the street lamp across the street went out this evening. i noticed the change in light through the window and poked my head outside to see the stars looking back at me. my town is well-lit and i don't mosey to where it's dark to go star gazing, not yet anyway.
WTF am i talking about? somebody stop me.
another day translating today. more intense. i spent more time with the doctors in the afternoon, seeing many patients that we (yea right, we) could do little for. one woman started to cry. she couldn't see the eye charts and the different lenses were not helping. so i took her hand and asked her how old she was.
"82."
"No, i don't believe you. 50, no mas." we both had a good laugh at that. and we got her a pair of strong reading glasses so that she can read her bible. she told me that god blessed her by bringing me to her. what do you say to that? "no, really, it's nothing." i wish she could comprehend how important our little meeting was to me. she's seeing the doctor and im getting a reality check. jesus, these woman from the country come in dressed in hand made dresses, tiny woman that cant read and that have worked all their lives and don't ever seem upset and i have problems? yes, it's me. i wish our world had a happy medium.
fuck im tired.
tomorrow im going back one more time. these canadian doctors and nurses are heroes. they come from up north this time of year, and it's hot as balls in el salvador, 10 miles from the coast. the building is unairconditioned, they're using their vacation time to go down and help truck loads of people.
and in the middle of the madness is this goofy lanky kid cracking fart jokes to old men.
one old man asked me how well his vision would be with glasses. i told him well enough to look at pretty woman from across the street. he looked at me, unsure of what he had heard, and i was tired and couldn't hide a half smile, so he laughed, and i laughed.
what the fuck am i talking about? i told you to stop me.
anyway, i got on here to say that the street lamp went out becuase it's still fucking windy and i actually really like it and bla bla bla fart jokes bla bla.
Good. Night.

i wrote about the change in seasons here a few days ago, three days ago. The NEXT day, rain gave way to wind. It has been blowing ever since.
It's like a new country for me. Palm trees that just, sit there, now blow in the winds like sails on a boat. My house doesn't rock, but the roof might blow away. And the clouds, the clouds that used to sit in the same spot in the sky for hours now race towards the sunset, colors of red and pink and blue.
Beautiful.
Today was fun. I got up and had coffee (soon to be fresh from the hillside) and then went into Usulutan City on the 7am bus. The coffee puts me in the perfect mood for the dangerous and fantastic bus ride down the hill. I sat near the open door in back and watched the lush hillside fly by, opening up to a sweeping view of the ocean.
I met my good friend Betsy (who had a cup of coffee waiting, the darling) and we were soon picked up and taken to the government center. Waiting for us were one other volunteer, 20 canadian eye doctors and nurses, and a few hundred squinting salvadorans. In what felt like an hour, i talked to countless people and helped translate between Dr. and patient. I helped the nurses organize, and told a lot of jokes, the most popular being: "what do you call a guy with a broken condom? Dad." yes, the best jokes translate into any language. it was a good time. people who had never seen an optometrist were talking to experts and receiving perscription glasses. Some people were so stunned at having eye sight that all they could do was embrace the closest gringo. some lady kissed me. i held hands with another woman who was a little spooked by the whole thing, until she was given eye sight, at which point she practically ran out of the place to enjoy the day.
And a beautiful day it was. Windy as hell. Im going back tomorrow and friday, and im looking forward to it.

i am BEAT. not even gonna proofread this badboy. hope it makes sense.

good night :)

Summer School.

In the U.S. it’s for us slackers. In El Salvador, it’s more like summer camp. The school year here ends November 5th. For two weeks, a majority of these kids will head to the coffee fields with other members of their families and cut about a shitload of coffee, every day. They’ll get paid about $4 or $5 a day. I’m planning on joining them for a day or two.
Beginning Nov. 17, the kids that don’t have to continue cutting coffee will come and hang out with the Police and the Gringo. It’s a cool program, the National Police from nearby Usulutan will be using our classrooms to talk about subjects like self-esteem and leadership. Im planning on teaching dick and fart jokes in English. I’m actually planning on teaching some songs we can sing together. I’m looking forward to it. This will take place for two hours each morning for three weeks. In the afternoons, we’ll be heading to the soccer field and basketball court to play some ball. We have been committed a few coaches and refs from the national soccer league to assist. We’ll practice for a few weeks, and then have a tournament. Girls and boys will play separately. And it’s free!
That's all. Just thought you might like to know.

sunday evening.

I’m sitting in my house, watching the light outside my window change. It’s that time of day where the sky is filled with brilliant color, contrasted by the somber and darkening landscape. It’s like the day is falling asleep, her eyelids docile, slowly closing. It’s calming.
But the town doesn’t sleep. Soon, the day’s forgotten purchases will be remedied by the willing; children are sent to buy eggs and tortillas, the sound of their footsteps echoing on cobble stones. They are purposeful- the last of this year’s rainstorms quickly approaches.
It’s hard to imagine an evening without a dramatic rainstorm. My town is surrounded on three sides by volcanoes. This lets the marching thunderstorms arrive with little warning. The calm before the storm is almost tangible, broken by rolling thunder and lightning that fills my house like a flash bulb. It’s captivating. The rain has a suddenness, and an ensuing urgency that makes me stop whatever I am doing, just to listen. Sometimes it rains so hard I wonder if it will ever stop.
But it always does, and with little celebration. After it’s over, I am always compelled to open my door and see if the town is alright. As if the rain and wind and thunder would do away with everything, leaving me behind. But it’s still there.
I can smell the rain approaching.
This almost daily occurrence will soon change. El Salvador has two seasons. She’s approaching the end of her rainy season, what the locals call winter, only to see six months of rainless summer. I thought that by this time I would be ready for the change, but im not. Everything is green- the volcanoes, the palm trees, the endless corn and coffee fields. Soon, they’ll be harvested, the rains will stop, and, well, I don’t know. Because I had only been here for two months during the previous dry season, I did not really notice the transition to the rainy season. And those first few months in El Salvador were no departure from the year and a half I spent waiting to come here. For reasons I cant fully explain, this change in season will be the first time that things will really change for me in a long time. The transition from trainee to volunteer was uneventful. This new time, this new chapter, has been a long time coming, and I feel emotional towards it‘s arrival, but more so towards the departure of what has been a difficult and yet necessary and rewarding time in my life.
I think I’ll open my door, and pay my respects.

it's 5:58 am. im laying in bed, half awake, thinking about the english class i will be teaching in 63 minutes. and about the fresh coffee i will be drinking in 19 minutes (when we were younger, our father would report to us or answer our questions with a smiliar precision. as if everything were an arrival or take off from the airport).
i get up. i bathe out of a "pila," a tile tub that is filled once or twice a week, and out of which i also use water to wash dishes, clean the casa, and do everything else short of consumption. the water is cold. COLD. but this isn't peace corps serbia, and i'm not suffering. i've come to like bathing like this. i hold the full bucket above me head for ten seconds, enjoying the last sleepy moments of the morning, before dumping over my head the cold life source that one so easily takes for granted. i dump two more full buckets over my head, and this just to get started. you see, this is a true luxury where i live. in what the people here call the summer months of october through april, we will get very little rain and will have much less water. i will be bathing using probably half a bucket. maybe less.
now that i am dressed, i can plan the rest of the english class that starts in 45 minutes, but first, the coffee. i boil water, turn off the burner, and add two big spoon fulls of ground coffee. i let it sit for six and a half minutes (that was for you, dad) and then pour the coffee through a strainer into my favorite mug that came with me here. and there you go. fresh coffee.
i finish my lesson plan by drawing a "family tree," a diagram with my family members names and their relation to me in english and spanish. i will use this diagram to both share some personal family history and teach the names of words like mother, brother, sister in law, etc.
i open my door and greet the day. or it greets me. or both. a little differently each morning. today it is raining and the world is grey, but the sky in the east is brightening, a yoke blistering in the somber dawn.
i have ten minutes. it's a five minute walk to school, and an inevitable collection of one minute conversations with neighbors, shop keepers, even strangers. today is no different. i am stopped by people who bless me, joke with me. people that give me sweets or fruits or grave advice. i accept it all the only way i know how, with a smile.
the rain comes down harder, seemingly fighting the day break. i walk into class. two students are sitting quietly, studying notes from another class. one looks up and smiles. "good morning teechair."
soon, we are joined by the rest of the senior class, a collection of fairly fantastic people, brought up in the relentless life of war, development, and everything in-between. I begin by announcing that i know that they have a test this morning in their next class and that they should study for most of our time together, and that we will learn some english for the last ten minutes of class. it ends up being the last 15 minutes. i talk about my family, my sisters and parents and grandparents, and of ireland and cancer and happiness and struggle. i have their complete attention. i teach them how to say niece, and we talk about brothers in law. the bell rings, and i tell them not to cry but that i will not be here thursday, and then tell them not to cry but that i will be here friday. i say "later" and walk out of the room but am followed close behind by the laughter and then more laughter as those who did not get the double joke are repeated it until otherwise.
i make the same ten minute walk home, this time accompanied by a rain and an advancing daylight that that have compromised with drizzle and sunbeams. a rainbow over the valcano. another morning in el salvador.

Frijol Blanco

It's another perfect evening. The sun is setting. I walk up the street and turn around to see the last, fading image of the ocean(it's an hour away by car, but visible at my altitude on clear days). Indifferent, stray dogs pass by without even a glance. The people are much different. Eduardo, one of my better friends here, greets me with a growing grin that lights up his two year old face like a bonfire. I pick him up and toss him into the air. He screams in delight. I tossle his hair, and speak to him in english. I call him eddie. I tell him the girls will be after him in no time. He watches me walk away, probably wondering why people always come and go at no notice, a novice in our mobile world.
Now it's twilight. The park seems to have been built for this hour of the day. The trees loiter like the unemployed. Their shadows hide the town's aspiring lovers and thoughtful populace. The lights hover like little suns, the bugs their own galaxies.
At one end of the park gather a group of adolescent boys. To the stranger they are the hardest to reach. They are at once somber and suspicious. But i am less a stranger, if not a mystery.
"qué pasa?" one of them says. This is an invitation to sit and talk. I study their faces and realize i recognize most of them. Students, workers, all of them quiet individuals by day, a bustling and raucus collective at night. We chat. Someone asks why i am here. I tell them about the peace corps and about me.
"Y habla Ingleis?" they ask. We continue talking in Spanish.
"Do i speak English? Yes."
"And you have a wife and some girlfriends?"
"no. Neither."
This continues until someone asks my name. Mine is a common one, even here. And boring to the unadoring. So they ask my nickname.
"I don't have one."
They prompt me for one anyway, but i object. "How can someone give themselves a nickname? It has to come from his friends."
We experiment with a few possibilities. It's now very dark, but our laughter fills the void of warmth left by the vacant sun. Someone says something that i don't understand, and someone responds, "no, i know like ten kids named 'bean.' "
Someone adds, "Frijol blanco," white bean. Everyone laughs. I laugh. Not that fitting-in laughter, but that full laughter that is meant for friday nights with friends.

---
Two months pass. This evening, sitting in my house, i celebrate my acceptance into this town, into this life, at each calling of my nickname by the passers by:
"HOLA FRIJOL BLANCO."

Life is good. Where as before, i knew few, and no one was willing to greet the unnamed stranger, i am now greeted by many people i know, and many people i do not. Time passes like it always has- too quickly- but is more enjoyed.
And my work is progressing nicely. Maybe sometime soon i will write about it.

joke of the week

i wrote this a few months ago but didn't finish it, or post it...

the sun goes down. outside, it's much like denver: breezeless, mild, beautiful. i wander up the street towards an intersection that joins the town park and what you might call a convenience store. This is my favorite place to pass the time. The shop is run by a family of five, all likeable people and all liking the Gringo. I enjoy the father the most. We talk shop. Some nights, we talk God (i trust him enough to have already told him i am actually not a Christian). Other nights we talk politics (i told him i like Obama because he's half honkey and all donkey). Tonight, all i say to him is a joke someone told me a month ago. This, like most fantastic jokes, translates perfectly in any language.
"What do you call a guy with a broken condom?"
"Dad."
He starts laughing to a point where i can't help but laugh too. Someone else walks up and he is told the joke, and he too starts laughing like an idiot in the middle of town. We attract a crowd.
The next day, i can't pass an hour without someone mentioning the joke. Someone asks me for another joke. I can't come up with anything, but i happen to be a little gasy. So i extend my index finger and request that the unsuspecting kid pull my finger. I don't expect him to do it. But he does, and with no idea of the consequesnces. I proceed to fart like a horse. This kid's life will never be the same.
An hour later, back at the convenience store, the mom (the store is run out of someone's house) is telling some lady how the Gringo tore ass when some kid pulled his finger.
I can't maintain this.
And i can't leave my house without little girls covering their shy faces with one hand, and extending one finger towards me. They don't say anything, and they're not really pointing. But i get the message.