Visits to the Villages

Last week we completed our delivery of the coffee dis-pulping machines, taking two full days to load up the machines (they are by no means compact), and all eight of us (myself, my counterpart Marvin and the six promoters who work on behalf of SID; Chepe, Efrain, Diego, Samuel, Miguel and Emeliano) in the villages into one small pickup truck. Luckily, I was graciously given a seat in the cab with Marvin, whereas all six promoters and up to four coffee dis-pulpers at a time were stuffed into the truck bed. Although the farthest village was only about 15 km away, it took up to two hours to get to each one, because of the awful condition of the roads; there were certain stretches of trails that were hardly passable on foot, let alone in a vehicle. This really made me think about the accessibility of the far reaching communities from the town center and logically, the availability, or lack thereof, of transportation to and from each one, which directly restricts the flow of information, goods and, most importantly, opportunity. But I digress.

Arriving in one community Wednesday morning, we were greeted by several members of the board of the local organization of coffee growers (and soon to be coffee processors). One of them, to whose house we had arrived, welcomed me to town and quickly started conversing with Marvin in Kaqchikel. When he finished, Marvin turned to me and told me in Spanish what the man had requested. Apparently he had received some boxes that had arrived labeled in English that he needed my assistance in translating. Feeling very excited at the opportunity to actually apply tangible skills, I agreed and allowed him to lead me into his house so I could tackle the challenge.

Once inside his house, he held up what looked like an inhaler, accompanied by a package of pills with a matching label. He handed me the instructions and explained that he didn’t know what they said and therefore could not sell it, because he didn’t know what it could cure. I was unsure what he meant at first, but when I looked around, I saw that he had at least 5 large boxes full of these inhalers and other types of prescription drugs that he had just received from the states. There must have been about 15 different types of drugs in those boxes. And now, the only obstacle between him and the profit was an application for the product.

As you can imagine, I was a little overwhelmed when he continued to place various bottles, boxes and even capsules in my hand to have me translate their purposes and uses. Not knowing what to do, I ended up calling the Peace Corps nurses, who suggested that I play dumb and politely point out that the medications were past their expiration dates, which they all were. In the end, I told him that since I was a marketing volunteer and did not recognize any of the medicine he had, I was not qualified to prescribe it for their respective ailments. Although he was visibly disappointed, he understood and we were fortunately able to move on to the coffee training smoothly.

Aside from visiting the communities to deliver the dis-pulpers, I’ve also begun visiting villages on my own to start to assess the situation of various community organizations. I have two such organizations with which I’m planning to share my time, one which is just starting out (¨just born¨ as they call themselves) and another that is already pretty well established in a village about 5 km away from the first. I visited the first yesterday, and while there we visited various coffee plots, while strolling around the village and intermittently snacking on oranges and breadfruit we picked along the way. Today I visited the second and was greeted by several members of the board along with the coordinator. Although I was initially excited about all the potential work to be done, I was put to work typing up a survey that had been done of the village’s primary school, which wasn’t exactly what I had been expecting. I have to start somewhere I guess.

This weekend, we have our Christmas party for SID. The partner office about two hours away (which also has a marketing volunteer) has arranged for a day of festivities, feasting and dancing – they rented out a dance hall for the night. This being my first official company Christmas party, it promises to be pretty exciting. While I pictured it going a little differently, perhaps with cheesy mistletoe, fake snow and a poorly dressed Santa Claus for starters, a few dozen Guatemalan men with a taste for homemade liquor, a roasted pig and hours of dancing definitely doesn’t sound too boring. I’ll report back.

Until next time..

Back from Thanksgiving, On with Work..

So, I’ve decided it’s a good idea to maintain this blog for several reasons, (maintaining some semblance of English, transmitting my experiences to others, the list goes on..), but most importantly it reminds me to keep track of time and date. Over the past few months I’ve made the transition from the U.S. to Guatemala, arriving only to relocate within mere days. Once I finally started to get comfortable in my training community, after three short months I had to move again. Now in my third, and if all goes according to plan, final site, I’ve completely lost all track of the seasons, holidays, and even days of the week for that matter. I think this may have something to do with losing touch with the things that used to punctuate my daily schedule in the U.S.; visits with friends, regular doctor’s appointments and marathons of No Reservations on the Travel Channel to name a few. So, keeping this in mind, it felt like Thanksgiving snuck up on me, because I hadn’t really looked at a calendar in a while, but I must say, it was a welcome surprise.

I had arranged to meet a group of friends from my training class at Lake Atitlan, a volcanic crater now filled with water and flanked by the 5 or 6 volcanoes responsible for its creation. The shores of the lake, which measures 8 miles in diameter at its widest spot, are peppered with quaint towns each boasting a different unique population. Panajachel, the biggest city on the lake, is known as a tourist destination, thus its Guatemalan nickname “Gringo-tenango,” or, place of white foreigners. San Pedro la Laguna, the second largest town on the lake, is home to a sizeable hippie community, but is off limits to all Peace Corps volunteers, for some reason or another.

One of these towns, Santa Cruz la Laguna, had a number of small hostels right off the dock where we were able to get cheap rooms and a Thanksgiving meal, complete with turkey (my friends said it wasn’t bad), stuffing and, I kid you not, cranberry sauce. After a great Thanksgiving dinner, we got to enjoy each other’s company, Kayak, boat around the lake and explore Panajachel a little more. Having never heard of Lake Atitlan before arriving in Guatemala, I was amazed at how much I had been missing.

Having just arrived back in site, we’ve gotten into the thick of things with the coffee season right around the corner. Today we began to deliver artisan machines that remove the flesh of the coffee bean to initiate its processing. As I learn the process better, I hope to share it here; although I’ve only been here for a few short weeks I already have a newfound appreciation for the coffee I drink.

Aside from work at the moment I’m in a very intensive process of decorating my new house with Christmas adornments and drowning out the barking dogs and marimba music in the neighborhood with Bing Crosby and the Love Actually Soundtrack. Although I lost track of time before Thanksgiving, I’ll be sure to be good and ready when Christmas gets here!

Until next time…

 

 

 

 

A slow start..

As of last week, I officially started work with my host country agency, Estrategias para el Desarrollo Internacional (Strategies for International Development), an NGO based out of Washington that deals specifically with coffee farmers in impoverished areas of the world. As for what these ¨Strategies¨ are, I´m still not quite sure. I´ve been following around my counterpart for the better part of three weeks now, trying to learn anything and everything I can in order to get a better grasp on what´s going on here. In the absence of intensive work, which I´m told will come once the coffee harvest gets going, I´ve been taking Kaqchikel classes, spending time with my host family and looking for familiar cues that tell me its ok to commence Christmas preparation. (Of which I´ve found plenty, and thus launched full force into Holiday season)

This past weekend I got the opportunity to attend a Guatemalan wedding in the department of El Quiche, which borders my municipality, but lies about two hours away by conventional travel methods, i.e. chicken bus. The man getting married was a friend of my host sister from her studies in Wisconsin. We were accompanied not only by several other alumni of the program, but also by her host parents from Wisconsin who recently relocated to a nearby village in Chimaltenango (my home department). We rode the bus up to the capital city of the department Santa Cruz del Quiche and then took a jalon (standing up in the back of a pickup with five to ten others) to his town about twenty minutes away. Once we arrived we were ushered in and welcomed with soup and coffee while a church service was taking place in the backyard. The actual wedding service began later that evening, to which we walked en masse from the house.

Obviously I noticed several differences between their traditional wedding and the standard American wedding, but there were several in particular that I wanted to share. Before walking to the church, the bride and groom prepared together, each one smoothing the other´s creases and picking pieces of stray fabric or lint off each other. The bride wore a similar veil and tiara of sorts, with a white beaded guipil (traditional shirt worn by indigenous women) and a traditional corte (long, belted skirt). The cue to depart from the house was a preset series of bells sounded from the town square, and once we arrived at the church in our group of around seventy five, we weren´t to enter the church until the last chime of the series was heard. The music once we huddled into the sanctuary was provided by a local band playing religious marimba music, which I’ve found take the place of hymns in all church services. After the groom and his best man took their place at the altar, the bride timidly strode down the aisle to this music and was met in the middle of the aisle by the groom who took her hand from both parents.

The service proceeded like any other regular mass, with the Father talking about the eternal kingdom, the past liturgical year in the church and the importance of tithing. The actual wedding took up a mere ten minutes of the actual service, neatly inserted between the sermon and the offering. Meanwhile, the bride, groom, best man and made of honor in enjoyed it from front row seats.

Once we got back to the house, the bride and groom stood in front of a table to receive gifts from a long line of family and friends, after which the groom delivered a speech to the crowd in Quiche (the local Mayan dialect), Spanish and English. After a light supper we got a chance to talk to the groom more during which he shared the story of how he had met his wife after returning from the states and how he was required to ask for her hand in marriage through a series of visits with her parents. Apparently he only had to ask once, whereas the typical series of requests is between two and four visits, where the suitor is subjected to interrogation on qualifications as a spouse, financial standings, and future plans by parents and family members. (Not to mention he´s expected to bring gifts every time).

After the low key reception, we spent the night in the capital city of Quiche where the groom had arranged a room for us and then headed back to Chimaltenango. Since getting back, I´ve been listening to Christmas music, daydreaming about stuffing (with Thanksgiving only a few days away) and watching Christmas movies in Spanish (I recommend Elf). I wish you all a happy Thanksgiving and hope to be in touch!

Until next time..

A few minor adjustments..

This first week and a half in site has been pretty calm and uneventful, although that’s not to say it’s not noisy. I’ve found that the noise principle is taken to new heights in my new site, if it were even possible. For example, some loud noises that would normally scare us, being the hyper-conscious, terrorist fearing Americans that we are, such as [questionably] personal fireworks, are set off at the beginning, middle and end of every mass at the Catholic Church I attended on Sunday. They hold three services every day.

Aside from acclimating to the noise, I’ve also found that my entire town has a very distinct smell; Corn. The shrimp sequence from Forrest Gump comes to mind: corn being harvested, sun drying corn, roasting corn, corn being milled into mash, corn being boiled, corn being grilled, mash being made into tortillas (black, white and yellow varieties each have a distinct smell), even corn cobs being burned to fuel the fires over which the majority of people cook in their kitchens.

Running through the town several times a week has not only allowed me to classify each of the distinct corn smells, it’s also allowed me to get to know the gente (people) better. Most of the time I don’t realize I’m stocking up on future conversations when I run, because I’m used to zoning out when I run in order to pass the time, and like I said before, decompress. But here, I have to stay alert: I must never be too out of breath to offer a “Buenos días” to anyone I pass. No exceptions.

Regardless if I see someone on my path or not, they usually know if I ran that day, which is to be expected in any close-knit small town. Monday, I walked into Kaqchikel class around 8:30 after an early morning run and my teacher greeted me with “Good morning! My brother saw you running this morning.”

Along the same gossip lines, my Kaqchikel class whispers to me that my host mother’s husband is her second, and my host mother whispers to me that my Kaqchikel teacher is a single mother and no one knows who the father is, with a cautionary finger to her mouth. Somehow I’ve already been drawn in to the vicious gossip circle, solely by being conspicuously white. But now I’m the first one doing the math when I see a recently wed couple with a newborn. From what I gather, shotgun weddings are quite common.

Until next time..

After a short few days in site

After having a wonderful swearing -in ceremony at the Ambassador’s house and a fun filled night of celebration, I write to you now from my new site! I had a somber goodbye with my host family from Alotenango, and took a bus from there to Chimaltenango where I caught the direct bus to my site. In all, the journey was about 2 ½ hours. I arrived to meet the volunteer whom I will be replacing and almost immediately moved in with my new host family. While the living conditions are not that much different from my previous host family, the family speaks about 75% Kaqchikel (which I have yet to learn how to pronounce correctly). The family has six children ranging in age from 12 to 31, and a limitless stream of cousins, aunts and uncles coming through the house at all hours of the day. In the short few days I’ve been here, I’ve already been reeled in to playing many a game of soccer, Scrabble (yes, that’s right, scrabble) and a Guatemalan version of Sorry. But despite the lack of quiet time, the family is quite accommodating and extremely gracious. I’ve already begun to get comfortable.

After arriving in my permanent site, one thing I’ve noticed that does not differ from town to town is a Guatemalan’s apparent entitlement to make noise, regardless of time, place or appropriateness. After observing for about three months, it is my solemn belief that from an early age, it is ingrained in a Guatemalans that it is his inherent right to blast music, maintain roosters in small quarters or emit whatever possible racket he may feel the impulse to make or foster. That said, I have not gotten too much peace in site as of yet, but I’ve been able to run which allows me to decompress a little.

Tomorrow I will begin classes of Kaqchikel, so I can understand what the women are saying around the stove (which is, by the way, where we eat dinner after we make all the tortillas). I have yet to master the art of tortear (Spanish, for ‘to make tortillas’ ), but I’m in no hurry to do so, because I’m still using this as an excuse when someone suggests I go on a date with their son/brother/cousin, etc. My normal line is “Oh, but Señora, you know I’m no good at making tortillas, no Guatemalan would ever take me!” with which they never argue.

Until next time..

Swearing In

On Friday morning, I walked briskly to the bus with Colin, Miguel and Paula (his host parents) to make it to Antigua on time, because we had been told by Peace Corps that it was of vital importance to arrive on time. Once in Antigua, we met with Jaime, who had just gotten off work at 7:30 AM, and all got onto a bus that was waiting for us to take us to the Ambassador’s house in Guatemala City. Arriving in Guate, was an adventure as always, keeping in mind stories like one of the PC nurses having her watch stolen off her wrist when she had her arm out the window during rush hour, especially in such a large group.

We pulled up to an relatively unmarked white wall in the middle of the capital and it wasn’t until I got off the bus and inspected my surroundings that I noticed the small plaque bearing the seal of the US government. We were greeted by the training director and the Guatemala country director among other staff and made to enter the compound in single file, through a narrow door that wouldn’t permit more than one at a time anyway. Upon entering the beautiful front lawn, we were greeted in the entrance by the rest of the PCGuatemala staff and the ambassador and his wife themselves. They alone led us through their home to the back lawn (also gorgeous) where chairs and tents for the ceremony had been set up.

After taking countless pictures and exploring the massive back yard (with swimming pool, tennis court and an expansive lawn) we began the ceremony. In front of the Ambassador and his wife, our host families and the PC Guatemala staff, we each took the oath required of all government employees (which my mom remembered she’d had to take upon entrance into West Point) and were called up one by one to receive diplomas verifying completion of training. All in all it was a very emotional culmination of these past three months of training and, most importantly they had real cookies and brownies as a snack afterward.

I have to say that the coolest part of the ceremony was unplanned. The wind was particularly fierce in the capital that day, even inside the ambassador’s immaculate complex. About ten minutes into the ceremony, after having been thanked for his warm welcome, Ambassador McFarlan whispered into the country director’s ear. He stood up, and said in Spanish, “Speaking of a warm welcome, does anyone need a jacket or sweater? Some of you must be freezing.” There was a little hesitation, and several people looked to their neighbor as if to ask each other if his offer was sincere, and then about three hands went into the air. After about three minutes, he returned with several jackets and sweaters (my favorite, a particularly feminine indigenous from his service in Paraguay, he gave to our elected trainee speaker, who kept it on for the remainder of the morning) handing them out to anyone who looked cold. That little touch of hospitality took the formality of the ceremony down a notch, but it was awesome to see someone with such a prestigious position who was so considerate and down to earth.

Until next time..

Last week of training!

With training coming to a close in less than a week, I’ve become rather restless. (To be exact, training will culminate in a brief swearing-in ceremony this coming Friday at the Ambassador’s house in Guatemala City). The past few weeks have flown by, leaving little time to socialize with my host family and community in between site visits and additional training sessions. In about a week I’ll have to leave the town and the family that have been my home for the last two and a half months.

Amidst the anxiety of this transition, we’ve also had several unique opportunities, such as lunch with the Ambassador to Guatemala at the training center as well as a brief introduction to Kaqchikel, the prevalent Mayan dialect in my new site.

Six out of my group of thirty are headed to heavily Kaqchikel sites, so I fortunately did not have to brave it alone. Although, the absence of some of my peers might have encouraged better pronunciation, keeping in mind the guttural nature of most of the words. True story: one of my friends accidentally burped during class that day and her teacher thought she was actually speaking Mam, another Mayan dialect.

We were lucky enough to have a well known bi-lingual education advocate who also happens to be a Mayan priestess for our short lesson. As you might have guessed, the first try was a little rough. But, see if you can pronounce a word spelled with apparently arbitrary vowels and apostrophe marks formed from an alphabet of thirty letters. Here’s a quick example; our first phrase to learn was “xkaq’ij’ka.” (good afternoon, in case you were wondering). So, as you can see, there’s a reason this language had never been written down. But, as our professor assures us, “It’s easy! Especially compared to that crazy English of yours.”

I'll be an offical volunteer the next time you hear from me!
Until then..

Velorio and Cepelio

I’ve just gotten back from a very eventful week at my permanent site, where I will install myself the morning of Novemebr 5th, following the long awaited election. Before leaving for site I had two days with my future counterpart, Marvin at the training center along with all the other volunteers and their counterparts. Marvin is twenty four and runs the SID office in my site, while simultaneously finishing his thesis to graduate from a university in the capital. He’s going to be very interesting to work with, no doubt. He was nice enough to drive down from Chimaltenango so I could move my things to site without having to brave the chicken bus with all my worldly belongings.

Once we arrived I was met by the volunteer who I’ll be replacing, who graciously showed me around town, introducing me to several of her friends in the area, all of which first asked her if I could speak Spanish and, when I answered yes, asked me if I spoke K’akchiquel. So, although Spanish is the official language, it looks as though I’m going to have to start taking K’akchiquel lessons to relate on a more personal level with the residents of my town.

After arriving on Tuesday, I attended a day long meeting at the office (where we normally only spend one day a week, with the other four in the field) and was introduced to all the Promoters who work for SID in their various communities surrounding the municipal center. My office is all men, which I think will be a blessing in disguise. My predecessor is also a woman, and always enjoyed her job and her work environment.

After meeting with some friends in Tecpan, the closest city, I returned home to a very sad occasion. While I was away, the abuelita in my house, Aura's grandmother, passed away. She passed away on Friday night around 11PM and by Saturday morning when I walked up, the entire street in front of my house was canvassed with plastic chairs and tables, ready to receive visitors. The entire house had been taken over by the velorio, or the nine day mourning ceremony. For these next nine days, various events will take place in my house to honor her. So, from yesterday morning to next Sunday, people will continue to stop by at all hours, day and night, to pay their respects. Meanwhile, according to velorio tradition, my family offers them food and snacks every few hours for the entire nine days, not to mention a never ending supply of coffee to keep them awake. So, for these next nine days hopefully I can offer some kind of help.

Today we’ll be walking the entire distance from the house to the church (almost a mile) in a group of over 300, preceded by a banner and flowers and followed by a 5 person band playing hymns. After the church service we will proceed uphill to the cemetery to complete the cepelio, the day long procession surrounding the funeral. It will be a very solemn time for sure, but it really is a wonderful send-off.

Until next time..

Site Assignment

At last, I’ve been given my permanent site! And, although it wasn’t exactly what I was hoping for, it’s pretty close. I’m going to be stationed in one of the four sites in Chimaltenango(the closest department to my current location), as I mentioned before, each of which are 30 minutes – 1 ½ hours away from each other. My site is a town of 22,000 people that lies 20 minutes north of the commercial center of Tecpán, Chimaltenango.

As for my assignment, I’ll be working in the office of an NGO called Strategies for International Development, dealing specifically with the advancement of the local coffee market.

So, to get you up to speed, here’s my thirty second summary on the coffee market down here: Coffee farmers are very proud to produce such a fine, world renowned product (Guatemalan coffee is ranked third in quality worldwide). The trade is often kept in the family and passed down with the land for generations. The farmers harvest their coffee crops, that is, what’s left of what thieves have stolen, and generally sell to a middle man, either a coyote(basically any guy with a phone and pickup truck) or a beneficiary(an organization of glorified coyotes with a fancy name). These middlemen severely undercut the market price of coffee when they purchase from the small scale farmers and then go on to sell it to a large exporter in huge quantities. Although the coyotes and beneficiaries are paying very little, the system is rather stable and farmers generally have friendly relationships with them. Most farmers lack information sources and current data and thus, very easily trust the word of their middleman. So, you can see the issue. There is an extreme discrepancy in the value of what farmers are producing and the compensation they're receiving, mostly being scammed by their own countrymen. Not to mention the fact that coffee is in such high demand that none of the good stuff stays here - a typical coffee farming family won't even consume their own product.

Once I begin work, I will be assisting them in forming a cooperative, a very crucial step for coffee farmers down here. One of the major obstacles will be fighting the image of corruption in groups and getting the farmers in the organizations to begin to trust each other. Forming a coop is the only way to win legitimacy and pull in the market down here, and I'm guessing that will be my main task for at least the first year.

Additionally, I'll have the opportunity to work with various women's groups and a group of pomegranate farmers. So, as it turns out, this really is a job, not just a paid vacation with complimentary spanish classes. More to come after my site visit next week!

Until next time..

I'm freakin out, MAN!

I've had about six cups of coffee today and I don't anticipate being able to sleep tonight, so I’m trying to find anything and everything productive I can do. Currently I’m catching up on several weeks’ worth of news in Antigua; apparently there's a financial crisis snowballing out of control? This is news to me.

Amidst all this tension surrounding the site assignments, my fellow trainees and I have been looking for escape mechanisms left and right. As opposed to integrating ourselves completely, several of us have reached a point where the commercial and trivial things that have come to characterize the states have become comforting, to the point that they offer a temporary refuge from the immersion with which we are faced.

For example, on Sunday, some Marketing friends and I got together, and before long, I found myself sitting around a bonfire, holding a cup of Dunkin' Donuts coffee, eating mashed potatoes and salad, while listening to country music on someone’s iPod speakers. I can’t put into words how therapeutic that was. Now, with less than 24 hours until the announcement of our permanent sites, I really have nothing more fitting to say at the moment than, I'm freakin’ OUT.

Expect to hear from me tomorrow concerning my site!
Until next time..

PCV Site Visit

 

 

 

 

Volunteer Site Visit

I’ve just returned from my PC Volunteer Site visit, for which I traveled to a site not far from my home department, near the city of Chimaltenango, or as a friend calls it, “Dirt-mal-tenango.” (“Tenango” is a Guatemalan suffix that means, “place of”) Needless to say, the city itself is not particularly scenic. Just a fin little tid-bit; I’ve also heard the title “Gringo-tenango” thrown around to describe several tourist hubs and most recently a friend of mine told me of his plans to found “Deffet-tenango,” in honor of himself.

Anyway, from the city of Chimaltenango, a fellow marketing trainee, Barbara, and I traveled to a smaller town about 45 minutes away by chicken bus to visit a volunteer stationed there. Mackenzie, the volunteer, received us upon arrival and showed us around the town a little before we settled in for the evening to cook a leisurely dinner and enjoy a pirated movie on her laptop. We even had popcorn, talk about luxury…

The following day we accompanied her to the office of her host country agency, Strategies for International Development, or SID, which works with community leaders in the area to develop the sales and promotion of coffee, among other crops. There we observed a meeting held among her two counterparts and various promoters employed by the agency which offered us a peek into the inner workings of the Guatemalan business culture. The meeting, like most meetings regardless of size or intimacy of attendees, began with a one to two minute introduction from each person present, give or take a few minutes depending on their seniority in the group. Throughout the meeting, it seemed as though the same message was often repeated countless times, only blatantly rephrased and stated slower to reiterate certain points. Being very American, thus time and efficiency oriented, it was a little tough to endure.

After the meeting and a lunch, where a sizeable bottle of rum was shared among the attendees (not including the three of us), we traveled to a nearby aldea, or small village, where we met with a women’s group also associated with SID, to make jam. Now, at this point I’ve only been at the jam business for a few weeks, thus my routine is a little spotty and my proportions are never consistent (I assure you, this jam thing is a very complicated science). But these women looked at us as if we were holding the key to the Smuckers family recipe vault. In two short months, I’ve found myself in this position multiple times, and the scary thing is, it gets remarkably easy to repeatedly feign wisdom.

After the first session with the women’s group, we worked up the courage to go back without our volunteer guide, and it went just as well the second time. After finishing with the women’s group, we returned to the town and attempted to visit Chimaltenango (the department's capital) to fill some down time, but got horribly lost by boarding the wrong chicken bus, which was headed to a different, far-out aldea. With painfully full bladders riding on what promised to be a consistently rocky road for at least two more hours, Barbara and I were saved by the ayudante of the bus, when he arranged a ride back to the town for us with a friendly pickup driver. Lesson learned; always ask where the bus is headed. We returned home to Mackenzie's house, humbled.

The visit was a great peek into the life of a volunteer, and I’ll be able to give more information on my own site when I get it this Wednesday, October 9th.

Until next time..

FBT

 

 

 

Pictures from FBT

 

 

 

Pictures from FBT

 

 

 

 

Field Based Training

So, I’ve just returned from Field Based Training, which was quite an interesting experience, to say the least. As a group, we left around 7:45 on Tuesday to get to the department of Sololá before 11 AM to meet with a PC Volunteer stationed there. Miraculously, we were on time, despite various delays en route, which included land slide road blocks and one prolonged stop at the Burger King drive through (which is quite popular here, I might add.)

We arrived at the hostel, where all sixteen of the sustainable agriculture volunteers (eight of marketing and eight of food security) were housed for the week, set our stuff down and set off to explore the market in the capital city of the department, as it was a market day. Market day typically happens two to three times per week depending on the size of the city, and since we were in the capital, the market was particularly extensive. Exploring the market in Sololá, which was not too different from the market in Antigua, with which I’m more familiar, one can find everything from live chickens to custom made indigenous garb to dried fish to pirated DVDs. The motto of one of the staple stores in my old town of Waconia – Duebers - comes to mind: “If we don’t have it, you don’t need it.” I’ll be sure to include pictures when I get a chance.

At this market, I first encountered the male version of traje – or indigenous dress (Tra – Hey). Previously I’d been told that it was very uncommon to see men in traje, but not only was it there in an overwhelming presence; there was a proportionate lack of Spanish. Most of the people were spitting back and forth in K’aqchiquel, the majority Mayan dialect of Solola (there are 22 recognized dialects in all of Guatemala). I’m told that each region’s traje is distinct, and that each is particularly proud of its own version. I witnessed this first hand in one of the small villages in which we were working when I encountered a crucified Jesus Christ donning the regional traje of Sololá in a Catholic Church.

We got a chance to work with some of the small producers that were so common in the market on Wednesday, when the Marketing Group gave four successive charlas, or presentations, to a local co-op of K’aqchiquel farmers. My own topic, “What is Added Value?,” entailed discussion of sanitation and packaging, and was geared towards gaining higher prices for their respective harvests. Apparently it wasn’t as riveting as I had anticipated it would be; I had two shameless sleepers, in the front row nonetheless. But it could’ve been worse, I suppose.

Aside from our presentations, we were set to harvest onions and prepare them for export, to get our hands dirty, but unfortunately that never panned out because when we went to meet with our willing farmer, he was nowhere to be found. Instead we readied ourselves to blanket the nearby tourist hub of Panajachel to speak with managers and owners about their current vegetable purchasing and to probe the interest in local products from the surrounding villages. That was actually pretty cool, I must say. As pairs of gringos, we were pretty well received and it was good Spanish practice. My partner and I made it to about ten hotels and restaurants before our progress came to a screeching halt with the arrival of a heavy rain

As a group, we stayed in Panajachel to watch the debate, which, despite our location in the middle of Central America, hours removed from even the center of politics in country, was displayed with a projector on an entire wall of the bar while all other noises were silenced. Needless to say, it was a pretty big event in Panajachel that night.

Now, I’m back in my town, in my own bed and thankful for three square meals a day.
Until next time..

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Field Based Training

As I mentioned before, I’m headed to Field Based Training this week, at a Volunteer site near Lake Atitlán, a huge tourist attraction in Guatemala. It’s basically a normal lake, but (and excuse the bad grammar) way awesome-r. It’s surrounded by volcanoes (of which there seems to be abundance in Guatemala). I’ll be sure to include pictures once I get back.

Atitlán is in the province of Sololá, which is largely composed of indigenous populations. The tourist city on the lake is Panajachel, where I plan to be making a stop. The lake is also known to have several hippie communities in San Pedro, an area which is, not surprisingly, off limits to us.

Aside from the excitement of the impending Field Based Training, my group of 8 marketing volunteers was told the 8 sites we’ll be receiving October 9th – remember this date, because it’ll either be a day of celebration or a day I’ll need to be talked down from the ledge (as my dad puts it) depending on my assignment. These 8 sites are as follows, 3 in the department of Chimaltenango (only an hour and a half from the office/relative civilization), and one in each of the following departments: Huehuetenango(8 hours), El Quiche (made famous by Rigoberta Menchu, 6-7 hours), Quetzaltenango(10 hours), San Marcos(10 hours) and Alta Verapaz (5-6 hours). Though these names may not mean much to you now, they all scream one thing to me: lack of Spanish speakers. So, at this point in my training I’m a little nervous about my sight assignment. It mainly depends on the nature of the site, not necessarily its geographical location. If I’m assigned to a village site, it’ll be very different from a city or a suburb. But, looking on the bright side, there aren’t many things that will further differentiate my resume from others than fluency in a Mayan dialect. Although, oddly enough, this provides me very little consolation.

Lastly, my individual marketing project has officially taken flight. I’ve been working with my host mom to start a jam-making business and we made our first batches of Pineapple Carrot and Strawberry Jam to sell this weekend. As I have very little jam making experience, (Wait, who am I kidding? None whatsoever) I felt like the blind leading the blind. I figured anything with lots of sugar was sure to sell, so I erred on the side of very, very sweet. Luckily, it came out very well and sold quickly. But, I suspect competition. I have reason to believe that one of my site mate’s sisters has taken a liking to our idea and is planning to make her own jam and undercut our price. I’ll report back after an undercover investigation. Sabotage might be in order. Just kidding.

Or am I?
Until next time..

Urban vs Rural

Waking up to an abnormally torrential rain this morning, my site mate and I had to trek all the way to the bus station, and as I am still waiting on my pair of rain boots (on their way from California as we speak, I hope) the only defense I had against the characteristically Guatemalan weather was a chinsy TIGO (one of three Guatemalan phone carriers, possibly the most obnoxious) umbrella, that I received for free with the purchase of my chinsy TIGO telephone, together with a very thin rain jacket that I brought with me in case of stuck-up-the-river-without-a-paddle type of situations. I’ve now come to use that jacket almost every day while also fully exploiting that free umbrella - definitely beyond the use that it was meant to withstand. Come to think of it, I’ve also been using a Claro (the second largest phone carrier) lunch bag to bring homemade lunches to the training center and Aura’s got a few Movistar (the third) shirts that she wears pretty often. I suppose the promotional products abound in these parts as incentive to the country folk to purchase strange products from the city (like cell-phones and stoves) and the savvy Guatemalans take full advantage of them.

I don’t mean to complain at all; it’s just that this experience seemed almost metaphoric after a day trip to the capital. I found myself subconsciously comparing the city life of Guate to the suburban life of San Juan Alotenango (only about an hour and fifteen minutes away by car) and even the rural life of a few other towns I’ve passed through – none of which, I must note, even compare to the true rural Guatemala in terms of poverty and indigenous populations.

In Guate today, our field trip consisted of a visit to the Ministry of Agriculture, a government agency in which we met with an inspector charged with doling out sanitary certifications. He was very helpful and answered plenty of our questions about obtaining a sanitation license, and the process of preparing operations for an inspection. After that, we had a quick lunch at a typical Guatemalan eatery (in one of the many forbidden parts of the city) and took a trip to a private export organization (that had its evident financial success prominently displayed throughout the building). Afterwards, we headed as a group to Paiz, a Guatemalan grocery chain bought by Wal-Mart in 2005, to do some research in preparation for our Field Based Training next week.

Although I had been to another Paiz supermarket a few weeks ago when we first went to the capital, this particular visit was a cold bucket of water dumped on my tiny little match of excitement [at readily available M&Ms].

Now, I’ll break it down for you in the best way I know how; straight numbers. Let’s start with my own pay; I won’t be bashful about it, maybe “pay” isn’t the best word. Stipend, we’ll say. Peace Corps gives my host family 60 Quetzals a day (The exchange rate is somewhere around Q7.5 to $1) which covers my room and meals. Additionally, I get Q26 as “walk-around” money. In Alotenango, a can of Diet Coke costs about Q4, a pound of black beans costs about Q7 and a hardy meal in a small restaurant will run you about Q20. So, I don’t have a whole lot of leeway there, it’s pretty easy to spend all my money in one place (but I have all my meals provided and haven’t eaten this well in years, just to be clear). Now, let’s look at the average Guatemalan salary: the minimum daily wage is about Q40/day (which doesn’t include the room and board that PC graciously provides for me) with which the average Guatemalan has to pay for utilities, water, food, private school for their children, and transportation. For that amount, the Paiz supermarket can offer you these things: a 12 oz jar of JIF, ½ kg of locally roasted coffee beans or a small container of freshly baked cookies from the bakery. For the same price, you could get frivolous and opt for a bagel sandwich from the deli, a Cosmopolitan Magazine or, if you’re really feeling crazy, roll-on deodorant.

The point is, I walked into Paiz, took a quick glance at the prices and immediately thought, who can afford this? It’s not that the prices are too far from those in the US, they’re probably pretty similar. But, the compensation here doesn’t even come close. An average laborer scrapes to support his family and he’s lucky if his home has a front door that locks and a hot shower. And, I know for a fact that there are still large fincas (plantations, if you will) that pay much less than Q40/day. But at Paiz, you can buy a 1 kg gourmet bag of coffee for more than the amount of money that a family of four spends on a week’s worth of food (I know because I sneakily keep track of Aura’s expenses at the market). The reality of the situation here is that there a stark division between the rural way of life and the way of the city. And, I’m just saying, it’s not like the city is even glamorous. I mean, yeah you can buy basically anything you need, but it’s pretty hectic and dirty, not to mention thoroughly commercial and extremely dangerous.

Analyze this situation as you like, but at this point I’d take my village over Guate any day of the week.

Until next time..

Independence Day

So I write to you all today on Guatemala’s Independence Day, a grand occasion if I’ve ever seen one, I must say. On this day in 1821, Guatemala declared its independence from Spain, entering into country-hood only 55 years, two months and eleven days after the United States of America. In the past week or so, many of my discussions with Guatemalans and fellow trainees alike have centered on the festivities surrounding this national day of celebration. Thus, it’s been brought to my attention just how little people know about OTHER countries’ independence.

Take me for example. Until a few years ago, it never occurred to me that not only was U.S. Independence Day not celebrated elsewhere, but that other countries (even Canada and Mexico, go figure) had their own, distinct independence days. I’ve since learned to distinguish national holidays, like Thanksgiving, from global holidays by envisioning the history taking place as they were taught in elementary school. For instance, when I picture the Pilgrims and the Indians, decked out in their respective buckled hats and feathered headbands, sitting down to a bountiful cornucopia, I can’t imagine it happening anywhere else in the world. (Now, as to whether or not the history actually happened that way, who’s to say?) Many of the trainees agreed that we hadn’t considered the idea of another country’s independence, because even though we may have learned about a few here and there, they were never significant enough to warrant a celebration that rivaled the 4th of July.

Now, for an example from the Department of Sacatepéquez, Guatemala - a town not far from Alotenango where a friend of mine is stationed. He lives with a very nice, and for the most part, in-the-know family. When he broached the topic of independence with his host father, a very proud Guatemalan national, naturally the first question the man had was, “So, do you celebrate the 15th of September in the United States?” My friend, being the culturally sensitive and well coached trainee he is, noted that although we do not celebrate Guatemalan Independence Day on the 15th of September, we do celebrate the day of our own independence, July 4th. He went on to say, “Every year on the 4th of July, the US celebrates the anniversary of the day it declared independence from...” Here, his host father didn’t miss a beat; “ah yes, from Hitler.”

My friend, speechless at this apparent confusion, politely corrected him, “Actually, the U.S. declared independence from England. We were once a colony of theirs.” He went on to say, “Our first president George Washington,” and his host father stopped him again to clarify, “you mean, George Bush?” From here, I think the conversation quickly dissolved, mostly due to the imposing language barrier. But, I don’t doubt that he was happy to use the language deficiency crutch to excuse himself from that situation.

So, in an ongoing effort to overcome my own cultural ignorance and integrate myself into Guatemalan culture, tonight I accompanied my site mate and his host family to a celebration of Independence – the Antorcha, a spectacle of sorts. Towns from all over the country rally their schools to put together a group of runners to represent themselves, with several students carrying a banner bearing the town’s name and one or two more carrying lit torches. They travel from town to town in school buses, stopping just outside the town to get off, running en masse through the town, soliciting cheers and, more frequently, buckets of water from the crowds gathered around the main streets. Even as a spectator you’re lucky to come out dry - so, I wore my raincoat. Regardless, I was happy to sip some arroz con leche (a hot Guatemalan beverage like Rice Pudding) on a cool night while watching the sporadic stream of runners. It was nice to blend in a little, or at least try. I’m still a gringa..

Until next time..

Leanrning about (very) recent conflict

I’ve been so busy lately that I haven’t found the time or the energy to write. With impending training deadlines and projects due, I’ve been going a little crazy. Although, several occurrences, very representative of Guatemala so far, have happened in the past week, so - I’ve had plenty of things to mull over and have been eager to share them.

First, last week we were fortunate enough to get permission from the Peace Corps to visit Guatemala City (with chaperones of course), or Guate, as you would say to appear as less of a foreigner. (With blond curly hair and pale skin, it’s kind of a long shot as it is, but I’ve got to try :) ) Due to safety concerns, we were only allowed in to see the two obnoxiously large and modern malls, situated next door to each other and a few important landmarks. From the malls we took a taxi – forbidden to ride the public transportation within the city – to the US Embassy. After getting a good look at the façade of the building, we took a short walk to the hospital we patronize as volunteers. From there, we took another taxi directly back to the malls, where we had a classic Guatemalan lunch in, yes you guessed it, the food court. Most people ate, of all things, Taco Bell. I had a good laugh about that.

After the exciting trip to Guate on Monday of last week, we had a full day of training on Tuesday which entailed a technical session with David, the marketing trainer with impeccable, but pitchy English – a very funny combination if you’re ever lucky enough to hear it, a health session devoted entirely to, and I’m going to put this nicely, gastrointestinal concerns, a security advisory session regarding incident reporting and a video about the very recent internal conflict in Guatemala.

The war to which I’m referring ended – on paper – in 1996, which, to me, seems unfathomably recent. I’ve never witnessed a war first hand, (I’ll reserve all possible comments about George Bush’s War on Terror.) Quickly generating an interest in the subject, I borrowed a memoir titled “Searching for Everardo: A story of Love, War and the CIA in Guatemala.” To sum up the book, a middle aged human rights advocate fell in love with a Guerilla Commander in the volcanoes of Guatemala while interviewing female guerillas on their struggle (to write her other book, “Bridge of Courage”). The unlikely pair married and spent two short years together in and out of Guatemala, Mexico and Texas. When the commander returned to Guatemala to resume leadership of his troop of guerillas, he was captured and tortured for over a year before being confirmed dead by the Guatemalan Army. In the process of trying to find him and have him either released or confirmed dead, in a little over three years she staged one seven day hunger strike and then a longer one lasting 32 days outside the ministry of defense building in the capital - during which she receives very little support from the US and even less from Guatemala. Ultimately she received confirmation of his death and has since launched a foundation in his name benefiting guerillas and indigenous rights in general.

When my host dad, Jaime, saw that I was reading Searching for Everardo, asked me my own position on the war and U.S. Politics in general. I was embarrassed at how little I knew. He then went on to tell me that amidst the decades- long struggle of the civil war, his family, of K’aqchiquel indigenous descent, had an evacuation plan which was basically composed of a hole covered by a rug in the back yard in case of Army invasion. Scary, right?

It really puts things into perspective for me, being a guest in this country that has suffered such recent political, military and social conflict. I couldn’t possibly understand why the McDonalds is staffed with a shotgun-armed guard or why we’re not allowed on the public buses in the capital. So, I listen to Peace Corps –as much as I feel like I’m on a leash. Other than that, I make sure I’m home before dark and try to soak up as much as possible while I can.

Until next time..

Field Trips Galore

This weekend began like any other; without reprieve from the ever-vocal roosters or the incessant tortilla slapping. But it continued in a pleasant fashion. The four of us in my site were lucky enough to receive a lesson in making tire gardens (the ingenious solution to the lack of land space for personal gardens and excess of abandoned tires) from a group of Food Security volunteers. We were also joined by a group of 3 more Marketing Volunteers from a different town, bringing our group to a party of eleven volunteers, two Spanish teachers and two Guatemalan men, cutting and flipping tires en masse. It’s hard to visualize the ingenuity of this solution, but trust me, it's a cool idea. I've posted some pictures to facebook to give you an idea, along with a video that captures our struggle to flip a tire inside out.

The tire garden is one of the food security group's essential tools in encouraging healthier family nutrition and personal consumption. It’s easily constructed by 1) cutting the rim off a tire of any size, 2) carving handles for easy transport, 3) covering the bottom with two sticks for support, 4) canvassing the bottom with an easily drainable swatch of plastic or a used sack and, 5) filling with a mixture of soil, sand, compost in which to plan the seeds of your choice. I’m amazed at solutions like these that I see around every day that are incredibly resourceful. Not only do the people employ these tire solutions, but I’ve seen old pots, buckets and egg shells housing seedlings and household plants.

Aside from the excitement of implementing my tire garden (from which I’ll soon be expecting cilantro, parsley and radishes, by the way), I also had the chance to climb a [very active] volcano on Sunday. Volcan Pacaya is located about an hour away from the central town of Antigua, from where most tourist excursions depart. At a rate of about $6 US per person, almost half of my training class got to the National Park that houses Pacaya and back, a modest weekend splurge.

We were accompanied up the mountainside by a seasoned guide, who somehow beat us up each steep climb, but also found the cardiovascular resistance to chain smoke while he was at it. He finished off a pack of Marlboros, no sweat, (literally) while the rest of us were trailing him, wheezing.

It was a tough climb, but short climb and we made it to the top in about two hours, where we scaled the side of the volcano to reach a spot where active lava was flowing. When we arrived at the source of the fresh lava, it felt as though the temperature had gone up about 20 degrees, to the point that we were actually able to quickly roast marshmallows in the crevices surrounding the lava flow to make s’mores. Visibility quickly became limited as well by the steam surrounding the flow in combination with the impending afternoon rainfall. Although we were in need of a longer break at the top, we were rushed out by our nervous guide, who sensed an oncoming surge of lava from the source we’d found. Yelling orders in incomprehensible Spanish, cigarette dangling from his mouth, he hustled us back down the face of the volcano. All in all, it was a great time and definitely a nice break from work and training.

Until next time..

Getting to know the gente

Throughout my Marketing training in the last few weeks, we´ve been learning basic techniques to be applied to our initial training projects (more to come later). In the last few days we’ve started to learn culturally sensitive, indirect ways to gather information that include asking simple questions about daily activities, inquiring about common problems and subtly planting suggestions. One specific method that I found very interesting entailed asking a community member to draw a map of the town. I’ve always found maps extremely interesting, such as those of the early conquistadors in the New World, so naturally this specific technique piqued my interest.

I returned home from a day of training to test the technique on my ever-willing test subject: Christián, my 5 year old host brother. The general idea of making the map of the town is to ask the subject to draw the entire community in one color and then ask them to mark assets and flaws with two different colors. In the case of Christián, I gave him orange, purple and green sharpies to make things interesting and asked him to draw everything in the community so I could “find my way around town.” He was more than happy to help me out.

Drawn on a scale proportionate only to relevance to his life, key points on his map included: his house, the three volcanoes, the meat vender we visit on Sundays, the central church, the police station, a friend’s house on the south side of town whose name he couldn’t remember, various trees around town, the basketball court where they play soccer and “la casa de los ladrones,” or the thieves’ house. Important things he neglected on the map were: recognizable friends’ houses, his school, the nearby river, the cemetery and any type of street markings. While I was guiding him through the process, I had to remind him that it was a map for my use in town, and not a drawing, but in general he complied with my request.

I thanked him very much for the “map” and drew my own conclusions from it. Succinctly, they were: 1) The house in which we live occupies 75% of the geographic territory of the our community, and 2) All of the thieves in town live in one house, very far from mine – which I’m sure the police very much appreciate :)

Additionally, I have been fortunate enough to learn the art of tortilla-making. Today our Spanish teacher, Eduardo, arranged a special lesson for us from a classmate’s host mother. It’s quite the art, I have to say. Believe it or not, it’s a lot harder than it looks, or, in my case, sounds. The process begins with about two pounds of corn grain, which have been removed of their membranes by a boiling process with salt and the mineral lime. The smooth grains are then sent through a grinding machine to make a mash – technology that is not present in all places, which leaves women to grind the corn into mash by hand, which takes 2 -3 hours. Once you have the mash, it is flattened out and refined with a milling stone. From there, small balls of mash are flattened out by slapping it between two hands – a sound that reverberates throughout the town, and to which I wake up every day. Then, round and flattened, they are cooked on a large clay stone that is heated over an open fire. A Guatemalan woman, like our gracious teacher, will prepare as many as 40 tortillas for each meal of the day for a modest sized family.

A woman’s tortilla making skills are an asset that often comes into consideration, it seems. And I’ll say this; my sad, dilapidated tortillas aren’t winning me any points with the locals. What’s worse, I was significantly outperformed by all three of my male site-mates. Oh well, I’ll have to find other ways of impressing the Guatemalans.

Until next time…

Localizing myself..

In the past few days I’ve had the chance to learn a lot about the local lore from my Spanish Teacher Eduardo. We have class almost every day for about 6 hours, and it typically consists of applicable vocabulary, cultural information and general conversation in Spanish and it’s been one of the highlights of my training thus far. One of our recent lessons detailed several accepted myths about local espantos, or ghosts. Eduardo told us three different stories, each accompanied with a report of a first-hand encounter with the spirit.

The first was about La Llorona, or the weeper, a woman from the colonial period who fell in love with a Spaniard and bore his child. After a short period, the man left the Guatemalan woman to return to Spain to marry someone of his own social class, a union which would be more socially acceptable. When the woman found out about his plans to leave she drowned his child in a nearby river. As legend has it, La Llorona has since repented and still regrets her actions, openly weeping near any body of water – be it a lake, river, brook or even the common sinks – pilas - found in almost every home. (This one made me particularly uneasy, because my bedroom faces the pila)

The second was a tale of a siren-type figure that beckons already enamored men to pursue her, usually appearing as a beautiful woman near the edge of a cliff or precipice. According to Eduardo, she encourages the men to follow her inviting beauty to their deaths. This one reflects on the traditional Mayan belief that physical beauty is not an admirable quality, and that it can be dangerous and deceitful to its admirers.

The third, and my favorite, told of El Sombrerón, a very short man of dwarf-like proportions who dresses entirely in black with a wide belt and a silver pistol at each side. But his distinguishing feature is his [comically] oversized hat –thus the name, El Sombrerón (Sombrero is the Spanish word for hat). From the description, he sounds like a Yosemite Sam, or Speedy Gonzales type of figure. The legend says that he appears at the window of young women with big beautiful eyes and long flowing locks. He bewitches them with his smooth guitar melodies until they fall into a trance-like state that keeps them from eating or drinking, leaving them to eventually die in their sleep if their condition goes unnoticed. According to Eduardo - and this is where the legend got a little strange even in mythical terms - El Sombrerón likes long-haired young women because he likes to braid their hair at night when they sleep. Yes, that’s right, braid their hair. He also likes to braid horses’ manes and tails, and to find your horse’s hair braided is a sign that you’ve been paid a visit by El Sombrerón. Although this one was so strange that I found myself laughing as Eduardo finished the story, I thought to ask my host mom, Aura, about it when I returned home from class.

When I mentioned the others, she merely laughed at the local superstitions just as I had earlier. But when I went on the mention that I had also heard the story of El Sombrerón, she got very quiet and told me straight-faced that she herself had had an encounter with the little ghost, to the point that she found the hair on her grandfather’s horse in tight little braids following the sighting. To ease her nerves, she immediately cut her own long hair while her grandfather got holy water from the parish priest to sprinkle all over the horse and throughout the entire house.

Good thing I chopped my hair off before I got to Guatemala, eh? I’m not sure how I feel about a short little man with a huge hat braiding my hair in my sleep.

Until next time..

Inaugural Entry

Today marks the end of my first week in Guatemala. It’s been really great so far; I’m dusting off my Spanish and really getting into the whole Peace Corps mentality.
I’ve been dispatched to a town about 2 hours from the capital city in the department of Sacatepéquez, comfortably situated between three volcanoes – one of which is active and emits smoke daily. I have yet to figure out if the red patches that are visible on the face of the volcano by day are running lava. For now, I’ll assume they are - because it makes me feel more extreme.
Here in our town, where half of the marketing group to which I belong is located, I’m living with a relatively modern family (Don Jaime y Doña Aurora). Despite all signs of modernity, the house is very Guatemalan, in that is more of a compound that is continuously entertaining additions to the piece of land inherited by the matriarch of the family. I can’t really tell where my house ends and the others begin because it shares a common corridor with the rest of the complex. Also, many people come in and out of the house, so much so that I can’t really tell who lives here and who doesn’t.
Thus far I’ve been waking up each morning to the dissonance of a few dozen neighborhood roosters and the slapping hands of local women making the days’ tortillas. While I could definitely do without the roosters (I have yet to eat any meat) I can’t bring myself to complain about the tortillas because the tortilleras have them fresh and readily available three times a day, for each meal.
We began our community based training on Saturday, which entails Spanish class with Maestro Eduardo in combination with grass-roots ventures with the families with whom we’re living. I’m still not quite sure what my specific project will be, but it definitely promises to be interesting and challenging – in that I have no agricultural experience whatsoever, apart from the inherent affinity for agriculture from having lived in Minnesota for 10 years.
I’ve already gotten several shots in series of about ten, and am taking various preventative medications –including one which is particularly unpleasant for Malaria. Although I haven’t gotten sick yet, several members of my training class have succumbed to various maladies, and I feel as though it’s only a matter of time before it catches up to me too.

Until next time..