Saturday, December 19, 2009
Friday, December 18, 2009
Dear Emily Elizabeth
Dear Emily Elizabeth,
Yesterday:
I wake up and am surprised at how cool the morning is. I open the door to my little room and am greeted by a pair of large, brown eyes. They belong to a little girl, maybe five years old. She's barefoot. Her long mane of hair matches her eyes, a deep brown. I smile at her, not to reassure her, but because she seems unspoiled by the toughness of her world. She seems perfect. She smiles back, and then brings forward a little boy from behind her back. He's her equal, her little brother. We look at each other. Minutes pass. And then they're given the loaf of bread they came for, smile their goodbyes, and leave, the brother walking at a practiced stumble behind his trusted guardian.
Eggs. Beans. Tortillas. Coffee.
Delicious.
The bus ride into the city is pleasant. More people, their stories worn on their backs and faces; more countryside, covered in the early morning sun; more siblings, dozing on shoulders, fighting over snacks, altogether right.
And then I'm struck by the view. For a year and a half, I've been riding through the coffee plantations of the distant volcano, marveling at the beauty and content with the study of what once was the horizon, and is now my home.
Emotional.
We turn a corner. And for the second time, i witness the devastation of the recent tropical storm. A landslide rolled over a small village, sweeping what was left into the river.
We arrive. The market. I get off the bus and am shoved and pushed by the crowd. I sturdy my shoulders and push back, and am immediately given al the space i need. There's no anger in the exchange. Life here is an experiment of human discomfort. The limits, generally, are the relation of necessity to comfort. I push because there are too many of us with too many things to do to stand around waiting for the next person. But I am not excessive. In this way, we all get where we're going, a little uncomfortable, but no worse for the wear.
Outdoors. Tomatoes, onions, exotic fruits i still don't know the names to. Bartering, brightening sun, the press of a thousand smells.
And then i enter the mouth of the beast, the covered tunnels of the unending market. Plastic, paper, meat, fish, spices, people everywhere.
And then im outside again.
Deep breaths.
In front of me, a toddler stumbles with similar bewilderment, her hands held on one side by her mother and on the other by her older brother. The brother lingers too long in front of a pair of sneakers. The mother, enraged, thrashes her son on the head. He hardly reacts, but his sister bursts into tears.
Hours pass.
I'm back in my town. It's mid afternoon and unforgivably hot. Isabel asks if I would accompany her to a funeral. We walk to the church, and she tell me about the man that died. He was "bien amigo"-"very friendly." Seventy years old. Loved to work. He was in the fields, cutting sugar cane. His son was next to him. A heart attack, severe. He died within minutes. His son carried him home over his shoulder, sobbing. They mourned him with friends and family, sitting in the house drinking coffee and telling stories all night. Today, the funeral. We walk inside. It's full. We find two plastic chairs and put ourselves near a side door. I can see the family of the deceased sitting up front. They are all fighting tears. All but one, and she is inconsolable. I ask, Is that his wife? And Isabel tells me no, that's his sister.
Yesterday:
I wake up and am surprised at how cool the morning is. I open the door to my little room and am greeted by a pair of large, brown eyes. They belong to a little girl, maybe five years old. She's barefoot. Her long mane of hair matches her eyes, a deep brown. I smile at her, not to reassure her, but because she seems unspoiled by the toughness of her world. She seems perfect. She smiles back, and then brings forward a little boy from behind her back. He's her equal, her little brother. We look at each other. Minutes pass. And then they're given the loaf of bread they came for, smile their goodbyes, and leave, the brother walking at a practiced stumble behind his trusted guardian.
Eggs. Beans. Tortillas. Coffee.
Delicious.
The bus ride into the city is pleasant. More people, their stories worn on their backs and faces; more countryside, covered in the early morning sun; more siblings, dozing on shoulders, fighting over snacks, altogether right.
And then I'm struck by the view. For a year and a half, I've been riding through the coffee plantations of the distant volcano, marveling at the beauty and content with the study of what once was the horizon, and is now my home.
Emotional.
We turn a corner. And for the second time, i witness the devastation of the recent tropical storm. A landslide rolled over a small village, sweeping what was left into the river.
We arrive. The market. I get off the bus and am shoved and pushed by the crowd. I sturdy my shoulders and push back, and am immediately given al the space i need. There's no anger in the exchange. Life here is an experiment of human discomfort. The limits, generally, are the relation of necessity to comfort. I push because there are too many of us with too many things to do to stand around waiting for the next person. But I am not excessive. In this way, we all get where we're going, a little uncomfortable, but no worse for the wear.
Outdoors. Tomatoes, onions, exotic fruits i still don't know the names to. Bartering, brightening sun, the press of a thousand smells.
And then i enter the mouth of the beast, the covered tunnels of the unending market. Plastic, paper, meat, fish, spices, people everywhere.
And then im outside again.
Deep breaths.
In front of me, a toddler stumbles with similar bewilderment, her hands held on one side by her mother and on the other by her older brother. The brother lingers too long in front of a pair of sneakers. The mother, enraged, thrashes her son on the head. He hardly reacts, but his sister bursts into tears.
Hours pass.
I'm back in my town. It's mid afternoon and unforgivably hot. Isabel asks if I would accompany her to a funeral. We walk to the church, and she tell me about the man that died. He was "bien amigo"-"very friendly." Seventy years old. Loved to work. He was in the fields, cutting sugar cane. His son was next to him. A heart attack, severe. He died within minutes. His son carried him home over his shoulder, sobbing. They mourned him with friends and family, sitting in the house drinking coffee and telling stories all night. Today, the funeral. We walk inside. It's full. We find two plastic chairs and put ourselves near a side door. I can see the family of the deceased sitting up front. They are all fighting tears. All but one, and she is inconsolable. I ask, Is that his wife? And Isabel tells me no, that's his sister.
Thursday, December 17, 2009
An Unexpected Change.
There is a church nearby, sounding it's bells. It's beautiful. And calming.
I am back in the City of San Vicente, working here in the training center and living in a nearby town. I am staying with an older couple, the same couple that hosted me almost two years ago as I completed my own training to be a Peace Corps Volunteer. What amazes me about this city is how different it appears to someone already adapted to living in this poor, amazing country. Instead of seeing trash in the street, I notice the beauty of the Church and her architecture. The traffic no longer terrorizes me, allowing me to greet the street vendors and actually become part of the town. It's soothing. Girls giggle as I walk by, whispering their requests that i "give" them my blue eyes just as I drift out of hearing distance. Old men walk with their hands behind their backs, their heads held high, envying and cursing youthful men in the same instant and without opening their mouths.
As a volunteer, I lived in a different part of the country. It, too, was beautiful. Because of a few security incidents, I will no longer be living there.
Leaving the town was difficult. I had to say many goodbyes, with little time. My neighbor, Luis, my favorite person in that pueblo, was the hardest to say goodbye to. I walked up to his door and, having been gone a week without saying anything, looked forward to the expected teasing. i knocked. He opened the door with that guarded look of his, and immediately smiled and laughed when he saw it was me. "Ah. And where has my Gringo Monkey been?" He calls me a monkey because I'm a hairy man. It sounds like an awful thing to say to someone, i know, but he says it with such affection and as he says it, he reaches out and pats my chest. All i could do was cry. He opened the door and brought me inside and hugged me until i calmed down. I told him the news, and it was his turn- he understood he would not have me to share his news and gossip and little nothings. We both lived alone, and found in each other an unusual friendship between unlikely parties. I miss him dearly, already.
And then the trip out of town. My last glance at the park, the volcano, the unending green tide of coffee plantations.
After two hours, we arrived with all of my things to the open arms of my old host family. I thanked and said goodbye to my Peace Corps escort, and collapsed into a familiar rocking chair to talk to Don Jesus (Don means Mr) and the woman that works at his house, Isabel. Don Jesus' wife Alisa, the owner of the house, is away visiting family in the States, so the three of us sat down and talked about a living agreement, and then I told them my story.
And now I've told you as well. I'm glad we all know.
Peace Corps has graciously offered to allow me to stay and complete my four months of service. I will live near San Vicente and work out of the Training Center. My program-Municipal Development- is being restructured and redeveloped. I will be assisting with this process, and preparing for the arrival of the new training group in February. Their training will last two months, and I will help with talks on the culture and the best ways of adapting to life in this beautiful country. I don't know all the details, but I am excited. A new chapter begins.
I am back in the City of San Vicente, working here in the training center and living in a nearby town. I am staying with an older couple, the same couple that hosted me almost two years ago as I completed my own training to be a Peace Corps Volunteer. What amazes me about this city is how different it appears to someone already adapted to living in this poor, amazing country. Instead of seeing trash in the street, I notice the beauty of the Church and her architecture. The traffic no longer terrorizes me, allowing me to greet the street vendors and actually become part of the town. It's soothing. Girls giggle as I walk by, whispering their requests that i "give" them my blue eyes just as I drift out of hearing distance. Old men walk with their hands behind their backs, their heads held high, envying and cursing youthful men in the same instant and without opening their mouths.
As a volunteer, I lived in a different part of the country. It, too, was beautiful. Because of a few security incidents, I will no longer be living there.
Leaving the town was difficult. I had to say many goodbyes, with little time. My neighbor, Luis, my favorite person in that pueblo, was the hardest to say goodbye to. I walked up to his door and, having been gone a week without saying anything, looked forward to the expected teasing. i knocked. He opened the door with that guarded look of his, and immediately smiled and laughed when he saw it was me. "Ah. And where has my Gringo Monkey been?" He calls me a monkey because I'm a hairy man. It sounds like an awful thing to say to someone, i know, but he says it with such affection and as he says it, he reaches out and pats my chest. All i could do was cry. He opened the door and brought me inside and hugged me until i calmed down. I told him the news, and it was his turn- he understood he would not have me to share his news and gossip and little nothings. We both lived alone, and found in each other an unusual friendship between unlikely parties. I miss him dearly, already.
And then the trip out of town. My last glance at the park, the volcano, the unending green tide of coffee plantations.
After two hours, we arrived with all of my things to the open arms of my old host family. I thanked and said goodbye to my Peace Corps escort, and collapsed into a familiar rocking chair to talk to Don Jesus (Don means Mr) and the woman that works at his house, Isabel. Don Jesus' wife Alisa, the owner of the house, is away visiting family in the States, so the three of us sat down and talked about a living agreement, and then I told them my story.
And now I've told you as well. I'm glad we all know.
Peace Corps has graciously offered to allow me to stay and complete my four months of service. I will live near San Vicente and work out of the Training Center. My program-Municipal Development- is being restructured and redeveloped. I will be assisting with this process, and preparing for the arrival of the new training group in February. Their training will last two months, and I will help with talks on the culture and the best ways of adapting to life in this beautiful country. I don't know all the details, but I am excited. A new chapter begins.
Monday, November 2, 2009
There are very few days in El Salvador that are really embraced and celebrated, compared to in a country like the states that has a celebration two days out of seven. Many casual conversations between Americans often involve the weekend, somehow. It’s either: “How was your weekend?” or “Hey, half way to the weekend” or “what will you do this weekend?” Here, I NEVER hear people talk about the weekend. Students don’t wait impatiently for Friday, nor workers or anyone else, at least not where I live.
But today, today is a big deal. It’s the “Day of the deceased.” I know that it sounds dark or sad. It’s not. I woke up this morning and, exiting my house to buy an egg for my egg sandwich breakfast (YUM), I immediately felt a pleasant energy in the neighborhood. Though it was early, there were already people headed past my house to the cemetery. All smiling, many carrying plastic bouquets or other things to decorate the graves. Wearing bright colors, they said hello as they past my house. I stood in the street and watched for 5 minutes. There aren’t many days like this. It warms me so.
I ate, washed, and put on a bright blue shirt. I walked down to the southern edge of town, not quite to the cemetery, and entered an area where families from my neighborhood and others had set up crude booths to sell food and hot chocolate and coffee. Normally a fast walker, I strolled deliberately among the bustle, stopping to shake hands or make a funny face.
And then the emotion, that terribly sad and yet warming sensation of seeing a family crying and embracing and laughing at the graves of family members. Children running around. Siblings holding each other. Last year at this same event, I was still an outsider, and I longed to be among my own family. This year, it was different. I could openly approach any group of people, and was well received and told stories of fathers long dead and husbands still missed. Hearing my name called by different voices, seeing warmth in people’s eyes. It makes it all worth it.
But today, today is a big deal. It’s the “Day of the deceased.” I know that it sounds dark or sad. It’s not. I woke up this morning and, exiting my house to buy an egg for my egg sandwich breakfast (YUM), I immediately felt a pleasant energy in the neighborhood. Though it was early, there were already people headed past my house to the cemetery. All smiling, many carrying plastic bouquets or other things to decorate the graves. Wearing bright colors, they said hello as they past my house. I stood in the street and watched for 5 minutes. There aren’t many days like this. It warms me so.
I ate, washed, and put on a bright blue shirt. I walked down to the southern edge of town, not quite to the cemetery, and entered an area where families from my neighborhood and others had set up crude booths to sell food and hot chocolate and coffee. Normally a fast walker, I strolled deliberately among the bustle, stopping to shake hands or make a funny face.
And then the emotion, that terribly sad and yet warming sensation of seeing a family crying and embracing and laughing at the graves of family members. Children running around. Siblings holding each other. Last year at this same event, I was still an outsider, and I longed to be among my own family. This year, it was different. I could openly approach any group of people, and was well received and told stories of fathers long dead and husbands still missed. Hearing my name called by different voices, seeing warmth in people’s eyes. It makes it all worth it.
Tuesday, September 8, 2009
gloomy. beautiful.
i wake up and know that it's raining, though i can't hear it. it's too quiet outside. and i can smell it. the rain.
it's the month of salvadoran independence. i walk up to the park to help set up for the acto civico. we put up balloons and ribbons and are light on our feet. the cool weather is liberating. the children arrive. "gringo! dance like michael jackson!"
We stand and listen to the national anthem. a boy recites a poem. little girls dance in traditional dresses. i watch from a shaded bench. it's a beautiful morning. i can't stop smiling.
later in the afternoon. im walking on a road, surrounded by jungle. it's hot and wet and tropical. the rain is coming again soon. it always does.
it's the month of salvadoran independence. i walk up to the park to help set up for the acto civico. we put up balloons and ribbons and are light on our feet. the cool weather is liberating. the children arrive. "gringo! dance like michael jackson!"
We stand and listen to the national anthem. a boy recites a poem. little girls dance in traditional dresses. i watch from a shaded bench. it's a beautiful morning. i can't stop smiling.
later in the afternoon. im walking on a road, surrounded by jungle. it's hot and wet and tropical. the rain is coming again soon. it always does.
Monday, August 24, 2009
corn festival
i went to a corn festival yesterday. it was great. i went with a few good friends. narda and her brother, and someone i just met, edgardo. the festival took place about 45 minutes away from where i live, or this particular corn festival. they take place all over the country this time of year, harvest time. i had never seen salvadorans honor their most important crop like this before. i was impressed. we watched a parade of different trucks and floats honoring this staple food, and the culture it creats. we ate a dozen different dishes made from corn, and even had some fermented corn booze. this all took place in a pleasant town. i did a lot of people watching, where i make myself less visible and take it all in. children laughing and playing. young lovers holding hands. there's something very calming about the plain humanity surrounding this place. i will certainly miss it.
Friday, July 10, 2009
I wake up, accompanied by the one constant in this world. The heat lingers like some vulgar joke. The temperature rises two degrees every minute.
I smoke a cigarette with my head in the freezer. I almost fall asleep. But my feet are still sweating, slipping over the tile floor with faint resolve.
I make coffee. Its all I can do to forget about the heat: spite the motherfucker.
There. That’s better.
An hour later I find solace. On the back of a decrepit bus, I sit behind an open window. The driver operates under constant fury. Fleeing an invisible foe. We’re going very fast. And im grinning, the sweat parting my forehead. Like I’m Moses.
Divine intervention.
A little boy stares at me. I wink at him. He doesn’t panic. His humanity won’t permit it. He laughs.
We’re going faster now. The whole bus blazing through jungle and concrete like a tormented creature. It starts raining. I feel manic. I want it all. Speed, safety, wind, rain. This bus ride is my greatest fear, but my only hope.
I ask God to look after me. After us. All of us. Protect us. Diós nos protege.
I smoke a cigarette with my head in the freezer. I almost fall asleep. But my feet are still sweating, slipping over the tile floor with faint resolve.
I make coffee. Its all I can do to forget about the heat: spite the motherfucker.
There. That’s better.
An hour later I find solace. On the back of a decrepit bus, I sit behind an open window. The driver operates under constant fury. Fleeing an invisible foe. We’re going very fast. And im grinning, the sweat parting my forehead. Like I’m Moses.
Divine intervention.
A little boy stares at me. I wink at him. He doesn’t panic. His humanity won’t permit it. He laughs.
We’re going faster now. The whole bus blazing through jungle and concrete like a tormented creature. It starts raining. I feel manic. I want it all. Speed, safety, wind, rain. This bus ride is my greatest fear, but my only hope.
I ask God to look after me. After us. All of us. Protect us. Diós nos protege.
Tuesday, July 7, 2009
Wednesday, July 1, 2009
SILENCE! FUCKING!
I'm playing the guitar, enjoying the early afternoon. I can still taste the orange just consumed.
"Misster Willliam," says a familiar voice. "Tocando la guitara."
It's my fantastic viejo communist neighbor. He's 80. Has an absurd, toothless grin that makes me blush. And loves to talk shit. Long ago, he abandoned any social etiquette or standards, such as beginning conversations with "hello" or "how are you?" Old man loves to rehash all of the anti-american leftist news he's just heard on his radio, directing it at me in the form of boasts or accusations. We both allow this to happen, and thoroughly enjoy it, because he knows im not some gringo asshole, and i know he's not some nutjob militant, though we pretend to be.
"Looks like La CIA got rid of the Honduran President," he says.
"yea. 'bout fuckin time," i say.
But then he remembers why he knocked on my door. "Playing the old guitar again, huh?"
"Yea. I can sing too. Yo voy caminando, al monte donde yo nací….”
Luis tries to stop me, in spanish, but to no avail. So he shouts the only two words in English he knows: "SILENCE!!! FUCKING!!!"
So i shut right the fuck up.
And then we both laugh.
And then we talk for a few more minutes. About girls and politics. And soccer.
He shakes my hand, turns to face the world.
"Cuídate, Gringo."
You too, viejo.
"Misster Willliam," says a familiar voice. "Tocando la guitara."
It's my fantastic viejo communist neighbor. He's 80. Has an absurd, toothless grin that makes me blush. And loves to talk shit. Long ago, he abandoned any social etiquette or standards, such as beginning conversations with "hello" or "how are you?" Old man loves to rehash all of the anti-american leftist news he's just heard on his radio, directing it at me in the form of boasts or accusations. We both allow this to happen, and thoroughly enjoy it, because he knows im not some gringo asshole, and i know he's not some nutjob militant, though we pretend to be.
"Looks like La CIA got rid of the Honduran President," he says.
"yea. 'bout fuckin time," i say.
But then he remembers why he knocked on my door. "Playing the old guitar again, huh?"
"Yea. I can sing too. Yo voy caminando, al monte donde yo nací….”
Luis tries to stop me, in spanish, but to no avail. So he shouts the only two words in English he knows: "SILENCE!!! FUCKING!!!"
So i shut right the fuck up.
And then we both laugh.
And then we talk for a few more minutes. About girls and politics. And soccer.
He shakes my hand, turns to face the world.
"Cuídate, Gringo."
You too, viejo.
Sunday, June 21, 2009
church
It's 9 am. The church bell tower announces the beginning of the catholic Mass. I can hear it's ferverence from my seat overlooking the soccer field. Today, i congregate with the disciples that are my town's soccer fans. The other church. It's the middle of the regular season. As i live in a populated volcanic valley, there are many teams. I know most of the men on the team in the red jerseys. And one of their players greets me with a smile. I nod my hello, at the same time acknowledging my allegiances.
It's a beautiful morning. A perfect temperature. Children laugh. Boys pick on each other. The volcano sits in the distance, clouds loitering above him like smoke pouring out of a high rise.
The good guys win. 3-2.
And the clouds have dissipated, leaving the volcano in seemingly smoldering ruins, like a morning well lived.
It's a beautiful morning. A perfect temperature. Children laugh. Boys pick on each other. The volcano sits in the distance, clouds loitering above him like smoke pouring out of a high rise.
The good guys win. 3-2.
And the clouds have dissipated, leaving the volcano in seemingly smoldering ruins, like a morning well lived.
Tuesday, May 19, 2009
Monday, May 18, 2009
dad, the yankees beat the twins in a 4 game sweep.
I wake up late but make my 9am meeting. It has been three weeks with my new co-workers. some no doubt still think im with the FBI. we're still getting to know each other. i dont see the man i am to meet with. we're to talk about a water project. he walks into his office, where i am waiting for him, and warmly shakes my hand. we exchange polite nothings and settle into a comfortable rythum. but then we're interupted. he's asked to sit in on another meeting. can we meet another day, he asks me. sure, i say.
I have an hour before my next meeting. I wonder into beautiful sunlight.
i walk into my favorite little shop. They sell phone cards and beans and cupcakes. Cupcakes it is. I speak a few words in english, just a few, and then quickly translate them so that my hosts can say them back, thus learning their words for the day. I immediately ask the wife when will we go dancing? This always brings the house down. The father and i joke around as i pick out my cupcakes. we exchange a warm hand shake, and i leave for my house.
Inside, i have two more cups of coffee. I feel like reciting shakespeare upside down at this point, but manage to fall back into my current book, "Master and Commander."
And then it's time to talk to Rodolfo, the jefe of medio ambiente. I get there, but he's not there. A thousand apologies, im told, Rodolfo had to come home. He's sick. He couldn't endure.
So, Rodolfo has the shitts.
I talk to his two underlings. They speak so quickly and with such little annunciation that i have to listen as best i can. i couldnt have had this meeting a year ago. we talk about the environment- their department- and some of their ideas, and how i might fit in. I direct the meeting to result in the three of us agreeing to accomplish different things before the next meeting. that's how it will be, i say, little by little, everyone doing something. They're satisfied.
It's lunch time now. I buy a small baggie of chopped veggies from someone selling. I fry these veggies and add two eggs, and then fry another 4 minutes. i eat the meal with three fresh corn tortillas. an apple. a glass of wather.
and now, im in the hammock. but only for an hour.
now, im heading back to the mayor's office. i pick up Osiris, the jefa de proyecion social, and we meet our compardres at the local NGO in town, called Ciazo. There are four employees. I like Alberto. Mario is interesting. Mirna isn't around. And Estaphanie is beautiful. But. Beautiful.
We pile into the pickup. And exit the town. We shuttle down the two lane back highway for twn minutes, going down hill, and then hang a left into a smaller community. Ten minutes later we are in the jungle, weaving between communities.
Alberto and Estaphanie drop us off. The community is. poor. i see it often but today it hurts. it's just so poor.
the people in the meeting are a little complacent. and tired. they work so hard. and just want drinking water for their kids that won't make them sick. we meet in a nice little building, a gift from some NGO. we talk about the local, civil development group in the town that is them. I've heard this story before. They are organized, but nothing is really going on. And im afraid that, though our intentions are good, we won't be able to really help this group develop. I've come along with someone in an NGO and a representative from the mayor's office. The conversation during the meeting is pleasant, and productive. But these people, hopeful of having some kind of potable water system, need so much more than a little training and motivation.
But that's not my role. I shake hands. And offer encouragement. And look into many sets of beautiful, brown eyes and give the warmest smile i can. which is easy. these people are very friendly. once you know where to look.
and that's the meeting.
i come home. open the door. look around. smile at a neighbor. and go inside. and deflate a little. and fall into my chair. just what the fuck am i doing here?
dusk brings such temperance. i sleep soundly. for an hour.
and then im up. and my shorts are on. and my shoes. with my basketbal tucked under my arm, i head for the court. im better than when i left. or when i arrived, rather. a lot better. i play a game of burro, and then some 21.
i walk home, but not before talking to my very good friend. he's leaving for the states soon. or so he says. i hope he gets there. but i hate to see him go. the town will miss him. ill miss him the most.
it's beautiful outside. i walk down two blocks to my house. facing down hill, i have this view of lightening striking down in the valley.
home again. i still need to wash a pair of socks. and brush my teeth. and say my prayers.
otro dis menos, otro dia mas. de vida.
tomorrow, another busy day.
I wake up late but make my 9am meeting. It has been three weeks with my new co-workers. some no doubt still think im with the FBI. we're still getting to know each other. i dont see the man i am to meet with. we're to talk about a water project. he walks into his office, where i am waiting for him, and warmly shakes my hand. we exchange polite nothings and settle into a comfortable rythum. but then we're interupted. he's asked to sit in on another meeting. can we meet another day, he asks me. sure, i say.
I have an hour before my next meeting. I wonder into beautiful sunlight.
i walk into my favorite little shop. They sell phone cards and beans and cupcakes. Cupcakes it is. I speak a few words in english, just a few, and then quickly translate them so that my hosts can say them back, thus learning their words for the day. I immediately ask the wife when will we go dancing? This always brings the house down. The father and i joke around as i pick out my cupcakes. we exchange a warm hand shake, and i leave for my house.
Inside, i have two more cups of coffee. I feel like reciting shakespeare upside down at this point, but manage to fall back into my current book, "Master and Commander."
And then it's time to talk to Rodolfo, the jefe of medio ambiente. I get there, but he's not there. A thousand apologies, im told, Rodolfo had to come home. He's sick. He couldn't endure.
So, Rodolfo has the shitts.
I talk to his two underlings. They speak so quickly and with such little annunciation that i have to listen as best i can. i couldnt have had this meeting a year ago. we talk about the environment- their department- and some of their ideas, and how i might fit in. I direct the meeting to result in the three of us agreeing to accomplish different things before the next meeting. that's how it will be, i say, little by little, everyone doing something. They're satisfied.
It's lunch time now. I buy a small baggie of chopped veggies from someone selling. I fry these veggies and add two eggs, and then fry another 4 minutes. i eat the meal with three fresh corn tortillas. an apple. a glass of wather.
and now, im in the hammock. but only for an hour.
now, im heading back to the mayor's office. i pick up Osiris, the jefa de proyecion social, and we meet our compardres at the local NGO in town, called Ciazo. There are four employees. I like Alberto. Mario is interesting. Mirna isn't around. And Estaphanie is beautiful. But. Beautiful.
We pile into the pickup. And exit the town. We shuttle down the two lane back highway for twn minutes, going down hill, and then hang a left into a smaller community. Ten minutes later we are in the jungle, weaving between communities.
Alberto and Estaphanie drop us off. The community is. poor. i see it often but today it hurts. it's just so poor.
the people in the meeting are a little complacent. and tired. they work so hard. and just want drinking water for their kids that won't make them sick. we meet in a nice little building, a gift from some NGO. we talk about the local, civil development group in the town that is them. I've heard this story before. They are organized, but nothing is really going on. And im afraid that, though our intentions are good, we won't be able to really help this group develop. I've come along with someone in an NGO and a representative from the mayor's office. The conversation during the meeting is pleasant, and productive. But these people, hopeful of having some kind of potable water system, need so much more than a little training and motivation.
But that's not my role. I shake hands. And offer encouragement. And look into many sets of beautiful, brown eyes and give the warmest smile i can. which is easy. these people are very friendly. once you know where to look.
and that's the meeting.
i come home. open the door. look around. smile at a neighbor. and go inside. and deflate a little. and fall into my chair. just what the fuck am i doing here?
dusk brings such temperance. i sleep soundly. for an hour.
and then im up. and my shorts are on. and my shoes. with my basketbal tucked under my arm, i head for the court. im better than when i left. or when i arrived, rather. a lot better. i play a game of burro, and then some 21.
i walk home, but not before talking to my very good friend. he's leaving for the states soon. or so he says. i hope he gets there. but i hate to see him go. the town will miss him. ill miss him the most.
it's beautiful outside. i walk down two blocks to my house. facing down hill, i have this view of lightening striking down in the valley.
home again. i still need to wash a pair of socks. and brush my teeth. and say my prayers.
otro dis menos, otro dia mas. de vida.
tomorrow, another busy day.
Sunday, May 17, 2009
these past four months have been really interesting.
interesting. that's a joke.
they were, at different times, beautiful, terrible, lonesome, inspirational... They were many things. And i think they were transitional. I'm working with new people, am suddenly busy, and feel, well, different.
and time passes so quickly. i know, oh god i hope, that a time will come when i won't want to leave all of this. im just not there yet.
the culture is so different. i sometimes want to stop people in their tracks and say,"hey, you know that thing you just did? that was foolish. and your kid was watching.WTF is wrong with you?" but that's not why im here. many people and most everything moves slowly. apathy is king. though love abounds.
i developed some serious feelings for a girl. we took it really so. i wasn't interested in something short term. she wasn't either. she also wasn't interested in dating someone that isn't a catholic and drinks beer. it's so funny: now that im a few weeks removed from all of this, i see so clearly how incompatible we would be romantically. turns out my heart wasn't listening, and i quickly fell for this girl. and she fell for me- or so she says. but still, she threw on the brakes, a few times, but was still interested. tough, right? the good news is that she is fantastic, i finally said no mas, we're still very good friends, and im feeling ok about all if it.
disclaimer: she is not the reason i wasn't blogging. nor was anything "wrong," which in turn kept me from writing. i just didnt feel it.
i still don't. but sat down to write two lines tonight, and find myself spilling it.
ok. more to come. soon.
peace and peace and peace,
wf.
interesting. that's a joke.
they were, at different times, beautiful, terrible, lonesome, inspirational... They were many things. And i think they were transitional. I'm working with new people, am suddenly busy, and feel, well, different.
and time passes so quickly. i know, oh god i hope, that a time will come when i won't want to leave all of this. im just not there yet.
the culture is so different. i sometimes want to stop people in their tracks and say,"hey, you know that thing you just did? that was foolish. and your kid was watching.WTF is wrong with you?" but that's not why im here. many people and most everything moves slowly. apathy is king. though love abounds.
i developed some serious feelings for a girl. we took it really so. i wasn't interested in something short term. she wasn't either. she also wasn't interested in dating someone that isn't a catholic and drinks beer. it's so funny: now that im a few weeks removed from all of this, i see so clearly how incompatible we would be romantically. turns out my heart wasn't listening, and i quickly fell for this girl. and she fell for me- or so she says. but still, she threw on the brakes, a few times, but was still interested. tough, right? the good news is that she is fantastic, i finally said no mas, we're still very good friends, and im feeling ok about all if it.
disclaimer: she is not the reason i wasn't blogging. nor was anything "wrong," which in turn kept me from writing. i just didnt feel it.
i still don't. but sat down to write two lines tonight, and find myself spilling it.
ok. more to come. soon.
peace and peace and peace,
wf.
Thursday, April 9, 2009
28 & 29
seven hours and seven buses later, im back home after a trip to the beautiful Mizata beach. thanks for a great time, Stally.
Tuesday, April 7, 2009
26 & 27
After an hour of walking, he settles into a rhythm. The songs playing in his head are an eternal mix tape, an autobiographic playlist that reflects his mood, always. The current track is a song by the group Radiohead, "Bullet Proof....I wish I was."
It's a beautiful morning, but he's a little bitter. The night before, he was invited to "go on a walk to a hill." Sounds nice, he thought. A good way to start a morning. But the hill turned out to be a volcano. And the volcano turned out to be located several hours away. Our hero, always unaware of vogue, thought a short-sleeved, collared shirt would be perfect. He thought: Sipowicz from "NYPD Blue" always looked good in those shirts, why should I wear anything else?
Answer: it's 9am and in the neighborhood of 90 degrees. His Sipowicz shirt is soaked, sticking to him like an extension of his body. And his hair is suffering too, victim to the "man wax" that he used to style a wave in his bangs. He's afraid that someone might light a match, causing his head to explode.
"KABOOM!"
But our hero enjoys the irony. And his optimism soars with the beginning of a new track on his personal juke box, "Born in the USA." Cheered up, he notices the sun beams dancing on the jungle floor, the exotic fruit falling from unfamiliar trees, half naked children chasing each other, their humanity worn like innocent smiles.
He carries on.
Around a bend, he comes upon a view of an island, far below, sitting in the blue ocean like jade. But he can't stop yet; the end is near. So, he presses on.
He crosses a plateau, enters and exits a grove, and shouts with joy. He summits the volcano and looks over earth and ocean with a smile. And then abruptly collapses into fits of laughter. Sipowicz wishes he was this tough.
It's a beautiful morning, but he's a little bitter. The night before, he was invited to "go on a walk to a hill." Sounds nice, he thought. A good way to start a morning. But the hill turned out to be a volcano. And the volcano turned out to be located several hours away. Our hero, always unaware of vogue, thought a short-sleeved, collared shirt would be perfect. He thought: Sipowicz from "NYPD Blue" always looked good in those shirts, why should I wear anything else?
Answer: it's 9am and in the neighborhood of 90 degrees. His Sipowicz shirt is soaked, sticking to him like an extension of his body. And his hair is suffering too, victim to the "man wax" that he used to style a wave in his bangs. He's afraid that someone might light a match, causing his head to explode.
"KABOOM!"
But our hero enjoys the irony. And his optimism soars with the beginning of a new track on his personal juke box, "Born in the USA." Cheered up, he notices the sun beams dancing on the jungle floor, the exotic fruit falling from unfamiliar trees, half naked children chasing each other, their humanity worn like innocent smiles.
He carries on.
Around a bend, he comes upon a view of an island, far below, sitting in the blue ocean like jade. But he can't stop yet; the end is near. So, he presses on.
He crosses a plateau, enters and exits a grove, and shouts with joy. He summits the volcano and looks over earth and ocean with a smile. And then abruptly collapses into fits of laughter. Sipowicz wishes he was this tough.
Sunday, April 5, 2009
25. a walk.
I got up at 5 this morning to go on a “walk.” I did not know where we were headed, or why. I wasn’t told, and didn’t ask. I was extended an invitation and accepted.
I’m glad I did.
By the time the sun was up, I was walking through coffee plants in the middle of tropical nowhere. I went with a family, good friends of mine. After an hour and a half, we arrived at a house. An old woman opened the door and beamed down at us, but seemed to mostly ignore me, or not really notice me. And I’m glad. That doesn’t happen often here. She was totally concentrated on two year old Christopher and his 5 year old brother, Fernando. She’s a medicine woman. Not a doctor. I don’t know why, but it was amazing to watch. She was relaxing to be around. She rubbed ointments on the two children, with hands like paper (I was later told that she’s somewhere in her 80’s).
When we left, she noticed me. She looked right at me, no-into me. I couldn’t move. She took my hand and held it for five minutes and we talked. I walked away feeling calm, and at the same time saddened that we had to leave.
The walk back was fun. We poked our way home, me stopping every few minutes to look at the incredible landscape. Volcanoes, green rolling hills, beautiful birds.
I have to sweep my kitchen, and then it’s off to bed. Tomorrow morning, I have to be in the neighboring town of Santiago before six. I'm going on a walk, this time with my friend Narda. I don’t know where we’re headed, or why. I wasn’t told, and I didn’t ask.
I’m glad I did.
By the time the sun was up, I was walking through coffee plants in the middle of tropical nowhere. I went with a family, good friends of mine. After an hour and a half, we arrived at a house. An old woman opened the door and beamed down at us, but seemed to mostly ignore me, or not really notice me. And I’m glad. That doesn’t happen often here. She was totally concentrated on two year old Christopher and his 5 year old brother, Fernando. She’s a medicine woman. Not a doctor. I don’t know why, but it was amazing to watch. She was relaxing to be around. She rubbed ointments on the two children, with hands like paper (I was later told that she’s somewhere in her 80’s).
When we left, she noticed me. She looked right at me, no-into me. I couldn’t move. She took my hand and held it for five minutes and we talked. I walked away feeling calm, and at the same time saddened that we had to leave.
The walk back was fun. We poked our way home, me stopping every few minutes to look at the incredible landscape. Volcanoes, green rolling hills, beautiful birds.
I have to sweep my kitchen, and then it’s off to bed. Tomorrow morning, I have to be in the neighboring town of Santiago before six. I'm going on a walk, this time with my friend Narda. I don’t know where we’re headed, or why. I wasn’t told, and I didn’t ask.
Saturday, April 4, 2009
24 Holy week
It's 6:45 in the evening. Dusk. I'm in the town of Santiago de Maria, at a little outdoor eatery. It's a simple place, just a few tables and a small stove. Covering the outside wall is a painted mural of Jesus and a woman wiping his face. Not typical, but altogether comforting. Sitting in front of me are a half-eaten pupusa* and a hot chocolate. My friend* Narda sneaks inside the cafe to pay my bill, and I let her. Sitting there, i make two friends. One, a middle-aged woman with a nice smile. The second, her grandson. She wastes no time in presenting him, her 10 year old trophy. He wastes no time in telling me a fantastic dirty joke. I return the favor. Not to be outdone, the grandmother finishes the trilogy of jokes with her own. It's a content moment. A full stomach. New friends. Sincere, boisterous laughter. The half moon over-head...
"Are you ready William?" It's Narda. She looks so beautiful in her white dress, it takes me a moment to answer her.
"Yes. Where are we going?" She nods down the street, towards a peaceful mass of people, slowly moving towards us. They're bearing two floats, though i can't tell what they are. At that moment, i hear them singing. I can't hear what they're saying, but it's a lovely sound. We watch them approach, and I'm surprised when, as a group, they stop directly in front of us and turn their attention towards the cafe. And then i get it. The mural of Jesus on the outside wall represents a station of the cross. This is the beginning of Semana Santa, or holly week, and this procession is honoring the 14* stages of Jesus’ suffering and death, called "The Stations of the Cross."
Over the coarse of two hours, we walk through the town, stopping to hear a few words by the priest as we consider each painted scene. Between stations, Narda and i talk. And flirt. And eat pieces of fried banana. All under the beautiful moon’s watchful eye. Altogether, it's the happiest I’ve been in El Salvador.
*A pupusa is a fancy quesadilla.
*Narda is the first girl i have been interested in since being here in el sal. She's kind of fantastic. but she's just a friend, one of my best here.
*14 stations of the cross, i think. there could be 15. im not actually Christian, as i don't believe in Jesus to be the son of god, anymore than you or I, though I do think him heroic. don't tell Narda.
"Are you ready William?" It's Narda. She looks so beautiful in her white dress, it takes me a moment to answer her.
"Yes. Where are we going?" She nods down the street, towards a peaceful mass of people, slowly moving towards us. They're bearing two floats, though i can't tell what they are. At that moment, i hear them singing. I can't hear what they're saying, but it's a lovely sound. We watch them approach, and I'm surprised when, as a group, they stop directly in front of us and turn their attention towards the cafe. And then i get it. The mural of Jesus on the outside wall represents a station of the cross. This is the beginning of Semana Santa, or holly week, and this procession is honoring the 14* stages of Jesus’ suffering and death, called "The Stations of the Cross."
Over the coarse of two hours, we walk through the town, stopping to hear a few words by the priest as we consider each painted scene. Between stations, Narda and i talk. And flirt. And eat pieces of fried banana. All under the beautiful moon’s watchful eye. Altogether, it's the happiest I’ve been in El Salvador.
*A pupusa is a fancy quesadilla.
*Narda is the first girl i have been interested in since being here in el sal. She's kind of fantastic. but she's just a friend, one of my best here.
*14 stations of the cross, i think. there could be 15. im not actually Christian, as i don't believe in Jesus to be the son of god, anymore than you or I, though I do think him heroic. don't tell Narda.
Friday, April 3, 2009
21 22 23
im really pissed that i lost my camera.
but, as i grew up with not one but two sisters, i'm over it.
Having a sister makes you happier and more optimistic, say psychologists
By Kate Devlin
Last Updated: 3:49PM BST 03 Apr 2009
http://www.telegraph.co.uk/family/5089197/Having-a-sister-makes-you-happier-and-more-optimistic-say-psychologists.html
Having a sister makes you happier and more optimistic, a new study shows, but the same is not true for having a brother. (WTF??)
Growing up with at least one girl in the family also makes people more able to cope with their problems, according to the study.
Daughters tie loved ones closer together and encourage them to communicate their emotions more effectively, the researchers believe.
Prof Tony Cassidy, from the University of Ulster, who carried out the study with researchers from De Montfort University in Leicester, said that having a sister helped to promote good mental health.
He said: "Sisters appear to encourage more open communication and cohesion in families. However, brothers seem to have the alternative effect. Emotional expression is fundamental to good psychological health and having sisters promotes this in families."
Girls who had sisters also tended to be more independent and keen on achievement, according to the findings.
The effects were stronger among children from broken homes, suggesting that sisters might lean on each other more for support when their parents divorce.
Prof Cassidy added that the lowest scores were among boys who had only brothers.
"It could be that boys have a natural tendency not to talk about things," he said. "With boys together it is about a conspiracy of silence not to talk. Girls tend to break that down."
The study questioned 571 young adults, aged between 17 and 25, about the make-up of their families and their emotional well-being.
Only children tended to score in the middle range for happiness and optimism.
Liz Wright, the co-author of the study, said: "With only children we found that they had lots of strong communication outside of the home. It appears that they have as much social support as those with siblings, but it does not come from within the family."
The findings will be presented today at the British Psychological Society annual meeting in Brighton.
but, as i grew up with not one but two sisters, i'm over it.
Having a sister makes you happier and more optimistic, say psychologists
By Kate Devlin
Last Updated: 3:49PM BST 03 Apr 2009
http://www.telegraph.co.uk/family/5089197/Having-a-sister-makes-you-happier-and-more-optimistic-say-psychologists.html
Having a sister makes you happier and more optimistic, a new study shows, but the same is not true for having a brother. (WTF??)
Growing up with at least one girl in the family also makes people more able to cope with their problems, according to the study.
Daughters tie loved ones closer together and encourage them to communicate their emotions more effectively, the researchers believe.
Prof Tony Cassidy, from the University of Ulster, who carried out the study with researchers from De Montfort University in Leicester, said that having a sister helped to promote good mental health.
He said: "Sisters appear to encourage more open communication and cohesion in families. However, brothers seem to have the alternative effect. Emotional expression is fundamental to good psychological health and having sisters promotes this in families."
Girls who had sisters also tended to be more independent and keen on achievement, according to the findings.
The effects were stronger among children from broken homes, suggesting that sisters might lean on each other more for support when their parents divorce.
Prof Cassidy added that the lowest scores were among boys who had only brothers.
"It could be that boys have a natural tendency not to talk about things," he said. "With boys together it is about a conspiracy of silence not to talk. Girls tend to break that down."
The study questioned 571 young adults, aged between 17 and 25, about the make-up of their families and their emotional well-being.
Only children tended to score in the middle range for happiness and optimism.
Liz Wright, the co-author of the study, said: "With only children we found that they had lots of strong communication outside of the home. It appears that they have as much social support as those with siblings, but it does not come from within the family."
The findings will be presented today at the British Psychological Society annual meeting in Brighton.
Tuesday, March 31, 2009
20
it rained today. for the first time in months. i danced in it. wondered at it. wouldn't leave it's side, afraid it would abandone me. and then it did. but it left behind a memory of it's pending return, true as the dusk breaks. until it does, im like it's faithful pet, sitting in the window, waiting for my master to come home.
Monday, March 30, 2009
19
it's 8pm. a beautiful hour. it's dark, but the town is playful.
I’m sweeping my house. I open the door to dispose of the dust, and there, sitting on top of his own mountain of sand, is a five year old boy. he's smiling, like he's expecting me. and he probably is, or at least hoping. he's been playing outside of my house more and more. we've spoken a few times already, to my enjoyment. and his. he asks the best questions. tonight, he asks me: "do you understand Spanish?" now, anyone that knows me knows that i live to say sarcastic shit. but it's different when a 5 year old kid is asking the questions.
"yes, i do understand spanish, and English too!" He is very impressed. He thinks of a very important question- i can tell by the serious look that appears on his face.
"How do you say 'Jose' in English?"
I tell him: "well, it's Joe."
He's confused: "I don’t understand."
I Sympathize: "me neither."
The next question takes me by surprise: "is your dad alive?"
"yes."
"when he dies, will they bury him?" I'm pretty sure that dad wants the alternative, but i don’t want to get into that.
"Yes. when my dad dies, they will bury him."
"In El Salvador?"
“No, he's never been here. He lives in the united states, where I’m from. we'll bury him there."
He asks me more fantastic questions for about 10 minutes. I’m sitting in my doorway, bathed in the light coming from inside the house. he's sitting in the same spot, playing in the sand, without a worry in the world. He confirms several times that i speak english, and spanish, and then i ask him some questions.
"Where do you live?" It's now going on 830, and this kid is out a night, unsupervised (I’m secretly jealous).
"Down in the colonia" (a few blocks away).
"Are your parents alive?"
"Yes. They live in San Salvador" (which explains the solo missions to the gringo's house?).
"How many brothers do you have?"
"Eight."
By coincidence, one of them walks by, and the little boy, smiling, joins him as they walk into the darkness, leaving me feeling kind of abandoned.
But i stand up, brush myself off, smile at the night, and decide it's good to be alive.
I’m sweeping my house. I open the door to dispose of the dust, and there, sitting on top of his own mountain of sand, is a five year old boy. he's smiling, like he's expecting me. and he probably is, or at least hoping. he's been playing outside of my house more and more. we've spoken a few times already, to my enjoyment. and his. he asks the best questions. tonight, he asks me: "do you understand Spanish?" now, anyone that knows me knows that i live to say sarcastic shit. but it's different when a 5 year old kid is asking the questions.
"yes, i do understand spanish, and English too!" He is very impressed. He thinks of a very important question- i can tell by the serious look that appears on his face.
"How do you say 'Jose' in English?"
I tell him: "well, it's Joe."
He's confused: "I don’t understand."
I Sympathize: "me neither."
The next question takes me by surprise: "is your dad alive?"
"yes."
"when he dies, will they bury him?" I'm pretty sure that dad wants the alternative, but i don’t want to get into that.
"Yes. when my dad dies, they will bury him."
"In El Salvador?"
“No, he's never been here. He lives in the united states, where I’m from. we'll bury him there."
He asks me more fantastic questions for about 10 minutes. I’m sitting in my doorway, bathed in the light coming from inside the house. he's sitting in the same spot, playing in the sand, without a worry in the world. He confirms several times that i speak english, and spanish, and then i ask him some questions.
"Where do you live?" It's now going on 830, and this kid is out a night, unsupervised (I’m secretly jealous).
"Down in the colonia" (a few blocks away).
"Are your parents alive?"
"Yes. They live in San Salvador" (which explains the solo missions to the gringo's house?).
"How many brothers do you have?"
"Eight."
By coincidence, one of them walks by, and the little boy, smiling, joins him as they walk into the darkness, leaving me feeling kind of abandoned.
But i stand up, brush myself off, smile at the night, and decide it's good to be alive.
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