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
Friday, 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
Saturday, June 15, 2013
Porto Velho - The Generosity Continues
I am still
here in Lima, Perú where, for the first few weeks, my volunteer opportunities
were up in the air and full of possibility. Suddenly there was a flurry of
activity; for the past two weeks, I’ve had a schedule that runs from about 7:30
AM till 9:30 PM, Monday through Friday, and I also volunteer on Saturdays. I am
having a wild time, and it’s time to finish writing about my visit to Porto
Velho, Brasil! I apologize for the ‘book.’
My friend
in Porto Velho, L, is another person I had met through Livemocha. She has a
calm, strong, sweet and sparkling energy, as well as bright eyes and a
fantastic smile. She is smart and funny, warm and generous. We initially skyped
on a weekly basis, but that dropped off when L started traveling for various
family events. Nevertheless, we stayed in touch by email and continued getting
to know each other. L invited me to visit her and her family in Brazil, and I
was eager to do so.
Although I
had confirmed my arrival and departure times with L, I had not communicated
clearly after pinning down my flights to Porto Velho. L learned that she would
be out of town on the night of my arrival (after midnight), so she emailed me
that her parents would pick me up at the airport. Her parents and I had met
each other briefly by Skype on one occasion many months earlier, and I sent a
photo so they would recognize me. It turned out that they never saw the photo;
nevertheless, they quickly picked me out from the crowd (my gringa appearance?
my backpack?) and greeted me very warmly. In spite of all the progress I had
made with my Portuguese under R’s tutelage, I was exhausted and had trouble
expressing myself. Nevertheless, we conversed in the car on the way to their
home and, when we arrived, we all talked for a good while at a huge wooden
table in the veranda area outside the house. When I was taken to my room, it
turned out to be a lovely, simple space with its own bathroom – the height of
luxury!
L lives
with her parents (Sr. G and Sra. L), as well as her husband (A) and their son
(J, age 5). Also living in the home are L’s sisters, (N and Lv), her brother
(F), and N’s daughter (Ln, age 7). N and her husband (T) are in the process of
buying a small apartment (‘Meg, If you stretch your arms out, you touch the
walls on both sides’), and her husband lives separately for the time being but
visits often. A listing of family members does nothing to describe the energy
in this home. L had ‘warned’ me that there was always a lot going on, and I had
told her I would feel very at home with that. We were both right. The two
children are delightful: active, funny, playful, creative and curious. Ln in
particular was incredibly articulate and engaging. By L’s report, she was
eagerly awaiting my arrival. The first time she met me, having just arrived home
from school, she walked right over, stood directly in front of me, leaned in
and started playing with my hair, interviewed me with interest and told me
about herself; I was completely charmed. A third child arrived toward the end
of my stay (G, age 3, another of the grandchildren), and he is a boy who has
been diagnosed with Autism. He is also very socially engaging and loves to be
cuddled; I imagine this is in response to his whole family’s very loving
engagement with him as well. (As an aside, it seemed that many people I met in
Brasil had a family member with Autism, or knew of someone with a family member
with Autism. I don’t know what this means or reflects, but I noticed it.)
In Brazil,
it seems that many, many people are working hard to improve their lives: at all
ages, they are in school to further their educations, they are training for
specialization, they are applying for better jobs (including those that would
require them to move), and they are starting or upgrading businesses. L’s
family was absolutely representative in this regard. Having dropped out of
medical school to raise her son, L was on the verge of re-entering medical
school – or perhaps going into a dentistry or architecture program. In a
country in which there is an extremely high level of competition for a limited
number of spaces in professional (as well as other) programs, she had achieved
top scores and had a range of options at her fingertips. She then discovered
that she was pregnant and chose to focus on her pregnancy (and eventually the raising)
of her 2nd child. When I asked her, L acknowledged that it was
challenging to put off her education again, but she was also very clear about
her values. L’s husband, a professor of anatomy, was in the process of
interviewing for jobs at better universities. In Brasil, public universities
are superior to private universities, and his goal was to land a job at a
public university. (He has since landed such a job, but is interested in finding
yet a better public university. L has since started studying for further exams
that she’ll take during her 8th month of pregnancy, because she does
not want to lose her options.)
Lidi’s
sister, N, is a psychologist, and was preparing for the exams that would help
determine her placement in the search for a better job. Currently, N is part of
a team that also includes a doctor, nurse, physical therapist, and sometimes
also a speech and language therapist. The team literally goes door to door
assessing the needs of people in the community. They knock on every door, and the professionals talk
to and evaluate the residents in order to determine their needs and make
referrals. Remember that these services are all free. Imagine such a service in the US!
Lidi’s
other sister, Lv, is completing her degree in psychology. The educational
system is different in Brasil, so she will be able to work as a psychologist
without a Master’s or a Doctorate. When we spoke about her studies, she
appeared to be very well versed in many theories as well as in psychological
assessment. She was starting her practicum placements, and will be finished in
about a year. In truth, apart from her lack of hands-on experience, she
appeared to be well prepared. (When I skyped with her recently, she was working
in a placement with the family court system.)
Lv took me
on a tour of her public university, which was simple by US standards. The
library appeared to have older books and journals, a large study area of round
tables with chairs, and a total of about 10 computers for use by all the thousands
(?) of students. There were separate buildings for the various subject areas, a
few bathrooms (single toilet, no toilet paper), and a couple of mini-cafeterias
(more like coffee shop counters) with a limited food selection. The campus was
very open, with lots of covered outdoor connecting walkways. It sits at the
edge of, and includes, a large and lovely jungle-like forest with dirt roads; there
are papaya trees at the edge of the campus.
L’s
brother, F, is working on a degree in computer technology at the same
university. He is not thrilled with his choice, but is interested in having a
job that pays well. F is a Buddhist, and we talked for a while about how he
might be able to maintain a vegetarian diet in a very meat-centered country. I
didn’t have any trouble in this regard.
L’s father,
who is in his 60s, completed his law degree last year and is now in private
practice within the family home. He was one of over 550 (?) authors who wrote
the current Brasilian Constitution, about which I’ll write more later in this
post. Sr. G and Sra. L share very strong moral and socio-political values,
which have been imparted to all of their children. They also set a warm, conversational,
caring, spiritual and laughter-filled tone as the heads of their family. Sra.
L, who works in an administrative office, took the week off to be able to spend
time with me during my visit. As with R in Palmas, I was stunned by the
generosity of her choice. More so, because she didn’t even know me, I was
struck by her interest.
On an
almost daily basis during my time in Porto Velho, I was toured around the city
and the surrounding area by various family members. We visited the Rio Madeira
(Wood River, so named for the tree trunks that are pulled long by its strong
current) and waited a while to see if we could find enough other people to be
interested in a river tour (the boat needed at least 10 for a tour). I started
approaching strangers and inviting them to join us, but to no avail, so we got
permission from a ship captain to just hang out on board for a while to enjoy
the cool breeze. On one occasion at the Rio Madeira, Lv pointed out an Amazon
pink river dolphin – they really are pink!
We also
drove to the area across from a hydroelectric plant that was built on the river
amidst strong protest by local residents, who had previously been able to enjoy
the beauty of the river at this spot, with its large boulders and the spectacular
sunset view. I was told that the local fishing community had been moved to
housing, where they would be given a small stipend for five years but no job
training or support for making the transition to a non-fishing lifestyle. This
reminded me of a different situation I had read about in Brasil: http://www.guardian.co.uk/environment/2013/apr/03/brazil-dam-activists-war-military
The park near
one part of the Rio Madeira was an endpoint for the steam engines that
previously ran between Porto Velho and Guajará-Mirim, Brasil, across the river
(Rio Mamoré) from Guayaramerín, Bolivia. Sra. L’s father had been the person
who stoked the wood-burning fire on the locomotives. Sra. L wanted me to see
the museum (a warehouse) in this park, but it happened to be closed on the day
we visited. When she discovered that the museum keeper was around, she
explained that I was visiting from the US and convinced him to open the museum
for about 20 minutes! I loved the place, which was full of beautiful, dusty
artifacts such as the huge wooden molds used to cast the various iron parts for
the train. The museum included a section with, e.g., an old cot and coat tree,
which were part of the former hospital in Porto Velho. This hospital had had a
reputation for its experience and success in treating malaria victims, who
arrived from all parts of Brasil to be saved.
At Sra. L’s
suggestion, we took a one-day trip to Bolivia, where she wanted to do some
pre-shopping exploration. Apparently, the prices in Guayaramerin are so low
that many Brasilians pay for and take the long (6-8 hours) bus trip in order to
make purchases there. Virtually all of the Bolivians in that town are bilingual
in order to support their business with Brasilians. Sra. L finds the town
unattractive, but I thought it very charming. We wandered through the extensive
market (streets lined with shops, all of them protected from the sun with large
sheets or blankets hung on the street side of the sidewalk). I was impressed by the shoe repair men who had their tables set up in the street, replete with sewing machines, various hand tools, and pieces of tire for replacing shoe soles. Sra. L and I made a stop at
a cultural center undergoing renovation, and were allowed to visit regardless. We showed enough interest that the woman in charge took us to meet an author
who is researching the social, political and economic aspects of the regional
rubber tree history. José Luís Durán
Mendoza is a Bolivian author-illustrator who spent a great deal of time with us
explaining the history (in Portuguese), showing us written and other artifacts,
and generally inviting us into the inner workings of his process. When I answered
his question about why I was visiting South America, he told me that there was
a great need for help in Bolivia, and we exchanged email addresses. Time will
tell….
Other
highlights of my time in Porto Velho included a walk through a
mosquito-infested sub-tropical area in which I discovered the importance of
constant motion. We all walked in single file, swatting at each other and
waving our arms. The few times I stopped to take photos, I was immediately
besieged by mosquitos, and that was were more than enough for me. The area was
part of a former zoo from which all the animals had been passed along and/or
let loose following some kind of scandal. We were told that we’d be able to
see, e.g., macaques in the trees if we returned early the next day, but we
weren’t able to do so.
The family
was delighted when I tried coarse yucca flour with milk, which I liked. Interesting
but less of a treat was a kind of soup that is made with broth, yucca goo (highly
gelatinous and viscous) and a kind of leaf that literally puts the mouth to
sleep. I liked the broth and did okay with the leaves, but couldn´t handle the
goo. This was probably the oddest food I tried while in Brasil, and it sealed
my reputation for being willing to try most anything.
Without a
doubt, the Brasilian fruits continued to be an ongoing revelation. The range of
flavors and forms is astonishing. The most remarkable – and indescribable – was
the tucumã, which has a very thin layer of yam-orange fruit around a large pit. The
texture is incredibly buttery, and the taste – probably influenced by the color
and texture -- was like a combination of carrot, butter, yam, caramel…. It was
heavenly.
The night before I left Porto Velho, Sra. L asked me
to join her on a quick trip to the mall. While there, I had to sneak in a way
to buy a very simple gift for the family, explaining that it was for someone else, and asking Sra. L's opinion. The gift selection itself was one of
those experiences of buying something that will please someone else, though it
does not particularly please me. I wanted to get something truly wonderful, but
felt that an expensive gift would be excessive and therefore offensive. (There's a whole post that needs to be written by me at some point on the topic of money.) I
decided on a vase, and chose the one that pleased Sra. L (but not me), all the
while feeling cheap and inadequate. I had received so very much from this
family, and had had to sneak in ways of helping out around the home. I was
allowed to pay for the trip to Bolivia only after begging, in tears, for an
opportunity to contribute in this way. I continue to have a hard time accepting
the deep and endless generosity that is extended to me with such ease.
When we returned, the family was in a flutter putting
together an arch of balloons. I already knew from my exchanges with L that this
family likes to throw parties for events such as birthdays, and I was told that
it was G’s birthday. I joined the family knotting balloons together, and
learned (at last!) how those arches are made. The family moved the balloons to
the outdoor dining area, and L’s husband told me that he wanted to share some
youtubes of famous Brasilian comedians. When we joined the family outside, they
all shouted ‘Surprise!’ and I discovered that the party was, in fact, for me.
In addition to the balloons, there was a hand-made good-bye sign on
fabric, Brasilian pizzas (I finally got to try the Brasilian
chocolate-and-cheese pizza), and a local speciality cake. Needless to say, I
burst into tears. Crying, I did my best to thank the family in my still-developing
Portuguese; this was certainly one of the times that I wished I were more
fluent.
Before going to bed that night, I spoke with Sr. G
about his part in the writing of the current (7th) Brasilian Constitution.
The military government that preceded this constitution had been welcomed when
it replaced the government that came before, but had become highly dictatorial.
People were being hauled off, imprisoned and/or killed with some regularity,
and it was forbidden to speak out. People were afraid to express themselves,
but eventually decided it was time to do so. They starting talking to each
other, and gathering in the streets; this continued for years until the people
succeeded – without any violence whatsoever – in arriving at the point of
writing a new constitution. The two-year+
process began with the military government still in power. The participants
were Congressional senators and elected deputies, of which Sr. G was one. He
had run on a shoe-string budget, and it had not been believed that he could
win, but in the end he did so. Anywhere I was with him in Porto Velho, he was
recognized and greeted with warmth and respect.
The group of people rewriting the constitution took
months to determine their process and the time they would take to complete
their task. There were groups at every level: local, regional, state, federal. The
smaller groups worked with each other to develop and present policy to the
larger groups, and so on up the ladder for further review. The entire Brasilian
population was invited to identify issues, and to offer their thoughts and
suggestions, and the entire process was transparent (i.e., ongoing notification
of the public regarding policy and progress). Because smaller states (such as
those of the poorer Brasilian ‘interior’) had fewer deputies, these states banded
together and ended up having considerable power to form policy on behalf of
poor people. The current Brasilian Constitution is highly detailed, because its
authors did not want to write something simple or open enough to be easily
changed. The result is a constitution comprised of basic principles, extensive
articles, and actual laws. Some of the laws were written with termination dates,
whereas others were written as permanent. When the current Constitution was
finished, the country voted on it.
This is the Constitution that made my friend R cry
when he read it, because it is so beautiful. Though there was general agreement
that its reality does not yet live up to the document, Sr. G said that things
are improving. L and her siblings agreed that young people speak openly now
regarding their discontents, having grown up in a different culture regarding free
expression. I was told that, although most people do not know the Constitution
itself, they are aware of and demand their rights. There are offices to which people
can go to request free information from well-informed staff, regarding both
rights and legal process.
I was deeply impressed by the richness and openness of
the process through which the current Brasilian Constitution was developed, and
by the time that was taken. When I left,
Sr. G presented me with a copy – a small book – that he had inscribed for me.
I come from a large family that has its share of tension and animosity, as well as its share of love and joy. One of the deepest gifts of my time with this family was an opportunity to experience a large group of siblings who truly loved and enjoyed each other. They hung out with each other daily, asked for and listened to each other's thoughts with real interest, and laughed easily and often.
Odds and ends:
The movie ‘Ironman’ just isn’t the same dubbed into
Portuguese. The sight of Dengue fever information and warnings on local plastic
shopping bags was a reminder that Toto and I were not in Kansas anymore. There
is an ‘Itsy-Bitsy Spider’ song in Portuguese. N’s daughter, Ln, taught me a
couple of girls’ hand-clapping songs. In Porto Velho, people’s large water
tanks are filled every other day; if people use up their water, there is no
more until the next filling, so some people have reserve tanks. L and her
family have a momma cat who apparently was led to their home – with her kittens
– by a male they had taken in. The kittens were adorable, and I was reminded of
how much I love these small animals. Local handcrafts included beautiful purses made with flip-tops from soda cans. Sra. L and Sr. G have a huge backyard that they planted with all kinds of fruit trees: papaya, jabuticaba, mulberry, several kinds of banana, and others. The name for 'humming bird' in Portuguese is 'kisses-flower.' My fascination with South American mannequins has officially begun. When Lv and I returned late from a tour around town, everyone was concerned because we hadn't called. Laughing, they shared their thought that they would have to explain to the US government how the visiting American had gotten lost or injured while in their care.
with love, meg June 15, 2013
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