge of clear wrapping tape on the roll. I discovered that, if I rolled the corn in my hands with just a bit of friction, the next leaf edge would make itself known to me. One can't tell from the size of the ear how large the husk leaves will be, and I felt like I'd won the lottery on those occasions that I landed an ear with beautiful huge leaves. The leaves were stacked and bundled according to size, and knotted pieces of husk leaf were used to tie them together. The dried corn silk was also set aside, to be prepared as a medicinal tea for kidney health. As you can see, nothing was wasted.
We all chatted happily as we worked, and I was reminded of my experience shelling beans with a group of people in Brazil. These tasks are inherently social. By the time we finished, the storehouse (perhaps 6' or 8' by 10') was filled four or five feet high with ears of dried corn. DE and her sister joked that they would invite me back next year when it was time to prepare the harvested corn. What really struck me was that, for me, this was a singular kind-of-fun experience and learning opportunity. For them, it is a labor-intensive yearly event. They've been doing this since they were kids.
Other daily work activities in this region include cutting and carrying firewood. Boys as young as 10 carry bundles weighing a good 50 pounds, using forehead straps to support the bundles on their backs. Adults (generally men, but also the occasional woman) carry heavier loads. Men and boys carry huge bags and boxes of goods to the market, generally balancing these with their heads bent forward so that that weight sits on their upper backs and the backs of their heads and necks. This position is also used when heavy items are carried up the ladder at the back of a van to be loaded on top. Men working at construction sites haul bricks and buckets full of wet cement on one shoulder. Women carry heavy loads of corn and other items on their heads, and even young girls sometimes have younger siblings in a wide cloth sling on their backs. (I always admire how neatly the babies' behinds sit in these slings, their legs dangling comfortably and their heads supported or free to look about.) People plant and tend their crops by hand. They walk long distances with their animals (cattle, loaded-up horses and donkeys) from one place to another. One of DE's family members walks about 90" each way with two of his sons, to sell at market. Virtually all laundry is washed by hand and hung out to dry on lines, rooftops and fences, as well as sometimes laid out on the ground. (On gray days, the traditional reds of this region jump out like exclamation marks in the landscape. Women place their cortes -- the wrap skirt fabrics -- and exquisite handwoven huipils out to dry as if they were dish towels, and no one seems to bother them.)
Living here these past five weeks, I have been so struck by the amount of time that is spent on activities that, in the US, are managed with the use of various machines. (Oh, the industrial revolution!) I admire the knowledge that people have here about so many things. They work incredibly hard, and they also make time for visiting. The women weave and embroider in their spare time, making extraordinary huipils, rebozos, fajas (the straps used at the waist) and hair ties, as well as cloths used for keeping tortillas warm and for other purposes. Their textile art is highly skilled, endlessly beautiful, endlessly creative, and truly boggles my mind.
As I approach my winter return to the US, I think about turning a faucet to take a hot shower, cooking my meals without having to prepare a fire, sleeping in a heated home, and sitting in a heated car or bus. I think about drinking water from the sink, rinsing or washing fruits and vegetables in tap water rather than having to disinfect them first in iodine or bleach water, and flushing a toilet. I have not missed these luxuries very often, if at all, and I have a much deeper sense of what luxuries they are. I know I will appreciate and enjoy them, and I find myself wondering if I'll find them strange in any way -- or will I just fall back into the rhythm of US life?
Someone once shared the metaphor of swallowing one's own saliva, which we do all day without giving it a second thought; if presented with a glass full of our own saliva to drink down, however, we would probably gag at the thought. Have I already shared this metaphor in a prior post? It's one of my favorites. I am so curious to discover how I have changed during my travels, and what I will notice about life and culture in the US now that they have been put into a glass for me.
with love, meg December 6, 2013
Without exception, all the locals who see the room comment admiringly on how luxurious it is.
The toilet is in a separate wood plank bathroom building around a corner, about 30 feet away from my room. The walkway is protected from rain by corrugated metal roofing. The bathroom is filled with basins and buckets, each of these filled with water, for bathing and for flushing the toilet. The floor of the building is concrete, with a couple of simple drains. When I want to bathe, my landlady/host, DE, heats up water for me on a concrete wood-burning stove and I mix this with cold (or, sometimes, ice cold) water from the "pila." I do not dawdle when taking bucket baths on a cold floor in a cold room; my baths are all business.
As is the wood-burning stove, the concrete pila is a centerpiece of daily life here in Chajul. This pila is huge, the size of a small hot-tub. (Oh that it were!) Water is delivered daily (or almost daily, depending on available water pressure) through a long above-ground network of narrow PVC pipe. As the pila is filling each morning, I do my daily chore of carrying buckets-full of water to the bathroom to refill the various basins and buckets there. Then I refill the water filter container from plastic jugs that are sitting on one wall of the pila, after which I refill the jugs. The pila has two "sinks" that are washing areas also made of concrete, completing a large rectangle in which the water trough area has the shape of a T. There is one raised spigot between the sinks, with a plastic bag wrapped around it and draped into the pila to function as a kind of hose for filling the jugs off to one side on the wall of a sink. It works great. There is a small cutaway into each sink to avoid overflow of the pila, and a drain at the back of each sink carries water into the ground.
Almost every pila I've seen has been outdoors, and most are about one-sixth to one-fourth the size of this one. Pilas are used for washing dishes, fruits and vegetables, and clothing, as well as for preparing some foods, hand washing, and bucketing out water that might be needed for any other purpose. The water is generally clear (but not clean/potable), though often slightly sandy or muddy. After washing dishes with soap of some kind, a small bowl-shaped plastic container is dipped into the pila and the water is then poured over the dishes to rinse them. The dishes are then stacked in an open-weave plastic basket to air dry. When I asked another woman from the US about the hygiene of using this unfiltered water to rinse washed dishes, she said that the bacteria don't survive air drying... "or something like that." Whatever the reason, people don't appear to get sick from this process and I've generally done fine here.
The pila has green algae streaks on the pitted walls. One day I wondered if and how the pila is cleaned, and I got my answer within a couple of days when the water level was relatively low. DE and I hauled out buckets of the remaining water into every available container (just in case there was no water delivered the next morning), and then she pulled the plug at the bottom of the pila. After it had drained, we used bristle brooms and brushes to scrub down the walls, sometimes using diluted bleach solution and then rinsing with non-bleach water. After we finished (algae still present in some areas), DE replaced the plug, moved a rock on top of it to avoid accidentally pulling it back out, and that was that. Happily, there was good water pressure the next morning and the pila filled back up.
As for the wood-burning stove, it is a box-shaped concrete affair with a round metal pipe at the back to carry the smoke away. DE builds a fire each morning, using pine tinder (which burns particularly easily), dried bare corn cobs, and large pieces of cut firewood. She is extremely practiced and, for her, the fire-building process is effortless. She pays attention to a number of details, such as the the particular shape of her stack inside the stove, and making sure that the firewood is placed so that only the ends are in the pine-and-cob tinder to begin with. It will catch more easily that way. Once a fire is going, the cut wood is pushed inside bit by bit as it continues to burn. Any visiting person might take responsibility for doing this -- as do I -- in order to keep the fire going. People also re-arrange the firewood as they sit near the stove, to suit their particular ideas of what the fire needs.
The upper part of the stove is a sheet of heavy metal, with circular pieces that can be removed to allow for more direct contact between cooking pot/pan and fire. The heat of the fire can be quite intense, and is truly delicious on cold days; these fires are the only source of heat here in Chajul. DE has a wood-burning stove outside, as well as one in her kitchen. She also has a gas stove in her kitchen, which she seldom uses. On particularly cold days, DE's two cats like to lie right against the side walls of the wood-burning stoves. One of the cats will gradually move onto the top of the stove as the fire is going out at night. DE brushes the top of the stove with lime to keep it clean.
On an almost daily basis, DE makes corn tortillas. She has a storehouse of dried corn from her land (elsewhere), and this gets cooked for hours in a huge pot, after which it is taken to the miller for grinding into a corn masa. Spanish has a verb for making tortillas, an indication of the importance of this activity, and I've been slowly improving my tortilla-making skills. I'm nowhere near ease or full size, however, and my efforts bring smiles to some women who watch me struggle with a skill that has already been mastered by all young girls here.
Where do the bare dried corn cobs come from, and how do those kernels get removed from the cobs? Well, kernels can be removed by hand if there aren't many cobs to deal with. If there are lots, however, they're put into a large-mesh bag placed on a tarp, and then you beat the hell out of them with a heavy wooden stick. The dried kernels fall off and through the mesh onto the tarp. The bare cobs are then saved for use as tinder.
The corn here is typically harvested old and dry (from plants up to 15 feet tall), and is incredibly beautiful. It comes in a wide variety of yellows, oranges and sometimes other colors; the rows are often twisted, and the grains themselves are quite large. When DE's sister brought her many bags of harvested corn over for sorting and prepping, I spent a good part of the weekend helping out with that process. The rest of those working on the corn laughed at my repeated oohs and aahs over the colors in the huge pile on the ground. Botanical homogeny is an agribusiness invention, and it is a great pleasure for me to see real vegetables with a variety of shapes and colors.
Over two days, we worked for hours in a process that sometimes felt like spinning gold from hay. First we sorted the corn one ear at a time into three piles of quality: perfectly good, middling good (would need further work) and rotting (would be given to pigs). After putting the perfectly good corn into a storage area (where it was sprinkled with some kind of nasty powder to protect it from pests), we went to work on the middling good corn. Ears of corn were again examined one at a time, this time more specifically, for rotting kernels or those with tiny holes (indicating the presence of a small moth worm that would later destroy the whole ear). The offending kernels were flicked off the cob, and the "repaired" ears of corn were then carried to the same storage area.
Some of the corn had been harvested, by intention, within the husk. These were prepared by cutting the stem end with a serated kitchen knife, then carefully peeling off the corn husk leaves one at a time to be used for wrapping tamales. Sometimes it was easy to find the edge of a husk leaf, and other times it was like looking for that edge of clear wrapping tape on the roll. I discovered that, if I rolled the corn in my hands with just a bit of friction, the next leaf edge would make itself known to me. One can't tell from the size of the ear how large the husk leaves will be, and I felt like I'd won the lottery on those occasions that I landed an ear with beautiful huge leaves. The leaves were stacked and bundled according to size, and knotted pieces of husk leaf were used to tie them together. The dried corn silk was also set aside, to be prepared as a medicinal tea for kidney health. As you can see, nothing was wasted.
We all chatted happily as we worked, and I was reminded of my experience shelling beans with a group of people in Brazil. These tasks are inherently social. By the time we finished, the storehouse (perhaps 6' or 8' by 10') was filled four or five feet high with ears of dried corn. DE and her sister joked that they would invite me back next year when it was time to prepare the harvested corn. What really struck me was that, for me, this was a singular kind-of-fun experience and learning opportunity. For them, it is a labor-intensive yearly event. They've been doing this since they were kids.
Other daily work activities in this region include cutting and carrying firewood. Boys as young as 10 carry bundles weighing a good 50 pounds, using forehead straps to support the bundles on their backs. Adults (generally men, but also the occasional woman) carry heavier loads. Men and boys carry huge bags and boxes of goods to the market, generally balancing these with their heads bent forward so that that weight sits on their upper backs and the backs of their heads and necks. This position is also used when heavy items are carried up the ladder at the back of a van to be loaded on top. Men working at construction sites haul bricks and buckets full of wet cement on one shoulder. Women carry heavy loads of corn and other items on their heads, and even young girls sometimes have younger siblings in a wide cloth sling on their backs. (I always admire how neatly the babies' behinds sit in these slings, their legs dangling comfortably and their heads supported or free to look about.) People plant and tend their crops by hand. They walk long distances with their animals (cattle, loaded-up horses and donkeys) from one place to another. One of DE's family members walks about 90" each way with two of his sons, to sell at market. Virtually all laundry is washed by hand and hung out to dry on lines, rooftops and fences, as well as sometimes laid out on the ground. (On gray days, the traditional reds of this region jump out like exclamation marks in the landscape. Women place their cortes -- the wrap skirt fabrics -- and exquisite handwoven huipils out to dry as if they were dish towels, and no one seems to bother them.)
Living here these past five weeks, I have been so struck by the amount of time that is spent on activities that, in the US, are managed with the use of various machines. (Oh, the industrial revolution!) I admire the knowledge that people have here about so many things. They work incredibly hard, and they also make time for visiting. The women weave and embroider in their spare time, making extraordinary huipils, rebozos, fajas (the straps used at the waist) and hair ties, as well as cloths used for keeping tortillas warm and for other purposes. Their textile art is highly skilled, endlessly beautiful, endlessly creative, and truly boggles my mind.
As I approach my winter return to the US, I think about turning a faucet to take a hot shower, cooking my meals without having to prepare a fire, sleeping in a heated home, and sitting in a heated car or bus. I think about drinking water from the sink, rinsing or washing fruits and vegetables in tap water rather than having to disinfect them first in iodine or bleach water, and flushing a toilet. I have not missed these luxuries very often, if at all, and I have a much deeper sense of what luxuries they are. I know I will appreciate and enjoy them, and I find myself wondering if I'll find them strange in any way -- or will I just fall back into the rhythm of US life?
Someone once shared the metaphor of swallowing one's own saliva, which we do all day without giving it a second thought; if presented with a glass full of our own saliva to drink down, however, we would probably gag at the thought. Have I already shared this metaphor in a prior post? It's one of my favorites. I am so curious to discover how I have changed during my travels, and what I will notice about life and culture in the US now that they have been put into a glass for me.
with love, meg December 6, 2013
Monday, December 2, 2013
Stepping Into the Horizon Line
I am in Chajul, a small town
in the highlands of Guatemala, where I've spent the past month volunteering for
a wonderful and important program called Limitless Horizons Ixil (LHI --
http://limitlesshorizonsixil.org/about-us/). The surrounding mountains of this region
often disappear into the thick white fog of the cold and rainy
winter season. On rare sunny days, they almost shock me with their patchwork of
deep greens. On the in-between days, the fog both obscures and defines the
mountains' contours, lying on and nestling into them with what always strikes
me as a kind of tenderness. Colors disappear into a broad palette of gray
tones.
I'll be here for another two weeks before returning to the US, and I'm in the sadness, elation, confusion, intensity and freefall of the farewell transition from one kind of unknown into another. My tradition (habit?) has been to write about my voyage in the order in which it has unfolded. That simply makes no sense to me in this moment, two and a half months after my last post and many months behind in writing about the journey I'm on. I'd rather share “where I am now,” and fill in the blanks from the US after my return.
As I got ready to fly from Peru to Guatemala, I wrote in my journal that this would be my last stop before returning to the US. In the next moment, I realized that it wasn't that at all! Guatemala would be Guatemala, an unknown next set of experiences, joys, challenges and lessons -- and, in spite of the ticket that I planned to buy for my return to the US, this part of my journey had an unknown outcome. Why would I diminish all of that by parenthesizing it in relationship to an anticipated endpoint?
Crazy! I made a conscious choice to shoot for THIS-HERE-NOW. It was a good choice.
I have a metaphor for this "where I am now" that I want to write about. The metaphor is that I've been in a boat out on the vast ocean. I’m still in that boat and the ocean is still vast, but now I see a distant and approaching shore on the horizon line. It's not a shore in the sense of 'ah, finally landing on terra firma.' (Great word, "landing"; we should also have "oceaning" and “airing.”) In my metaphor, the shore is a different element, and my experience is that of a morphing and blending of elements. I have a sense of being in two places at once, and the balance keeps shifting as I rock and roll along. Really, I am still only here in the boat, but I cannot ignore the land I am approaching. It is part of my THIS.
On the van back into Chajul yesterday (from an overnight visit to the nearby small city of Nebaj), I gazed out at the passing landscape and found myself thinking about the people I have gotten to know here; the sweetness of the wildflowers; the endless fields and hillsides of hugely tall, dried corn plants; the cows, sheep, horses, donkeys, dogs, chickens, roosters and pigs that are always out on the roads; the seemingly unburdened playfulness of the children; the young age at which the children are already doing truly hard physical labor; the outrageously endless creativity and beauty of the textiles; the deep poverty and traumatic history of this region; the remarkable heart of the people here who are working hard to lift their families and community out of that poverty and trauma.
Having been in a day-dreamy bliss state there in the van, I surprised myself when I suddenly started to cry. I realized that, in addition to feeling a great sense of loss about my upcoming departure from Chajul and LHI, I was feeling other losses as well: of family members and pets who have died (beings to whom I would not be returning), of friends in other countries to whom I have already said good-bye, and of this extended travel and volunteer experience that is drawing to a close. Though mostly feeling a deep sorrow, I was also feeling a deep love, and a kind of buzzing excitement about the challenges that lie ahead as I move on to the next chapter of unknowns. I was overwhelmed by the richness and intensity of it all, and I cried freely.
Local van transport here is not the comfort van experience of the US. Vehicles built to hold 15 people are routinely chock-filled with up to 30, plus packages, backpacks and plastic baskets that have not been hauled up onto the roof. Depending on one's height, it may not be possible to stand upright in the crush. Roads are often just packed and rutted dirt, so there's lots of bumping along. People get on and off all along the way between starting and end points, and they shift to better seats when possible (i.e., a window seat that allows for leaning one's head to sleep, a seat next to a friend or family member, or any seat at all for those who have been standing). People on this van looked at me with concern, and one man asked if I was okay. I answered honestly and talked with him and the young woman sitting in front of me about my experiences in Chajul. In my baby Ixil I told my indigenous seat neighbors, "Naxh": It's okay.
When I talk with Guatemalans (in the markets and small stores, in people's homes, on the local transportation), they always ask me where I’m from, what I'm doing, how long I have been here, how long I will stay, and when I will return. It always feels like an invitation to come back. In every place I've volunteered, people have asked me to return and I know that I would love to do so. This has led to certain questions that thread through my journey: How can I spend time here again? How can I continue experiencing other parts of the world in which I might like to volunteer? How will I maintain contact with so many people? Is it possible to continue living like this? Can I live like this in the US?
In each of the three countries in which I've spent time, people have said that I should simply marry a native so I can just stay, and this also feels like an invitation. I smile and ask if they have someone in mind. In Lima, after telling me I should marry a Peruvian, my friend then stopped to think about it and changed her mind: she said that a Brazilian would be a better fit for me. I think that would make my Brazilian friends happy. Having never missed the US during my travels (and often actually feeling quite happy to be away from the US), I wonder if I would be capable of actually settling down in another country.
Though I continue to practice the simple complexity of THIS-HERE-NOW as my departure date approaches, it has been harder and harder to just be here. I sometimes want to run from the roughness of this road -- just get it over with and return to the US -- but I continue to choose the bumps of being inside the transition experience. Today I reminded the children I’ve been working and playing with in the local library that I will be leaving, and I told them that next week would be our last week together. Deep breath. Tears (mine). “Why are you going? When will you come back?” Lots of sly poking and hiding, lots of “Meguita” being called out. The children followed me out into the street, “Meguita! Meguita!” THIS is not easy.
Right now, the US feels like an end point to me, though I already know that the horizon line is a place at which one never actually arrives. I’m at an age at which job options tend to thin, and I’ve generally tried not to think too far into the future as regards job hunting. I’ve thought about the Peace Corps (Continue with Spanish in Central or South America? Use my Portuguese in Mozambique?), fantasized about returning long-term to a particular quilombo community in Brazil (a future post), and wondered what it would be like to get to know the indigenous communities of the US. I’m clear that I will not return to my former job, even if it is offered to me.
I once talked to an improv friend about the difficulty of leaving improvisation and stepping out “into the real world.” He replied, “What makes you think that this is not real?” and he was right. Part of my THIS is wanting to be true to myself and to what I have learned on this journey regarding what is possible and how I want to live. I have no idea of how I will achieve it. I hope to have the courage to step out joyously into that unknown.
with love, meg December 2, 2013
I'll be here for another two weeks before returning to the US, and I'm in the sadness, elation, confusion, intensity and freefall of the farewell transition from one kind of unknown into another. My tradition (habit?) has been to write about my voyage in the order in which it has unfolded. That simply makes no sense to me in this moment, two and a half months after my last post and many months behind in writing about the journey I'm on. I'd rather share “where I am now,” and fill in the blanks from the US after my return.
As I got ready to fly from Peru to Guatemala, I wrote in my journal that this would be my last stop before returning to the US. In the next moment, I realized that it wasn't that at all! Guatemala would be Guatemala, an unknown next set of experiences, joys, challenges and lessons -- and, in spite of the ticket that I planned to buy for my return to the US, this part of my journey had an unknown outcome. Why would I diminish all of that by parenthesizing it in relationship to an anticipated endpoint?
Crazy! I made a conscious choice to shoot for THIS-HERE-NOW. It was a good choice.
I have a metaphor for this "where I am now" that I want to write about. The metaphor is that I've been in a boat out on the vast ocean. I’m still in that boat and the ocean is still vast, but now I see a distant and approaching shore on the horizon line. It's not a shore in the sense of 'ah, finally landing on terra firma.' (Great word, "landing"; we should also have "oceaning" and “airing.”) In my metaphor, the shore is a different element, and my experience is that of a morphing and blending of elements. I have a sense of being in two places at once, and the balance keeps shifting as I rock and roll along. Really, I am still only here in the boat, but I cannot ignore the land I am approaching. It is part of my THIS.
On the van back into Chajul yesterday (from an overnight visit to the nearby small city of Nebaj), I gazed out at the passing landscape and found myself thinking about the people I have gotten to know here; the sweetness of the wildflowers; the endless fields and hillsides of hugely tall, dried corn plants; the cows, sheep, horses, donkeys, dogs, chickens, roosters and pigs that are always out on the roads; the seemingly unburdened playfulness of the children; the young age at which the children are already doing truly hard physical labor; the outrageously endless creativity and beauty of the textiles; the deep poverty and traumatic history of this region; the remarkable heart of the people here who are working hard to lift their families and community out of that poverty and trauma.
Having been in a day-dreamy bliss state there in the van, I surprised myself when I suddenly started to cry. I realized that, in addition to feeling a great sense of loss about my upcoming departure from Chajul and LHI, I was feeling other losses as well: of family members and pets who have died (beings to whom I would not be returning), of friends in other countries to whom I have already said good-bye, and of this extended travel and volunteer experience that is drawing to a close. Though mostly feeling a deep sorrow, I was also feeling a deep love, and a kind of buzzing excitement about the challenges that lie ahead as I move on to the next chapter of unknowns. I was overwhelmed by the richness and intensity of it all, and I cried freely.
Local van transport here is not the comfort van experience of the US. Vehicles built to hold 15 people are routinely chock-filled with up to 30, plus packages, backpacks and plastic baskets that have not been hauled up onto the roof. Depending on one's height, it may not be possible to stand upright in the crush. Roads are often just packed and rutted dirt, so there's lots of bumping along. People get on and off all along the way between starting and end points, and they shift to better seats when possible (i.e., a window seat that allows for leaning one's head to sleep, a seat next to a friend or family member, or any seat at all for those who have been standing). People on this van looked at me with concern, and one man asked if I was okay. I answered honestly and talked with him and the young woman sitting in front of me about my experiences in Chajul. In my baby Ixil I told my indigenous seat neighbors, "Naxh": It's okay.
When I talk with Guatemalans (in the markets and small stores, in people's homes, on the local transportation), they always ask me where I’m from, what I'm doing, how long I have been here, how long I will stay, and when I will return. It always feels like an invitation to come back. In every place I've volunteered, people have asked me to return and I know that I would love to do so. This has led to certain questions that thread through my journey: How can I spend time here again? How can I continue experiencing other parts of the world in which I might like to volunteer? How will I maintain contact with so many people? Is it possible to continue living like this? Can I live like this in the US?
In each of the three countries in which I've spent time, people have said that I should simply marry a native so I can just stay, and this also feels like an invitation. I smile and ask if they have someone in mind. In Lima, after telling me I should marry a Peruvian, my friend then stopped to think about it and changed her mind: she said that a Brazilian would be a better fit for me. I think that would make my Brazilian friends happy. Having never missed the US during my travels (and often actually feeling quite happy to be away from the US), I wonder if I would be capable of actually settling down in another country.
Though I continue to practice the simple complexity of THIS-HERE-NOW as my departure date approaches, it has been harder and harder to just be here. I sometimes want to run from the roughness of this road -- just get it over with and return to the US -- but I continue to choose the bumps of being inside the transition experience. Today I reminded the children I’ve been working and playing with in the local library that I will be leaving, and I told them that next week would be our last week together. Deep breath. Tears (mine). “Why are you going? When will you come back?” Lots of sly poking and hiding, lots of “Meguita” being called out. The children followed me out into the street, “Meguita! Meguita!” THIS is not easy.
Right now, the US feels like an end point to me, though I already know that the horizon line is a place at which one never actually arrives. I’m at an age at which job options tend to thin, and I’ve generally tried not to think too far into the future as regards job hunting. I’ve thought about the Peace Corps (Continue with Spanish in Central or South America? Use my Portuguese in Mozambique?), fantasized about returning long-term to a particular quilombo community in Brazil (a future post), and wondered what it would be like to get to know the indigenous communities of the US. I’m clear that I will not return to my former job, even if it is offered to me.
I once talked to an improv friend about the difficulty of leaving improvisation and stepping out “into the real world.” He replied, “What makes you think that this is not real?” and he was right. Part of my THIS is wanting to be true to myself and to what I have learned on this journey regarding what is possible and how I want to live. I have no idea of how I will achieve it. I hope to have the courage to step out joyously into that unknown.
with love, meg December 2, 2013
Thursday, September 12, 2013
Nova Olinda and Foundation Casa Grande 101
After three weeks volunteering and visiting friends in Palmas, Brazil, I´m now again in Porto Velho. I'm overdue for writing about my experiences at
the Foundation Casa Grande-Memorial to the Kariri People (FCG), in Nova Olinda.
This story will have to be told in installments, from the outside in and the inside-out.
During my travels, I often trade my time for cheaper plane tickets. After leaving Porto Velho in April, I traveled by an outrageous route (PV -- Brasilia -- Sao Paulo -- Recife -- Fortaleza) in order to arrive in the small city airport of Juazeiro do Norte. This was the trip during which I had my intestinal adventure.
J, who is in his early 20s and runs a Community Tourism business associated with FCG, picked me up at the airport with a big smile and some welcome containers of cold water. Community Tourism was an important part of my time with FCG, and is based on the idea (for me, the reality) that relationships with local folks and culture are at the heart of one´s travel experiences. Additionally, this form of tourism keeps one's spending inside the community in which one travels (rather than, e.g., in the hands of corporations, conglomerates, external travel groups). Per J's blog, Community Tourism has the deeper goals of supporting justice and world peace through connection with others.This makes sense to me.
For my first visit to FCG, my friend E in Rio had recommended I stay in Ir's and Ch's home, which is one of the semi-hostel housing options available through the Community Tourism program. Some of the parents of current and/or former FCG child-participants offer such housing, and I followed E's advice. Ir is a retired teacher and endlessly creative craftswoman, and Ch is a former bricklayer-builder who had stopped working due to a back injury and is now a driver. Their home is simple, clean, and full of light from the sun, their hearts and their senses of humor. Their daughter, her husband and their two young sons live upstairs. Ch's car is protectively "garaged" inside the house, in the first room one enters from the street. I never once smelled anything to do with automobiles, which is an indication of the care taken of both car and home. Ir and Ch share their home with an outrageously sweet dog, M, whose energy and playfulness bely her advanced age.(By the time I left at the end of my second visit, a young cat, T, had also joined the family.)
When I arrived at Ir and Ch's home, I was shown to my airy room in a separate space behind the house. There were two single bunk-type beds (along with bathroom and small fridge), but sadly I had the room to myself. It turned out that I was Ir's and Ch's first American guest, and that this had caused some anxiety for Ir, who takes primary responsibility for guests in the home. She has housed and cared for everyone from regular folks to important political figures, singers-musicians, authors and others from many parts of the world. However, as had been the case in Porto Velho, there was some concern that an American might not take well to the "humble" (Ir's word) abode -- things like cold-water only, a simple room, and presumably simple services. Additionally, Ir was concerned about cooking for a vegetarian. She need not have had any fears: I enjoyed the cold-water showers, loved the dog, did my own laundry by hand (enjoyed the big wash sink outside), did not expect or need any special services, shared the cooking and dish-washing, and adored Ir's cuisine. Being a handcraft person myself, I had very high regard for Ir's skill and creativity in all things fabric and thread. Inspired by Ir's energy, I engaged in some craft projects of my own, and Ir and I got on famously in this area as well. As for Ch, his stronger local accent was challenging for me (though less so over time). Ir "translated" when necessary, and Ch was very patient with my frequent requests for repetition. Further, his infectious laugh, warmth and great sense of mirth easily made up for any problems I had with language comprehension.
On my first day in Nova Olinda, I walked the few blocks to FCG and stepped into a new universe. Children greeted me warmly when I arrived: they explored my hair and clothing while asking me questions about myself, pulling me gently to sit closely with them, and telling me about themselves. One of the things I love about the children of the Brazilian interior is how much they touch. Well, come to find out that virtually everyone in this area hugs warmly and offers a kiss to the cheek as part of the standard welcome; it's the cuddling and hair touching that are icing on the cake.
At FCG, I met with the founders (Alemberg Quindins and Rosiane Limaverde) and some of the team. (As an exception to my choice to use initials only, I name Alemberg and Rosiane because of their formal role in this remarkable endeavor.) As Alemberg and Rosiane talked with me about their foundation, Alemberg appeared to also check me out as regards my character and philosophy for living with, experiencing and teaching within FCG; I had the advantage of coming recommended by E and P, but care is taken with those who come to join the community of FCG friends. I was asked to teach English to the children, and I suggested also supporting the local English teachers. We agreed that, additionally, I could be of help translating various materials.
One doesn't learn a new language in three weeks, so I spent my time playing games with the children to support their interest in English, and to help with pronunciation and vocabulary. On occasion I formally taught grammar, but I generally used improvisation and other games to keep things light and lively in order to allow space for the learning. (I "invented" the game "come-stop-go!": say "come" -- with beckoning gesture -- when I am smiling, but use "stop" and then "go!" -- with gestures -- when I am a monster. Children have adored this game in the many places I've used it, both in Lima and parts of Brazil. At FCG, they creatively modified the game to say "come" as an invitation for change if I made a sad face when sent away in spite of smiling. Where I volunteered in Palmas, the children have wanted to direct me to be happy, turn into an animal, dance, sing, or "go!" after a particular peer. When kids are spinning out of control, I like to play "go -- go fast -- slo-mo" and we all take turns being in charge.) I did meet with local English teachers on several occasions to support their grammar and pronunciation while also sharing language teaching strategies and on-line resources.
The FCG grounds include a museum (anthropological artifacts of the local indigenous Kariri, examples of spiritual and religious objects, illustrations by the children of some local history); the building was the first school house of the area, and is an old waddle-and-daub structure that is painted with color washes of blue, red and yellow. There is also an eatery (large kitchen with open eating area), small sales kiosk with T-shirts and items crafted by the participant moms, ample theater, and rooms that are used for anthropological research, meetings and the like. Additionally, there are a children's literature library, research-oriented library, comic/graphic novels library, DVD library, radio station room filled with CDs and records, sound recording and editing rooms, and TV station (put on hold by the communications department of the Brazilian government shortly after its debut). Though all of these spaces are functional, none of them should be pictured as particularly modern or comprehensive; all are in progress, the spaces are relatively small and simple, and the resources are simple. The buildings are in an open square formation, with a small dirt soccer area and a small playground in the center -- children at the heart. FCG offers free wi-fi, and many people from the community use the comfortable patio area for computer work and socializing. Each time I spoke with someone from the community, I invited that person to come in the afternoons when I was generally hanging out and available to teach, answer questions, etc.
I had such a remarkable experience during my first visit that I decided to return for a full month in July. The children were on winter (southern hemisphere!) break, so their days were more open. They were spending considerable hours of their vacation time cleaning, painting buildings, organizing materials and otherwise preparing for an important event later in the month, and this seemed to contribute to their having less energy for English. I jumped in with the cleaning, painting and organizing, as well as continued with translations of FCG materials. (To be explicit, my Portuguese is not good enough to simply translate what I read. For me, this process is a combination of Google Translate and multiple conversations aimed at better understanding the meaning and intent of the materials. I have deepened respect for the work of translators, particularly those who translate poetry and literature.)
A week into my visit to FCG, I was videotaped talking about my experience of this amazing place. That video will eventually be available with Portuguese and Spanish subtitles, and I´ll make sure it´s available on this blog. Additionally, a lovely video of a young FCG participant will eventually be available with English subtitles, along with my translations of the Portuguese WordPress blog.
Odds and Ends:
* Most of the children play soccer barefoot, even when they have shoes or flip-flops. The soccer area (maybe 20' x 40' in size?) is full of small sticks and pebbles, and the goal nets are quite small. None of this seems to impede enjoyment, and the area is very often in use. The playground is all wood, rope and tires set on uneven dirt amidst trees. The children use every available structure to run, climb, hang and swing.
* Ir is very observant, and she was intrigued by the way I sewed, crocheted and cut vegetables. She said that I did everything she did, but "with an accent." It struck me that culture is comprised of so many details of this sort (though it´s also possible that I just have a strange way of doing things).
* At a building under construction, there were animal footprints in the clay floor tiles. They were the calling card of an animal that had walked through the factory at night when the tiles were drying. I later realized that there were different animal footprints on the floor of the FCG theater. It appeared to me that the tiles were not used as art, but rather simply because they were functional tiles.
* The mid-sized cities I visited in this region were a remarkable blend of old and new. Though I saw what looked quite like mid-sized US cities in many regards -- modern architecture, technology, well-paved streets with clear overhead signage, cars in good condition -- it was not uncommon to see a burro pulling a wagon in the middle of town. On one occasion I saw a person jump onto a horse after completing business at the bank and, on another occasion, I saw a man on a burro that was carrying several large milk cans on either side to make deliveries in a residential neighborhood. Next to tall, modern buildings of glass and steel were construction sites using dried, trimmed saplings to support structures in progress, and "fenced" by woven mats of palm leaves. Also side by side, or at times actually the same building, are wattle-and-daub structures and TV satellite dishes.
* In the smaller cities of the region, cobblestone streets were common. In poorer neighborhoods, pieces of irregular stone had been set by hand to pave the streets. Many streets remained unpaved.
* Religion is a fundamental part of and way of life here. Crosses and Christian images are everywhere: public buildings, clinics, supermarkets, businesses. People routinely say, "God willing" when talking about plans, and they wish God's blessings for one's journey. A large church with tower is a central point of reference in Nova Olinda, and sermons are broadcast from speakers high on the tower. (I was told that, years ago, the speakers were the primary means of disseminating important information, as people did not have radios or television.) The local gym, run by a delightful woman, has multiple references to Jesus on its walls. One large wall is covered by a modern factory-produced canvas image of a Caucasian-looking Jesus, along with Bible quote. An even larger wall has a factory-produced image of a peaceful landscape and a Bible quote extolling the virtue of exercise. (More about my experiences in this Christian country when I write from the inside-out.)
* When I was a child, family friends from New York City went to visit some cousins in a southern town. On their first evening, sitting on a porch swing just swinging, one of the New York cousins asked, "So, what is there to do in this town?" The reply was, "You're doing it." Although I never saw much "to do" in Nova Olinda, young people I talked to were routinely happy with the town. They enjoyed hanging out, riding bikes (or motor bikes), going out for ice cream, and attending the occasional formal outdoor event. These events included high school soccer games, "fanfarra" (high school marching bands), and "Quadrilha" performances and competitions. Quadrilha is a narrative dance-and-theater form involving large numbers of partnered dancers (picture rhythmic lines and circles of interweaving, swirling figures), fantastic handmade dance costumes (along with special, highly-detailed leather shoes), recorded and live music, and many months of practice. I came across my first rehearsal when I followed the sound of music late one night to arrive at an outdoor pavilion. There, I found people from their teens through perhaps 40s, all engaged in the learning and precision training of their particular choreography. I recognized some of the younger people in the group, who informed me that they had started dancing quadrilha at ages as young as seven or eight, practiced several nights a week or more, and considered this to be a lifetime activity.
with love, meg September 12, 2013
During my travels, I often trade my time for cheaper plane tickets. After leaving Porto Velho in April, I traveled by an outrageous route (PV -- Brasilia -- Sao Paulo -- Recife -- Fortaleza) in order to arrive in the small city airport of Juazeiro do Norte. This was the trip during which I had my intestinal adventure.
J, who is in his early 20s and runs a Community Tourism business associated with FCG, picked me up at the airport with a big smile and some welcome containers of cold water. Community Tourism was an important part of my time with FCG, and is based on the idea (for me, the reality) that relationships with local folks and culture are at the heart of one´s travel experiences. Additionally, this form of tourism keeps one's spending inside the community in which one travels (rather than, e.g., in the hands of corporations, conglomerates, external travel groups). Per J's blog, Community Tourism has the deeper goals of supporting justice and world peace through connection with others.This makes sense to me.
For my first visit to FCG, my friend E in Rio had recommended I stay in Ir's and Ch's home, which is one of the semi-hostel housing options available through the Community Tourism program. Some of the parents of current and/or former FCG child-participants offer such housing, and I followed E's advice. Ir is a retired teacher and endlessly creative craftswoman, and Ch is a former bricklayer-builder who had stopped working due to a back injury and is now a driver. Their home is simple, clean, and full of light from the sun, their hearts and their senses of humor. Their daughter, her husband and their two young sons live upstairs. Ch's car is protectively "garaged" inside the house, in the first room one enters from the street. I never once smelled anything to do with automobiles, which is an indication of the care taken of both car and home. Ir and Ch share their home with an outrageously sweet dog, M, whose energy and playfulness bely her advanced age.(By the time I left at the end of my second visit, a young cat, T, had also joined the family.)
When I arrived at Ir and Ch's home, I was shown to my airy room in a separate space behind the house. There were two single bunk-type beds (along with bathroom and small fridge), but sadly I had the room to myself. It turned out that I was Ir's and Ch's first American guest, and that this had caused some anxiety for Ir, who takes primary responsibility for guests in the home. She has housed and cared for everyone from regular folks to important political figures, singers-musicians, authors and others from many parts of the world. However, as had been the case in Porto Velho, there was some concern that an American might not take well to the "humble" (Ir's word) abode -- things like cold-water only, a simple room, and presumably simple services. Additionally, Ir was concerned about cooking for a vegetarian. She need not have had any fears: I enjoyed the cold-water showers, loved the dog, did my own laundry by hand (enjoyed the big wash sink outside), did not expect or need any special services, shared the cooking and dish-washing, and adored Ir's cuisine. Being a handcraft person myself, I had very high regard for Ir's skill and creativity in all things fabric and thread. Inspired by Ir's energy, I engaged in some craft projects of my own, and Ir and I got on famously in this area as well. As for Ch, his stronger local accent was challenging for me (though less so over time). Ir "translated" when necessary, and Ch was very patient with my frequent requests for repetition. Further, his infectious laugh, warmth and great sense of mirth easily made up for any problems I had with language comprehension.
On my first day in Nova Olinda, I walked the few blocks to FCG and stepped into a new universe. Children greeted me warmly when I arrived: they explored my hair and clothing while asking me questions about myself, pulling me gently to sit closely with them, and telling me about themselves. One of the things I love about the children of the Brazilian interior is how much they touch. Well, come to find out that virtually everyone in this area hugs warmly and offers a kiss to the cheek as part of the standard welcome; it's the cuddling and hair touching that are icing on the cake.
At FCG, I met with the founders (Alemberg Quindins and Rosiane Limaverde) and some of the team. (As an exception to my choice to use initials only, I name Alemberg and Rosiane because of their formal role in this remarkable endeavor.) As Alemberg and Rosiane talked with me about their foundation, Alemberg appeared to also check me out as regards my character and philosophy for living with, experiencing and teaching within FCG; I had the advantage of coming recommended by E and P, but care is taken with those who come to join the community of FCG friends. I was asked to teach English to the children, and I suggested also supporting the local English teachers. We agreed that, additionally, I could be of help translating various materials.
One doesn't learn a new language in three weeks, so I spent my time playing games with the children to support their interest in English, and to help with pronunciation and vocabulary. On occasion I formally taught grammar, but I generally used improvisation and other games to keep things light and lively in order to allow space for the learning. (I "invented" the game "come-stop-go!": say "come" -- with beckoning gesture -- when I am smiling, but use "stop" and then "go!" -- with gestures -- when I am a monster. Children have adored this game in the many places I've used it, both in Lima and parts of Brazil. At FCG, they creatively modified the game to say "come" as an invitation for change if I made a sad face when sent away in spite of smiling. Where I volunteered in Palmas, the children have wanted to direct me to be happy, turn into an animal, dance, sing, or "go!" after a particular peer. When kids are spinning out of control, I like to play "go -- go fast -- slo-mo" and we all take turns being in charge.) I did meet with local English teachers on several occasions to support their grammar and pronunciation while also sharing language teaching strategies and on-line resources.
The FCG grounds include a museum (anthropological artifacts of the local indigenous Kariri, examples of spiritual and religious objects, illustrations by the children of some local history); the building was the first school house of the area, and is an old waddle-and-daub structure that is painted with color washes of blue, red and yellow. There is also an eatery (large kitchen with open eating area), small sales kiosk with T-shirts and items crafted by the participant moms, ample theater, and rooms that are used for anthropological research, meetings and the like. Additionally, there are a children's literature library, research-oriented library, comic/graphic novels library, DVD library, radio station room filled with CDs and records, sound recording and editing rooms, and TV station (put on hold by the communications department of the Brazilian government shortly after its debut). Though all of these spaces are functional, none of them should be pictured as particularly modern or comprehensive; all are in progress, the spaces are relatively small and simple, and the resources are simple. The buildings are in an open square formation, with a small dirt soccer area and a small playground in the center -- children at the heart. FCG offers free wi-fi, and many people from the community use the comfortable patio area for computer work and socializing. Each time I spoke with someone from the community, I invited that person to come in the afternoons when I was generally hanging out and available to teach, answer questions, etc.
I had such a remarkable experience during my first visit that I decided to return for a full month in July. The children were on winter (southern hemisphere!) break, so their days were more open. They were spending considerable hours of their vacation time cleaning, painting buildings, organizing materials and otherwise preparing for an important event later in the month, and this seemed to contribute to their having less energy for English. I jumped in with the cleaning, painting and organizing, as well as continued with translations of FCG materials. (To be explicit, my Portuguese is not good enough to simply translate what I read. For me, this process is a combination of Google Translate and multiple conversations aimed at better understanding the meaning and intent of the materials. I have deepened respect for the work of translators, particularly those who translate poetry and literature.)
A week into my visit to FCG, I was videotaped talking about my experience of this amazing place. That video will eventually be available with Portuguese and Spanish subtitles, and I´ll make sure it´s available on this blog. Additionally, a lovely video of a young FCG participant will eventually be available with English subtitles, along with my translations of the Portuguese WordPress blog.
Odds and Ends:
* Most of the children play soccer barefoot, even when they have shoes or flip-flops. The soccer area (maybe 20' x 40' in size?) is full of small sticks and pebbles, and the goal nets are quite small. None of this seems to impede enjoyment, and the area is very often in use. The playground is all wood, rope and tires set on uneven dirt amidst trees. The children use every available structure to run, climb, hang and swing.
* Ir is very observant, and she was intrigued by the way I sewed, crocheted and cut vegetables. She said that I did everything she did, but "with an accent." It struck me that culture is comprised of so many details of this sort (though it´s also possible that I just have a strange way of doing things).
* At a building under construction, there were animal footprints in the clay floor tiles. They were the calling card of an animal that had walked through the factory at night when the tiles were drying. I later realized that there were different animal footprints on the floor of the FCG theater. It appeared to me that the tiles were not used as art, but rather simply because they were functional tiles.
* The mid-sized cities I visited in this region were a remarkable blend of old and new. Though I saw what looked quite like mid-sized US cities in many regards -- modern architecture, technology, well-paved streets with clear overhead signage, cars in good condition -- it was not uncommon to see a burro pulling a wagon in the middle of town. On one occasion I saw a person jump onto a horse after completing business at the bank and, on another occasion, I saw a man on a burro that was carrying several large milk cans on either side to make deliveries in a residential neighborhood. Next to tall, modern buildings of glass and steel were construction sites using dried, trimmed saplings to support structures in progress, and "fenced" by woven mats of palm leaves. Also side by side, or at times actually the same building, are wattle-and-daub structures and TV satellite dishes.
* In the smaller cities of the region, cobblestone streets were common. In poorer neighborhoods, pieces of irregular stone had been set by hand to pave the streets. Many streets remained unpaved.
* Religion is a fundamental part of and way of life here. Crosses and Christian images are everywhere: public buildings, clinics, supermarkets, businesses. People routinely say, "God willing" when talking about plans, and they wish God's blessings for one's journey. A large church with tower is a central point of reference in Nova Olinda, and sermons are broadcast from speakers high on the tower. (I was told that, years ago, the speakers were the primary means of disseminating important information, as people did not have radios or television.) The local gym, run by a delightful woman, has multiple references to Jesus on its walls. One large wall is covered by a modern factory-produced canvas image of a Caucasian-looking Jesus, along with Bible quote. An even larger wall has a factory-produced image of a peaceful landscape and a Bible quote extolling the virtue of exercise. (More about my experiences in this Christian country when I write from the inside-out.)
* When I was a child, family friends from New York City went to visit some cousins in a southern town. On their first evening, sitting on a porch swing just swinging, one of the New York cousins asked, "So, what is there to do in this town?" The reply was, "You're doing it." Although I never saw much "to do" in Nova Olinda, young people I talked to were routinely happy with the town. They enjoyed hanging out, riding bikes (or motor bikes), going out for ice cream, and attending the occasional formal outdoor event. These events included high school soccer games, "fanfarra" (high school marching bands), and "Quadrilha" performances and competitions. Quadrilha is a narrative dance-and-theater form involving large numbers of partnered dancers (picture rhythmic lines and circles of interweaving, swirling figures), fantastic handmade dance costumes (along with special, highly-detailed leather shoes), recorded and live music, and many months of practice. I came across my first rehearsal when I followed the sound of music late one night to arrive at an outdoor pavilion. There, I found people from their teens through perhaps 40s, all engaged in the learning and precision training of their particular choreography. I recognized some of the younger people in the group, who informed me that they had started dancing quadrilha at ages as young as seven or eight, practiced several nights a week or more, and considered this to be a lifetime activity.
with love, meg September 12, 2013
Wednesday, August 14, 2013
My Traveling Body
I am here in Rio de Janeiro, after a month volunteering again at the Foundation Casa Grande (FCG, in Nova Olinda). Traveling from Lima, I arrived at FCG in good health, and that was the first time I didn´t get sick during longer (i.e., 24-hour-ish) travel. It´s time to write about my health experiences so far here in South America, including the promised story about my challenges in the Fortaleza airport (on my first trip to Nova Olinda, back in April).
With limited daypack space, I can pack only so much food for a 24-hour series of connecting flights, and I figured I´d be safe buying something from an airport vendor. Wrong! Other than sweets, there are not a lot of vegetarian options in the airports here. I purchased "cheese bread" (a typical Brazilian item) at the airport in Brasilia, and started having intestinal rumblings and nausea some seven hours later in the airplane to Fortaleza. I thought I´d have to throw up in the plane, but landed without any up-chucks.
During my overnight wait in the Fortaleza airport, I felt increasingly ill and suddenly, urgently needed to throw up. The nearest women´s bathroom was unavailable because it was being cleaned. Fortunately, there was a separate bathroom for folks with disabilities and, when I told the attendant nearby that I needed to vomit, he let me in. Instead of throwing up, I had an explosive bout of diarrhea.
* My ankles swell most of the time in Brazil -- the heat? I often use the special compression knee-socks I brought with me, which means a second pair of socks to protect this expensive item, as well as pants. It's crazy, but it works.
With limited daypack space, I can pack only so much food for a 24-hour series of connecting flights, and I figured I´d be safe buying something from an airport vendor. Wrong! Other than sweets, there are not a lot of vegetarian options in the airports here. I purchased "cheese bread" (a typical Brazilian item) at the airport in Brasilia, and started having intestinal rumblings and nausea some seven hours later in the airplane to Fortaleza. I thought I´d have to throw up in the plane, but landed without any up-chucks.
During my overnight wait in the Fortaleza airport, I felt increasingly ill and suddenly, urgently needed to throw up. The nearest women´s bathroom was unavailable because it was being cleaned. Fortunately, there was a separate bathroom for folks with disabilities and, when I told the attendant nearby that I needed to vomit, he let me in. Instead of throwing up, I had an explosive bout of diarrhea.
I spent the next many hours running back and forth between bathroom and sitting area. Because I had changed airlines, I had my larger backpack with me along with my smaller daypack, and I got very good at loading up and moving fast. Over time I started to feel better, but the diarrhea -- which was now a thin brown soup -- continued. I was sore! Nothing in the airport was open, so it wasn't possible to buy any probiotics, meds, ointments, etc.
Finally, the check-in area opened and I got in line to check my large backpack for the next flight. The line was moving slowly and, about halfway to the counter, I had to leave the line quickly to run to the bathroom again. Mission accomplished, I returned -- to the end of the line. As I moved forward, I decided I should change my seat from window to aisle if at all possible, since I´d likely have to get up often in the plane. Within several people of the counter, I knew I´d need to use the bathroom again, and engaged in an internal (in all senses of the word) gamble about whether or not I´d actually make it through my check-in without incident. I decided to take the risk and continued waiting.
Though my Portuguese was fairly good by now, I was so sick and exhausted that I could hardly string two words together to explain my situation and request. Fortunately, the woman who was helping me at the counter was very helpful. Unfortunately, this also meant thorough, which in turn meant time. I lost my gamble and, as I was waiting for her to make the necessary changes, I felt my pants filling with whatever was still in my system. I tugged at my shirt in an attempt to cover my butt, and I tugged at the corners of my mouth in an attempt to execute a grateful smile. I don´t think I accomplished either.
When the woman was finished, I made my way to the nearest bathroom where I confirmed that my pants were soaked. Unfortnately, it hadn´t occurred to me to pull out my other pair of pants while waiting to check my backback, so I was stuck with what I had on. I dumped my underwear and did my best to clean and dry my pants with toilet paper. As well as I could tell, I was not stinky, which was either a miracle or profoundly wishful thinking. I put on my rain jacket (also to protect the seat) and waited the remaining hours for my plane´s departure. As soon as the airport pharmacy opened, I bought some med to stop further diarrhea, along with some probiotics.
In the plane, I continued wearing my rain jacket, and looked around me for signs that my nose was deceiving me. I found none -- but was that a HazMat team running toward my seat as I left the plane??? I´ll never know.... By the next day, all of this was a funny story for me, and remains what might have been a comedy of diapers had I had any..
In the plane, I continued wearing my rain jacket, and looked around me for signs that my nose was deceiving me. I found none -- but was that a HazMat team running toward my seat as I left the plane??? I´ll never know.... By the next day, all of this was a funny story for me, and remains what might have been a comedy of diapers had I had any..
That was the worst health experience in my five months of travel so far. My arrival in Peru was marked by nausea and vomiting that persisted for hours. On occasion I´ve had the runs but nothing too awful. In Palmas I was perfectly nailed by my friends´playful cat, whose claw landed in a vein that gushed blood above and under my skin, but responded well to cleaning and pressure. On one occasion I badly pulled a muscle in my back, but careful moving and the passage of time healed that situation. Over the past few months, I´ve learned how to properly clean all fresh foods, and to pay closer attention to hand hygiene. I suspect that this last item (inadequate hand hygiene) was the actual culprit in the Brasilia airport.
About a month into my stay in Brazil, I discovered that toilet paper here is neither biodegradable nor safe for Brazilian plumbing; the situation is the same in Peru. My discovery came when I was answering questions about the US at a rural school outside Nova Olinda, and one of the students said he had read about a boy who was jailed for urinating in his own backyard. After I expressed my doubts, the teacher who had arranged for my visit commented on the toilet paper policies. I suspect that her comment was the result of the school´s staff having found no toilet paper in the pail next to the toilet after I used their freshly prepared bathroom earlier that day. (That, itself, was an experience. The school's director had suggested I wait until after the students had finished their break, so that staff could clean the bathroom. Outside the bathroom, I was greeted by a line of people: the woman who had cleaned the room, the teacher in whose classroom I had been teaching, and the school's director. One of them handed me some toilet paper as I entered, and all of them greeted me again when I exited.)
I was horrified to think that I´d been violating cultural, plumbing and environmental norms up to that point, and I guess that none of my hosts had felt comfortable enough to tell me. Since being enlightened, I´ve wiped, folded up the paper when necessary (use your imagination), and deposited it into the wastebasket near the toilet. Having learned how to change my relationship with what goes into my body, I have now quietly changed my relationship with what comes out of my body.
Over time, in the absence of a gym (as well as self-disciplne), I´ve lost a good deal of muscle mass and flexibility. When I first joined my current gym in California, I had laughed when they told me that my membership included the use of gyms in major cities around the world. I thought, 'Yeah, right. Like I´m going to travel to Paris or some other great city and then spend my time in a gym!' I´ve got a different take on that situation now and, in Nova Olinda most recently, I was thrilled to discover that there was an affordable little gym near my friends´ home. (In Lima, my friend´s brother told me about his quite excellent gym nearby. However, I was spending about 14 hours a day volunteering and/or traveling to volunteer sites, and the gym was too expensive for my limited availability.) I started using the gym in Nova Olinda a few days after arriving, and immediately felt much better. I regained some strength and flexibility while there, and enjoyed getting to know the owner and some of the members.
Vegetarianism has not presented too many challenges so far. People are always accommodating, and I have relatively relaxed standards regarding the company my vegetables keep in the cooking pot. My policy has always been that, if I arrive in someone's home and they've cooked a meal for me, I´m going to eat the part that isn't an animal. On one occasion in Lima, I attended a birthday party and, when the food came out, I was presented with generous chunks of meat accompanied by yucca root and rice with meat sauce. I didn't want to offend my host nor waste the meat and rice by simply leaving them on my plate. I explained that I didn't eat meat and asked if it would be possible to just have some rice and yucca. The gracious host apparently felt that this was simply too plain a dinner offer, so came back with a plate of yucca, rice and meat sauce -- minus the chunks of meat. Of course, I ate it all.
During my stay in Nova Olinda, I visited the historic home of several very delightful sisters. On the first visit, I was invited to return for lunch -- a very special and meaningful honor. I happily accepted and, in order to avoid surprises, explained that I was vegetarian. I honestly stated that I love Brazilian rice, beans and yucca, as well as vegetables. At lunch, there was a great deal of discussion among the family about my choice not to eat animals, but it did not appear to be a problem. When I returned once more to visit, earlier in the day, I was again invited to stay for lunch. The sister who was making lunch was truly eager for me to taste the chicken she was cooking.
I found myself considering my reasons for vegetarianism, which include the inhumane treatment of the animals themselves and of the people who spend hours each day killing and processing these animals in US factories. In this situation I was aware that the sisters themselves had raised and killed the chicken humanely. One sister had then plucked the feathers, and the in-law who had driven me to my visit that day had offered to gut the chicken and cut it up for cooking. (More about all of these remarkable people when I write about my stays in Nova Olinda.) I had listened to what sounded like small pebbles falling into the metal sink as he prepared the bird; the sound turned out to be hard corn that the bird had eaten prior to its death, some of which was still in its throat. I decided that there was no significant reason not to have a small piece of chicken on this occasion, which made the sister very happy. I enjoyed it and, at the same time, I had no urge to eat more.
I found myself considering my reasons for vegetarianism, which include the inhumane treatment of the animals themselves and of the people who spend hours each day killing and processing these animals in US factories. In this situation I was aware that the sisters themselves had raised and killed the chicken humanely. One sister had then plucked the feathers, and the in-law who had driven me to my visit that day had offered to gut the chicken and cut it up for cooking. (More about all of these remarkable people when I write about my stays in Nova Olinda.) I had listened to what sounded like small pebbles falling into the metal sink as he prepared the bird; the sound turned out to be hard corn that the bird had eaten prior to its death, some of which was still in its throat. I decided that there was no significant reason not to have a small piece of chicken on this occasion, which made the sister very happy. I enjoyed it and, at the same time, I had no urge to eat more.
In Lima as well as on the occasion above, I have had the odd experience of appreciating, though not enjoying, the sight of whole dead animals. While often wondering what the animal's life and death had been like, I appreciate the realness and directness of the relationship people have with the meat they eat. They know that the meat is part of an animal and, if not slaughtering the animal themselves, they see most everything and purchase the parts they want to use -- head, organs, feet, particular cuts. In the street markets of Lima, people freely handle the meat that is hanging on hooks or sitting on trays. This is done in order to assess the freshness and quality of the meat, and no one appears to be concerned about potential hygiene risks; people know they will be cooking the meat that day or the next.
It is a far cry from the meat sections of contemporary US supermarkets, where the animals are already cut up and packaged as meat in plastic, ready for purchase. I can't remember the last time I saw a pig's head in a US supermarket, or a whole chicken with feet still attached. I know there are places in the US where people routinely slaughter their own animals, or go to a farm to select the animal they want to have butchered. The reality of animals was true of the butcher shops of my childhood. It's just not part of my life as I live it in the US, and it isn't part of current mainstream US meat consumption.
It is a far cry from the meat sections of contemporary US supermarkets, where the animals are already cut up and packaged as meat in plastic, ready for purchase. I can't remember the last time I saw a pig's head in a US supermarket, or a whole chicken with feet still attached. I know there are places in the US where people routinely slaughter their own animals, or go to a farm to select the animal they want to have butchered. The reality of animals was true of the butcher shops of my childhood. It's just not part of my life as I live it in the US, and it isn't part of current mainstream US meat consumption.
As I write this, I have my first cold (which yesterday felt like flu, but isn't). As in the US, I want to sleep and try to drink lots of fluids. Although I'd be taking a decongestant in the US, I haven't used meds here; I don't have to go to work, and it isn't draining to walk around. In Lima, my friend and her mother had a great deal of useful knowledge about herbal and vegetable approaches to health challenges (e.g., boiled quince and its liquid for diarrhea, as well as chewing orange peel). There is a kind of tea in South America called "boldo," which is used for upset stomach and/or intestines; after reading about it, I have drunk it and found it helpful. On the other hand, I did not share my Lima friends' belief that standing in front of an open refrigerator after showering or first thing in the morning would make me sick -- and it never did, to my knowledge.
Odds and ends:
* My ankles swell most of the time in Brazil -- the heat? I often use the special compression knee-socks I brought with me, which means a second pair of socks to protect this expensive item, as well as pants. It's crazy, but it works.
* My favorite body product is the Tom's Original deodorant I brought with me: it has no fragrance, is outrageously effective (without being an anti-perspirant), was very affordable, and has already lasted four months.
* Yogurt has sometimes been hard to find, especially yogurt that isn't packaged sweet (sugar, corn syrup), artificially thickened and chemically laden. Additionally, yogurt is generally sold only in the small "one-portion" containers, which is an environmental and budgetary bummer. Lima was the exception so far, where I was able to buy "house-made" yogurt by the liter in a health-food store near the local street market.
* Yogurt has sometimes been hard to find, especially yogurt that isn't packaged sweet (sugar, corn syrup), artificially thickened and chemically laden. Additionally, yogurt is generally sold only in the small "one-portion" containers, which is an environmental and budgetary bummer. Lima was the exception so far, where I was able to buy "house-made" yogurt by the liter in a health-food store near the local street market.
* In the US, I used a bite guard at night because I was clamping my jaw. One night in Mexico (my first week of travel), I forgot to use it and woke up with no sense of pressure or cramping in my mouth. I realized that I might not need the bite guard while traveling, and this has been the case for most of my past five months. As was the case in the US, my need for clamping protection is tied to my stress level, and this has generally been negligible or even non-existent -- but higher when I am in cities. That's a whole other story that I will start to tell when I write about Nova Olinda.
Till then, with love, meg August 14, 2013
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