The Don who lost his wife just 2 months earlier stood before me in his tan slacks and open-chested, blue shirt. His disheveled cowboy hat, resembling something one might find at a rest stop on the US interstate, was cocked back on his brow. He squinted in the sunlight as he explained that here in this quiet, wind-swept cemetery lay his wife, her name carved into a small cross at the head of her tomb. He hadn’t shaven in a few days and I thought could sense a sadness in his words although, if this was true, he did little else to betray his feelings. Paraguayan men don’t really cry, or at least thats what they say. Maybe it’s the machismo or maybe its just the same sense of masculinity that has gendered emotions across the globe. Maybe, however, it has more to do with the nature of death as it manifests itself in this place and among Paraguayan people. You see, Paraguayans don’t bury their dead. In this culture, dying is a process that continues long after one’s heart stops beating.
If one visits a Paraguayan cemetery, several features seem to stand out immediately. The rows of tombs are wider and longer, more like streets than aisles. And, seemingly as a way to solidify this fact, Paraguayans will often label these rows with street names written on street signs (at least in the larger cemeteries). The tombs (called pantheones by Paraguayans), are much more than just carved headstones laid in the ground. Each pantheon resembles an above ground alter. For the poorer families, this is often little more than a block of concrete or a small brick structure adorned with a small casita (or ‘little house’ in English) at its head. The deceased is placed inside on the day he/she is laid to rest. In the following months, usually on the one-month, two-month, or three-month anniversary of his/her death, the family will revisit the pantheon to decorate with colored tiles, flowers (in the case of this Don, small flowers placed in make-shift pots made from recycled soda bottles), trinkets or other small items.
For the wealthier families, or at least those with more to invest (financially or emotionally) in such an endeavor, the pantheon can assume a much more prominent state. Socio-economics, it seems, plays out even in the afterlife. Sometimes, the pantheon itself can resemble more of a mausoleum that rival both in size and structural integrity the very houses in which many Paraguayans live. While most rural homes are made of mud-brick or wood-slats, the cemeteries are often mistakable for communities themselves with towering, concrete rooms dedicated to a dead family member or several. The priorities between the living and the dead are skewed in a way that differs largely from other cultures I have experience and particularly from US culture. This may be tied up somehow with the religious tendencies of these people (this country is predominantly Catholic). It may also have something to do with the connections of many Paraguayan people to indigenous practices or histories. This is entirely speculation on my part, but this also seems to be a reoccurring theme among the ideological clashes between Europeans and native peoples both during and after the conquest of South America.
Regardless, it is amazing the reverence that people in this culture hold for death--the allocation of resources (especially in a country with a large portion of the population living in poverty), the regard in which people dedicate time and energy toward post-death rituals (for months and years, even decades following), and the way that all of this falls in stride with the daily lives of most Paraguayans. When one dies, the anniversary of their death and birth are observed during week-long events for the first few years following their passing. Then, for the next several decades, smaller but still significant observances are continually held to commemorate these important dates. The dead do not die, at least not until their living memory is lost with the passing of the next few generations.
The north wind is blowing hard through the palms when we finish working. It is late morning and the sun is now playing kaleidoscope between the branches and through the grasses of this tropical landscape. It is going to rain tomorrow, the Don tells me. His wife’s tomb looks only slightly better than it did an hour before--the weeds have been cleared, a fresh layer of concrete added to the exterior. He wants to add tiles to the outside; he thinks that blue would look nice. We leave the cemetery and the mood is not solemn, not melancholy or even sad in the slightest. There is more work to be done. The fields must be hoed, the crops harvested, the beans dried and the garden tended. And so our day continues, only an hour later than it would have otherwise, and with my head pondering the matter-of-fact nature in which we visited death for the morning.
from the cemetery,
-little hupo
Wednesday, January 18, 2012
Friday, January 13, 2012
Sweet as Honey
Every part of my better judgment was telling me that this was a bad idea and yet, there I was in my flip-flops, t-shirt and rolled jeans hunched low over a hollow log with my axe in hand, readying myself for the first swing. It seemed like only minutes before that I was casually propositioned to go gather some honey by several of my local Paraguayan friends. I had agreed enthusiastically, thinking that standard operating procedure including full bee-working gear (face mask, gloves, body suit, etc.) would be implemented to at least some degree. To my dismay, I was once again reminded of the fact that this is indeed rural Paraguay and such ‘standards’ have usually been left far behind once you reach the places and the villages that even four-wheel drive cars have trouble accessing.
For those unfamiliar with the field of bee-keeping (technically referred to as apiculture), it is the relatively simple and very beneficial practice of housing bee’s in artificially constructed structures. For a skilled bee-keeper, the hives that the bees create and maintain inside these structures can be harvested several times a year yielding several liters of honey (depending on the hive size and conditions), wax (which can also be sold and used) as well as royal jelly (a substance fed to only a bee larvae that will become a queen bee--very expensive and highly prized for its medicinal and health benefits). Housing bees in conjunction with an agriculture system adds an important element to any farm by ensuring proper crop pollination helping to bolster the overall health of one’s crops. For poor rural farmer’s (like those here in Paraguay) the benefits are the same along with the added value of livelihood diversification. With little additional labor and low start-up costs, bee-keeping can provide another source of income while improving crop health and yield.
Which brings us back to my story: Having spent the last month integrating into the rural Paraguayan community of Guido Almada, I have come to know that several members of the community already practice apiculture. I had assumed (wrongfully) that when asked to harvest honey, we would be doing so in the fashion that I have come to associate even with secluded, rural bee-keepers. Such wild assumptions (such as common safety precautions), I am quickly learning, often make one seem either overly-cautious or a fool; just don’t make a mistake and there is nothing to worry about. Right.
After agreeing, I was led into a dense patch of tropical forest. Together, the three of us (2 Paraguayans and myself) gathered some wood clippings, sticks and dried tobacco leaves and placed them into a smoker (called a fumador in Spanish) along with some burning charcoal. This would be our only form of defense from a hive of angry African-ized bees (the stinging bees of South America, for the most part, have been unintentionally cross-bred over the centuries with bees brought from Africa--also called African killer bees) along with our fast feet, however, between these tangled, vine-laded trees, one would really only be able to get so far, so fast. We approached the hive, half-buried and barely visible in a hollowed out log on the forest floor. The incessant hum, that terrifying buzz of a thousand mindless insects could be clearly heard over the collective sound of the jungle birds and monkeys and frogs. I realized that this sickening bee symphony, despite its already alarming volume, was actually muffled slightly by the moist, dense earth covering the log. My mind began to race as I tried to imagine what kind of a collective monster we were about to intentionally agitate.
The first swing was half-hearted, I must admit--I was in no hurry to run for my life. But one can only swing a heavy axe at a rotting log for so long before pieces begin to break and splinter. It was only seconds before the roof of the hive was cleaved open. The hive was exposed. The sound, no longer muted but sharp and piercing, felt almost like a million little stings in itself. Angry bees began to drone above their home, searching for the source of the intrusion. My friends threw huge puffs of smoke into the air instantly confusing the bees but also clouding my sight. The thick, sweet smell of honey and fire filled my lungs as my companion kneeled down beside the broken log, grabbed it with both hands and wretched it from the earth. The cloud in front of me was a mixture of darting insects and smoke mixed with the latent steam meandering through the trees in the midst of our seemingly epic battle.
Both Paraguayans at my side launched their bare hands into the middle of this swarming hive of bees, grabbing carefully and with surprising calm at huge golden cones of honey. After extracting several and only suffering one or two stings each, we began our slow retreat, using a constant screen of smoke to cover our tracks as we went. I was amazed as we exited the forest and I breathed the fresh and comparatively cool air (for it was still 100 degrees outside) that I had not suffered a single sting in this entire endeavor. We stopped to rest some meters away from the forest and began indulging ourselves on the sweet fruits of our labor: about a half-liter of fresh honey, still on the cone.
Inevitably, especially with a wild-hive harvest, not all the cones collected will be honey; some will also be capped-cones of bee larvae. I bit off honey-cone, cautious not to bite off any of these white grubs. The Paraguayans laughed and both began munching away happily at the larvae-filled cones explaining between mouthfuls that eating the young bees provided protection from the sun. I was not in any position to argue and with a prior gulp of courage, I tucked-in with similar zest. The larvae were largely tasteless, their texture obscured by the hard cone structures. The fact that the taste of the sugary honey was still coating my mouth certainly helped it go down easier. As long as you avoided looking at the half-developed, bee-like forms, it was easy to forget that you were actually eating, well, larvae.
And through this all, I couldn’t help but think at the potential in this entire experience to peruse a bee-keeping program in this small community. Here was a family with an obvious interest (and talent) and, judging from their socioeconomic position, a definite need. Its often the littlest things that have the power to lessen the hold of poverty over someone’s life--a small micro-loan here, a project to diversify livelihoods there, really anything that seems possible and beneficial. The honey was sweet, but the prospects for implementing actual change and development in this family’s life were by far much sweeter.
From Paraguay,
-little hupo
For those unfamiliar with the field of bee-keeping (technically referred to as apiculture), it is the relatively simple and very beneficial practice of housing bee’s in artificially constructed structures. For a skilled bee-keeper, the hives that the bees create and maintain inside these structures can be harvested several times a year yielding several liters of honey (depending on the hive size and conditions), wax (which can also be sold and used) as well as royal jelly (a substance fed to only a bee larvae that will become a queen bee--very expensive and highly prized for its medicinal and health benefits). Housing bees in conjunction with an agriculture system adds an important element to any farm by ensuring proper crop pollination helping to bolster the overall health of one’s crops. For poor rural farmer’s (like those here in Paraguay) the benefits are the same along with the added value of livelihood diversification. With little additional labor and low start-up costs, bee-keeping can provide another source of income while improving crop health and yield.
Which brings us back to my story: Having spent the last month integrating into the rural Paraguayan community of Guido Almada, I have come to know that several members of the community already practice apiculture. I had assumed (wrongfully) that when asked to harvest honey, we would be doing so in the fashion that I have come to associate even with secluded, rural bee-keepers. Such wild assumptions (such as common safety precautions), I am quickly learning, often make one seem either overly-cautious or a fool; just don’t make a mistake and there is nothing to worry about. Right.
After agreeing, I was led into a dense patch of tropical forest. Together, the three of us (2 Paraguayans and myself) gathered some wood clippings, sticks and dried tobacco leaves and placed them into a smoker (called a fumador in Spanish) along with some burning charcoal. This would be our only form of defense from a hive of angry African-ized bees (the stinging bees of South America, for the most part, have been unintentionally cross-bred over the centuries with bees brought from Africa--also called African killer bees) along with our fast feet, however, between these tangled, vine-laded trees, one would really only be able to get so far, so fast. We approached the hive, half-buried and barely visible in a hollowed out log on the forest floor. The incessant hum, that terrifying buzz of a thousand mindless insects could be clearly heard over the collective sound of the jungle birds and monkeys and frogs. I realized that this sickening bee symphony, despite its already alarming volume, was actually muffled slightly by the moist, dense earth covering the log. My mind began to race as I tried to imagine what kind of a collective monster we were about to intentionally agitate.
The first swing was half-hearted, I must admit--I was in no hurry to run for my life. But one can only swing a heavy axe at a rotting log for so long before pieces begin to break and splinter. It was only seconds before the roof of the hive was cleaved open. The hive was exposed. The sound, no longer muted but sharp and piercing, felt almost like a million little stings in itself. Angry bees began to drone above their home, searching for the source of the intrusion. My friends threw huge puffs of smoke into the air instantly confusing the bees but also clouding my sight. The thick, sweet smell of honey and fire filled my lungs as my companion kneeled down beside the broken log, grabbed it with both hands and wretched it from the earth. The cloud in front of me was a mixture of darting insects and smoke mixed with the latent steam meandering through the trees in the midst of our seemingly epic battle.
Both Paraguayans at my side launched their bare hands into the middle of this swarming hive of bees, grabbing carefully and with surprising calm at huge golden cones of honey. After extracting several and only suffering one or two stings each, we began our slow retreat, using a constant screen of smoke to cover our tracks as we went. I was amazed as we exited the forest and I breathed the fresh and comparatively cool air (for it was still 100 degrees outside) that I had not suffered a single sting in this entire endeavor. We stopped to rest some meters away from the forest and began indulging ourselves on the sweet fruits of our labor: about a half-liter of fresh honey, still on the cone.
Inevitably, especially with a wild-hive harvest, not all the cones collected will be honey; some will also be capped-cones of bee larvae. I bit off honey-cone, cautious not to bite off any of these white grubs. The Paraguayans laughed and both began munching away happily at the larvae-filled cones explaining between mouthfuls that eating the young bees provided protection from the sun. I was not in any position to argue and with a prior gulp of courage, I tucked-in with similar zest. The larvae were largely tasteless, their texture obscured by the hard cone structures. The fact that the taste of the sugary honey was still coating my mouth certainly helped it go down easier. As long as you avoided looking at the half-developed, bee-like forms, it was easy to forget that you were actually eating, well, larvae.
And through this all, I couldn’t help but think at the potential in this entire experience to peruse a bee-keeping program in this small community. Here was a family with an obvious interest (and talent) and, judging from their socioeconomic position, a definite need. Its often the littlest things that have the power to lessen the hold of poverty over someone’s life--a small micro-loan here, a project to diversify livelihoods there, really anything that seems possible and beneficial. The honey was sweet, but the prospects for implementing actual change and development in this family’s life were by far much sweeter.
From Paraguay,
-little hupo
Friday, January 6, 2012
Half-Way There Is There
I am stuck in a quiet hotel room in Cornoel Olviedo for the night, stranded (it would seem) half-way between where I was and where I was going. My little adventure started this morning when I entered the Asuncion terminal hoping to catch the next bus to Carayao. Fortunately, the ticket-vendor informed me, one would leave in only a half-an-hour and should arrive in time for me to catch my connecting bus across the dirt road that leads to my home in Guido Almada. I bought the ticket, grabbed a coffee and waited.
The terminal bustled and bubbled in the early morning hours as the people congregated in the shade being cast by the soon-departing buses. A gentleman sitting next to me barked orders at his shoe-shine boy, who brushed and scrubbed his heart out, responding to the commands like a well-worn dog kept on a short leash. Both shoes lost their dull and shone like stars and yet, I wasn’t paying attention to the shoes. I could not help but notice this child’s expression: blank and defeated as he sat on the grimy floor without shoes of his own. The man tossed him two mil Guaranis (the equivalent of 50 cents USD) which clanged on the floor for the boy to pick up. As his ten-year-old self scurried away I realized that my bus, promised to arrive at 8 was now about a half hour late.
When I asked the guard when to expect this bus he laughed. Apparently, I had been sold the wrong ticket by the wrong vendor. The bus to Carayao had left at 7:30 and the next was not expected for another two hours. I was cutting it close at this point--my connecting bus, the only one per day to reach my site, leaves at approximately 11:30 (Paraguayan time) and passes through Carayao close to noon. At this point, my odds of making the venture from Asuncion to Carayao on time were slim, but I played my hand anyway, boarded the next bus possible and for the first time, hoped that driver of my connecting circuit lived up to the Paraguayan reputation of being unnecessarily late for everything.
The bus that I caught out of the Asuncion terminal, which sped across the city traffic like a stone across the automotive water, quickly lost its initial enthusiasm, sputtering out and then forcibly removing passengers, including myself, 30 kilometers short of their destination. As we reached the city of Coronel Olviedo, the driver informed me that this was as far as my money would take me. When the bus came to a rolling stop, people were told to disembark following their bags which had been virtually thrown out in front of them. In a country of hundreds of privately owned bus lines, the rules are dictated not by regulations or by customer satisfaction, but by the need to strike a balance (and a profit) between efficiency in an inefficient system and sufficient time alloted for tereré consumption.
With the temperature reaching over a hundred degrees by this time of day, getting a taxi to Carayao and walking the final 30 kilometers home would be out of the question, posing more of a medical concern than a solution. And so, here I find myself tucked into a little hotel in the recesses of the alleyways of Coronel Olviedo. Its a nice day out--immensely hot--but still sunny and with a slight northern breeze (known by the locals as the viento norte), the typical premonition that rain is on the horizon. I have the luck and luxury of being able to spare the 80 mil (about 20 USD) to spend the night in a hotel instead of curling up on the sidewalks or sprawling out in the plazas like so many other seemingly stranded Paraguayans. I’m thinking of the shoe-shine boy, with his several mil Guaranis in hand at the end of a long, hard day of shining, buying a well-earned meal of mandioc and empanadas. I wonder if he has a place to sleep tonight. I wonder if his grumbling belly will ever permit or if his skinny, little arms can carry him far enough to actually buy some of his own shoes one day.
This is a country where things do not work in a manner that I have come to expect in my years living in the comforts of the US. I have taken many things for granted: the mail system, public transportation, public services (police, firemen, ambulances), a reliable water supply, electricity that persists through all but the worst of storms (and then gets restored in a timely fashion following such), affordable energy (heating and cooling), functioning and paved roads, and so much more. And yet, the Paraguayans survive and even thrive despite the seeming lack and/or inefficiency of some of those things I have previously deemed necessities.
If you think about it too long, as I am sure that I already have, you begin to realize that ‘development’ itself (that task to which I have set myself for the next 2 years) is such an ambiguous and almost unintelligibly relative notion that it seems at times to be absurd. What are we developing toward? Are United States standards of living only what we might consider ‘developed’? Surely, children should not be forced by economic conditions to employ themselves instead of going to school (as is the case with the shoe-shine boy). Certainly, people should earn decent and fair wages that can allow them to achieve a minimum standard of living. Absolutely, all persons should be able to cloth and feed themselves, access health care if needed, and maintain the hope of providing greater opportunities for their children. But where do we draw these lines?
Paraguay is a wonderful country with so much to offer and so much to gain in this new, globalized community. But it is so important that we allow this development to be defined by Paraguayans and according to Paraguayan priorities and ideas. It cannot be imposed and cannot be sustained otherwise. This is a rule to be followed for all countries that the CIA factbook or the World Bank or the IMF have deemed (according to their own debatable and curiously variable methods) to be ‘developing’. Efforts by developmental organizations, NGO’s or even the Peace Corps must be continually geared toward promoting self-actualized development and against furthering thinly-veiled, manipulative endeavors to force imposed standards. Paraguay’s ‘development’, as with all countries, should be more of a maturation process instead of anything defined by starting and stopping points. In a way, all nations in this world are still developing across a spectrum that is constantly changing and fluctuating with time and history.
This hotel room seems a little nicer, a little more spacious and a little cozier than it did at the beginning of this blog post. Hopefully, I can maintain this perspective for a while. Maybe even for the next two years.
From Coronel Olviedo (not by intention, but by fate and by Paraguay),
-little hupo
The terminal bustled and bubbled in the early morning hours as the people congregated in the shade being cast by the soon-departing buses. A gentleman sitting next to me barked orders at his shoe-shine boy, who brushed and scrubbed his heart out, responding to the commands like a well-worn dog kept on a short leash. Both shoes lost their dull and shone like stars and yet, I wasn’t paying attention to the shoes. I could not help but notice this child’s expression: blank and defeated as he sat on the grimy floor without shoes of his own. The man tossed him two mil Guaranis (the equivalent of 50 cents USD) which clanged on the floor for the boy to pick up. As his ten-year-old self scurried away I realized that my bus, promised to arrive at 8 was now about a half hour late.
When I asked the guard when to expect this bus he laughed. Apparently, I had been sold the wrong ticket by the wrong vendor. The bus to Carayao had left at 7:30 and the next was not expected for another two hours. I was cutting it close at this point--my connecting bus, the only one per day to reach my site, leaves at approximately 11:30 (Paraguayan time) and passes through Carayao close to noon. At this point, my odds of making the venture from Asuncion to Carayao on time were slim, but I played my hand anyway, boarded the next bus possible and for the first time, hoped that driver of my connecting circuit lived up to the Paraguayan reputation of being unnecessarily late for everything.
The bus that I caught out of the Asuncion terminal, which sped across the city traffic like a stone across the automotive water, quickly lost its initial enthusiasm, sputtering out and then forcibly removing passengers, including myself, 30 kilometers short of their destination. As we reached the city of Coronel Olviedo, the driver informed me that this was as far as my money would take me. When the bus came to a rolling stop, people were told to disembark following their bags which had been virtually thrown out in front of them. In a country of hundreds of privately owned bus lines, the rules are dictated not by regulations or by customer satisfaction, but by the need to strike a balance (and a profit) between efficiency in an inefficient system and sufficient time alloted for tereré consumption.
With the temperature reaching over a hundred degrees by this time of day, getting a taxi to Carayao and walking the final 30 kilometers home would be out of the question, posing more of a medical concern than a solution. And so, here I find myself tucked into a little hotel in the recesses of the alleyways of Coronel Olviedo. Its a nice day out--immensely hot--but still sunny and with a slight northern breeze (known by the locals as the viento norte), the typical premonition that rain is on the horizon. I have the luck and luxury of being able to spare the 80 mil (about 20 USD) to spend the night in a hotel instead of curling up on the sidewalks or sprawling out in the plazas like so many other seemingly stranded Paraguayans. I’m thinking of the shoe-shine boy, with his several mil Guaranis in hand at the end of a long, hard day of shining, buying a well-earned meal of mandioc and empanadas. I wonder if he has a place to sleep tonight. I wonder if his grumbling belly will ever permit or if his skinny, little arms can carry him far enough to actually buy some of his own shoes one day.
This is a country where things do not work in a manner that I have come to expect in my years living in the comforts of the US. I have taken many things for granted: the mail system, public transportation, public services (police, firemen, ambulances), a reliable water supply, electricity that persists through all but the worst of storms (and then gets restored in a timely fashion following such), affordable energy (heating and cooling), functioning and paved roads, and so much more. And yet, the Paraguayans survive and even thrive despite the seeming lack and/or inefficiency of some of those things I have previously deemed necessities.
If you think about it too long, as I am sure that I already have, you begin to realize that ‘development’ itself (that task to which I have set myself for the next 2 years) is such an ambiguous and almost unintelligibly relative notion that it seems at times to be absurd. What are we developing toward? Are United States standards of living only what we might consider ‘developed’? Surely, children should not be forced by economic conditions to employ themselves instead of going to school (as is the case with the shoe-shine boy). Certainly, people should earn decent and fair wages that can allow them to achieve a minimum standard of living. Absolutely, all persons should be able to cloth and feed themselves, access health care if needed, and maintain the hope of providing greater opportunities for their children. But where do we draw these lines?
Paraguay is a wonderful country with so much to offer and so much to gain in this new, globalized community. But it is so important that we allow this development to be defined by Paraguayans and according to Paraguayan priorities and ideas. It cannot be imposed and cannot be sustained otherwise. This is a rule to be followed for all countries that the CIA factbook or the World Bank or the IMF have deemed (according to their own debatable and curiously variable methods) to be ‘developing’. Efforts by developmental organizations, NGO’s or even the Peace Corps must be continually geared toward promoting self-actualized development and against furthering thinly-veiled, manipulative endeavors to force imposed standards. Paraguay’s ‘development’, as with all countries, should be more of a maturation process instead of anything defined by starting and stopping points. In a way, all nations in this world are still developing across a spectrum that is constantly changing and fluctuating with time and history.
This hotel room seems a little nicer, a little more spacious and a little cozier than it did at the beginning of this blog post. Hopefully, I can maintain this perspective for a while. Maybe even for the next two years.
From Coronel Olviedo (not by intention, but by fate and by Paraguay),
-little hupo
Sunday, January 1, 2012
A Paraguayan New Years
Asuncion last night was like a war-zone. If one had no idea of the date and didn't bother to look over the horizon, it would have easily sounded as if troops had invaded this otherwise sleepy capital city. In celebration of the New Year, Paraguayans set off fireworks (called in Spanish bombas) almost continuously from 10 pm until the early morning hours. Some of these bombas were imbued with the rare and beautiful effects of exploding lights, however, a vast majority were simply mortar or hand projected, small-scale explosives that cracked and echoed over the buildings and through the streets for hours on end. Fireworks launched from roof-tops exploded on top of or next to century old, Spanish colonial buildings, rattling windows and setting off car and fire alarms. There were no police patrolling the streets to reign in or direct the festivities. Any semblance of regulations seemed to have been forgotten or otherwise completely ignored. The rapid-crack and reverberation of a thousand explosions composed the Año Nuevo concerto under the tropical night sky leaving the pavement and skyline hazed by drifting wafts of smoke until the following morning. Today, the street vendors will sell off their remaining supply of bombas at half-price or less, meaning that tonight, the city will once again be under siege. It seems that this will be a good year for the informal sector.
In the absence of the rocket's red glare and to the tune of a million bombs bursting in air, I was left last evening (my first New Year's eve away from home) to reflect on my life in the past year. Here I sit, in the midst of this intense and life-altering experience called Peace Corps, trying to recap, recall and reevaluate how exactly I got to this point in my life. The following are my musings:
Last year at this time I was preparing for a 3 month trip to South Africa after which I would be graduating college and moving on with my life. I had already set into motion my plans for joining the Peace Corps following university and had received a tentative nomination to a natural resource management position in Southeast Asia. I was naive, single, and itching to break away from the comforts that had cradled me for most of my life. As things unfolded (as the rules of time dictate they must) my life changed trajectory unpredictably--I found myself no longer single but helplessly in love and yet, still naive (if not slightly less-so than before) and now heading for Paraguay as an agricultural extensionist. Now, over three months into my service as a Peace Corps volunteer, I can begin to take scope on the things that have transpired.
In the last year, I have lived for extended periods of time on three different continents, bounced like a ping-pong ball between two developing nations and the supposed apex of Western development that is the United States. I have slowly begun to find a place and a way in which my knowledge and abilities can be applied to help improve peoples lives in a tangible way. Still, I have once again found myself stumbling through the mine-field of intricacies and difficulties facing development in our world. Dropped into a country where something as simple as language can neither be assumed or relied upon to sort through the detritus of daily life, things have begun to change, becoming both clearer and infinitely more murky. The rumble can be heard over the noise of my daily activities as the tectonic plates of my life shift and settle and shift and settle in profound ways.
For starters, my daily experience has changed in so many dramatic and subtle ways. It really is amazing the spectrum of conditions to which one can become accustomed. I try to remember the words and the philosophy of my grandfather Reinaldo Machado as he would retell his stories about immigrating to America from Cuba: don't be pretentious, be willing to work hard, always do your best, and never forget who you are or where you come from. I think that my experience so far in Paraguay, with my lack of language skills and feelings of social (and personal) isolation, have really helped me to gather a deeper appreciation of just how difficult my grandfather's transition to the States really must have been. But if he has taught me anything in life it is this: anything is possible to those who are willing to work hard, stay positive and adapt to any circumstances life may throw in their way.
And so, with that in mind, I now take time each night wandering around my Paraguayan house killing the fist-sized, flying, glowing roaches that live in my walls while listening to some good-old Bob Marley. I wake up each morning at 5 am for a run, some yerba mate with my neighbors, and then several hours of cow milking, or bean harvesting, or crop cleaning, or anything else that my Paraguayan community may have in store. If it needs to get done then I can learn how to do it. I might not be the best farmer in the world, but damn do I look good in a straw sombrero. I wrestle with the meals of heavy carbohydrates, piles and piles of mandioc, fried pig fat, knee cartilage, cow brain, stomach, tongue, giant lizard, blood sausage and as of yet several unidentified, chewy things. It is amazing what tastes good if you are hungry enough, tired enough, or just dumb enough not to ask too many questions.
And at the same time, as I acclimate to this strange new life that I am living, I am also advancing professionally in directions that I never thought possible. I will, as of February this year, be a published co-author in an academic journal. Having received the news last night around midnight, I spent my New Years sitting in a hotel room in a developing country reading and re-reading the manuscript that will be sent off to the publishers. This is on top of the writings that I am currently publishing with Organic Gardening magazine online and the research proposal to which I was a contributing author that was sent off for review late this summer. If I thought things would slow down when I started living in the Paraguayan countryside, I was either being both short-sighted or naive; the world, as it turns out, doesn't stop spinning despite the fact that I am now isolated and removed.
Still, despite everything else, the single most influential event in the past year has been my falling deeply in love. Regardless of whatever else may have transpired, finding myself inextricably connected the amazing Jacqueline Ryan simultaneously effects the greatest and the smallest details of my life, even from half-way across the world. I may still be a lost little boy, but at least now I have someone to wander with.
For me, I can only see this next year as being epic, immensely life-changing on any and every level. I will be traveling throughout South America, journeying to Cuba with three generations of my family (my grandfather, father and myself), trying to help improve the lives of rural Paraguayans, bringing this entire experience home to the States, reading, studying, learning languages and exposing myself to any challenge that may cross my path. I will be falling even more in love, both with my girlfriend and this world. To all my friends and family, thank you for the love and support. As my other-mother Mrs. Holmes has said, "Mario is difficult to pin down". I love you all for many reasons, but especially for your patience, understanding and grace. I'll be home for next Christmas and will once again celebrate New Years in my boxers, dancing to 'Desert Rose' in the Holmes's basement.
From Paraguay,
little hupo
In the absence of the rocket's red glare and to the tune of a million bombs bursting in air, I was left last evening (my first New Year's eve away from home) to reflect on my life in the past year. Here I sit, in the midst of this intense and life-altering experience called Peace Corps, trying to recap, recall and reevaluate how exactly I got to this point in my life. The following are my musings:
Last year at this time I was preparing for a 3 month trip to South Africa after which I would be graduating college and moving on with my life. I had already set into motion my plans for joining the Peace Corps following university and had received a tentative nomination to a natural resource management position in Southeast Asia. I was naive, single, and itching to break away from the comforts that had cradled me for most of my life. As things unfolded (as the rules of time dictate they must) my life changed trajectory unpredictably--I found myself no longer single but helplessly in love and yet, still naive (if not slightly less-so than before) and now heading for Paraguay as an agricultural extensionist. Now, over three months into my service as a Peace Corps volunteer, I can begin to take scope on the things that have transpired.
In the last year, I have lived for extended periods of time on three different continents, bounced like a ping-pong ball between two developing nations and the supposed apex of Western development that is the United States. I have slowly begun to find a place and a way in which my knowledge and abilities can be applied to help improve peoples lives in a tangible way. Still, I have once again found myself stumbling through the mine-field of intricacies and difficulties facing development in our world. Dropped into a country where something as simple as language can neither be assumed or relied upon to sort through the detritus of daily life, things have begun to change, becoming both clearer and infinitely more murky. The rumble can be heard over the noise of my daily activities as the tectonic plates of my life shift and settle and shift and settle in profound ways.
For starters, my daily experience has changed in so many dramatic and subtle ways. It really is amazing the spectrum of conditions to which one can become accustomed. I try to remember the words and the philosophy of my grandfather Reinaldo Machado as he would retell his stories about immigrating to America from Cuba: don't be pretentious, be willing to work hard, always do your best, and never forget who you are or where you come from. I think that my experience so far in Paraguay, with my lack of language skills and feelings of social (and personal) isolation, have really helped me to gather a deeper appreciation of just how difficult my grandfather's transition to the States really must have been. But if he has taught me anything in life it is this: anything is possible to those who are willing to work hard, stay positive and adapt to any circumstances life may throw in their way.
And so, with that in mind, I now take time each night wandering around my Paraguayan house killing the fist-sized, flying, glowing roaches that live in my walls while listening to some good-old Bob Marley. I wake up each morning at 5 am for a run, some yerba mate with my neighbors, and then several hours of cow milking, or bean harvesting, or crop cleaning, or anything else that my Paraguayan community may have in store. If it needs to get done then I can learn how to do it. I might not be the best farmer in the world, but damn do I look good in a straw sombrero. I wrestle with the meals of heavy carbohydrates, piles and piles of mandioc, fried pig fat, knee cartilage, cow brain, stomach, tongue, giant lizard, blood sausage and as of yet several unidentified, chewy things. It is amazing what tastes good if you are hungry enough, tired enough, or just dumb enough not to ask too many questions.
And at the same time, as I acclimate to this strange new life that I am living, I am also advancing professionally in directions that I never thought possible. I will, as of February this year, be a published co-author in an academic journal. Having received the news last night around midnight, I spent my New Years sitting in a hotel room in a developing country reading and re-reading the manuscript that will be sent off to the publishers. This is on top of the writings that I am currently publishing with Organic Gardening magazine online and the research proposal to which I was a contributing author that was sent off for review late this summer. If I thought things would slow down when I started living in the Paraguayan countryside, I was either being both short-sighted or naive; the world, as it turns out, doesn't stop spinning despite the fact that I am now isolated and removed.
Still, despite everything else, the single most influential event in the past year has been my falling deeply in love. Regardless of whatever else may have transpired, finding myself inextricably connected the amazing Jacqueline Ryan simultaneously effects the greatest and the smallest details of my life, even from half-way across the world. I may still be a lost little boy, but at least now I have someone to wander with.
For me, I can only see this next year as being epic, immensely life-changing on any and every level. I will be traveling throughout South America, journeying to Cuba with three generations of my family (my grandfather, father and myself), trying to help improve the lives of rural Paraguayans, bringing this entire experience home to the States, reading, studying, learning languages and exposing myself to any challenge that may cross my path. I will be falling even more in love, both with my girlfriend and this world. To all my friends and family, thank you for the love and support. As my other-mother Mrs. Holmes has said, "Mario is difficult to pin down". I love you all for many reasons, but especially for your patience, understanding and grace. I'll be home for next Christmas and will once again celebrate New Years in my boxers, dancing to 'Desert Rose' in the Holmes's basement.
From Paraguay,
little hupo
Sunday, December 18, 2011
The Tropical, Concrete Jungle
Last week, after 3 months of intensive in-country training, the new class of Environmental Education and Agriculture (the class to which I belong) volunteers swore into Peace Corps Paraguay to begin their 2 year stints of service. The entire swearing-in ordeal, while a logistical nightmare, was relatively short-lived and quickly left our new groups cut-loose and wandering the streets in the Paraguayan capital of Asuncion. We were told that all new volunteers must be in-site by the 12th of December, leaving 3 priceless days to explore a city of which we had only yet scratched the surface. Wasting absolutely no time, we boarded busses to all ends of the city, meandered across countless blocks of concrete and steel, and breathed deep the sweet freedom that was the intense, inner-city smog (in a country with seemingly no emission control to speak of).
Asuncion is a city like no other. Its setting, nestled in a sharp bend of the Rio Paraguay, provides both access and isolation to and from the city. Its hard not to feel, especially when one considers that Paraguay lost its only sea port following the Triple Alliance War in the mid 1800’s, that geography has played an enormous role in molding, if not determining to a large extent, the culture and people that currently live here. I digress, for hopes of not walking to far down the road to environmental determinism, for that is certainly not my point. I do however think it is important to understand, or at least begin to understand, a very fundamental concept that has re-emerged many times during my experiences in Paraguay--these people, their lives and livelihoods, are very closely tied to the land.
Perhaps the same can be said of many developing countries. Perhaps the same case can really be made for any country in the world. Perhaps even, this is simply the reason that the work of agriculture extenstionists is so important here in Paraguay. Regardless, in a country where 80% of the economy is agriculturally based, one can only assume (or maybe hope) that the means to development and progress might be somewhere along the very same rural, dirt roads.
The city itself is not far removed from the seemingly infinite Paraguayan country side (called in Spanish the “campo”). Daily, thousands upon thousands of merchants make the pilgrimage to the sprawling market places such as Mercado No. 4 (Mercado Cuatro) or Mercado Abasto. Here, shops are thrown up in a similar manner to houses in the shantytowns--leftover and pilfered materials are hastily fastened to other shacks, buildings, electrical lines or anything else that might seem more stationary (irrespective of however false of an assumption this may actually be).
The merchants peddle their wares, ranging from second-hand electronics to “jujos” (herbs) for terere to clothes and even animals (advertised as “mascotas” or pets, but in reality, just wild birds, snakes and lizards that have been caught and thrown irreverently into cages). Really there is nothing that one can’t find in the mercados, except for maybe a non-pushy salesman. These places are infamous for vendors that aggressively pursue all potential customers, often with words that get stronger and more profane the farther shopper may wander, and occasionally resorting to physical means that at least force someone look at whatever it is they might be selling. Best advice: walk tall and confidently, avoid eye-contact, and don’t even feign interest unless you really, really mean it.
The rest of the city resembles an aging Spanish conquest. Other than the few islands of modernized, Americanized shopping malls and the ever-expanding business district, the rest of the city seems to occupy somewhat of a time-mash. Caught somewhere between the ornate, Spanish-colonial architecture of the older buildings, the crumbling infrastructure that seems to have been left to its devices after the demise of the dictatorship, and the resourcefulness that has crept to life in its stead, Asuncion certainly feels different. The socio-economic spectrum can be almost entirely transcended within one city block. Mercedes-Benzes drive side-by-side on the main roads with horse-drawn carts and other haphazardly re-assembled vehicles that look like the Frankensteins of the automotive world.
One thing is for sure, in Asuncion, if you can make it and you can make it work, then “it lives!”. There are few regulations in place and even fewer that are enforced. Many intersections are left without street signs or even lights. Far from anarchy, however, the order of this city is maintained by the culture, by the people who follow basic principles regardless. Paraguay is perpetually a “tranquillo” country where freedom itself has assumed a unique and very non-Western form.
It’s not that laws are somehow irrelevant, its just that they represent more of a formality than an ultimatum, more of suggestions than orders. While police carrying assault rifles and shotguns patrol every corner (a very impressive deterrent for more obscene and violent crimes), this is not the linchpin of modern Paraguayan peace. Asuncion is a safe city (comparatively) and, despite a historical and deserved reputation for police corruption, order is nevertheless maintained in a very tangible way. People certainly have much to fight for, to fight against, but in a blossoming democracy they finally have the means to express these grievances. In the absence of an oppressive dictatorship, the need for militarized law and order has largely abated; Paraguay for the people is sustained by the same.
Landless peasants assemble for peaceful protests, displaced indigenous people stage decade long sit-ins on the city plazas, and demonstrations for human rights make their way through the city streets. This is an organized country and one falling very quickly into it’s global consciousness. Despite it’s cultural isolation, which seems increasingly more evident in the far-flung countryside, Paraguay is on the cusp of realizing the extent of its largely-untapped potential. Paraguay, forever the tropical South American enigma, has come very far in the past two decades and yet, still has very far to go. In the years to come, with critical elections and political change on the very near horizon, the path forward will certainly continue to stretch even further and endlessly ahead.
From Paraguay, still,
little hupo
Asuncion is a city like no other. Its setting, nestled in a sharp bend of the Rio Paraguay, provides both access and isolation to and from the city. Its hard not to feel, especially when one considers that Paraguay lost its only sea port following the Triple Alliance War in the mid 1800’s, that geography has played an enormous role in molding, if not determining to a large extent, the culture and people that currently live here. I digress, for hopes of not walking to far down the road to environmental determinism, for that is certainly not my point. I do however think it is important to understand, or at least begin to understand, a very fundamental concept that has re-emerged many times during my experiences in Paraguay--these people, their lives and livelihoods, are very closely tied to the land.
Perhaps the same can be said of many developing countries. Perhaps the same case can really be made for any country in the world. Perhaps even, this is simply the reason that the work of agriculture extenstionists is so important here in Paraguay. Regardless, in a country where 80% of the economy is agriculturally based, one can only assume (or maybe hope) that the means to development and progress might be somewhere along the very same rural, dirt roads.
The city itself is not far removed from the seemingly infinite Paraguayan country side (called in Spanish the “campo”). Daily, thousands upon thousands of merchants make the pilgrimage to the sprawling market places such as Mercado No. 4 (Mercado Cuatro) or Mercado Abasto. Here, shops are thrown up in a similar manner to houses in the shantytowns--leftover and pilfered materials are hastily fastened to other shacks, buildings, electrical lines or anything else that might seem more stationary (irrespective of however false of an assumption this may actually be).
The merchants peddle their wares, ranging from second-hand electronics to “jujos” (herbs) for terere to clothes and even animals (advertised as “mascotas” or pets, but in reality, just wild birds, snakes and lizards that have been caught and thrown irreverently into cages). Really there is nothing that one can’t find in the mercados, except for maybe a non-pushy salesman. These places are infamous for vendors that aggressively pursue all potential customers, often with words that get stronger and more profane the farther shopper may wander, and occasionally resorting to physical means that at least force someone look at whatever it is they might be selling. Best advice: walk tall and confidently, avoid eye-contact, and don’t even feign interest unless you really, really mean it.
The rest of the city resembles an aging Spanish conquest. Other than the few islands of modernized, Americanized shopping malls and the ever-expanding business district, the rest of the city seems to occupy somewhat of a time-mash. Caught somewhere between the ornate, Spanish-colonial architecture of the older buildings, the crumbling infrastructure that seems to have been left to its devices after the demise of the dictatorship, and the resourcefulness that has crept to life in its stead, Asuncion certainly feels different. The socio-economic spectrum can be almost entirely transcended within one city block. Mercedes-Benzes drive side-by-side on the main roads with horse-drawn carts and other haphazardly re-assembled vehicles that look like the Frankensteins of the automotive world.
One thing is for sure, in Asuncion, if you can make it and you can make it work, then “it lives!”. There are few regulations in place and even fewer that are enforced. Many intersections are left without street signs or even lights. Far from anarchy, however, the order of this city is maintained by the culture, by the people who follow basic principles regardless. Paraguay is perpetually a “tranquillo” country where freedom itself has assumed a unique and very non-Western form.
It’s not that laws are somehow irrelevant, its just that they represent more of a formality than an ultimatum, more of suggestions than orders. While police carrying assault rifles and shotguns patrol every corner (a very impressive deterrent for more obscene and violent crimes), this is not the linchpin of modern Paraguayan peace. Asuncion is a safe city (comparatively) and, despite a historical and deserved reputation for police corruption, order is nevertheless maintained in a very tangible way. People certainly have much to fight for, to fight against, but in a blossoming democracy they finally have the means to express these grievances. In the absence of an oppressive dictatorship, the need for militarized law and order has largely abated; Paraguay for the people is sustained by the same.
Landless peasants assemble for peaceful protests, displaced indigenous people stage decade long sit-ins on the city plazas, and demonstrations for human rights make their way through the city streets. This is an organized country and one falling very quickly into it’s global consciousness. Despite it’s cultural isolation, which seems increasingly more evident in the far-flung countryside, Paraguay is on the cusp of realizing the extent of its largely-untapped potential. Paraguay, forever the tropical South American enigma, has come very far in the past two decades and yet, still has very far to go. In the years to come, with critical elections and political change on the very near horizon, the path forward will certainly continue to stretch even further and endlessly ahead.
From Paraguay, still,
little hupo
Thursday, December 1, 2011
Pieces of the Puzzle: Paraguay
First off, let me preface this blog by apologizing for my lack of attentiveness with keeping my site up to date. Not that anyone is hanging off my words or anything, but since I have also neglected to communicate with most of my friends any family in any other way in the past two months, I am sorry for the lack of news. For those I have not spoken to or e-mailed in quite some time, I am terribly sorry--I am still alive, still quite happy, and still trucking through the craziness that is training in Peace Corps Paraguay. Just for a brief update, our training class G37 will be swearing in as volunteers on December 9th and I will be heading out to my new site near Cleto Romero, Caaguazu, Paraguay the following week to live and work for the next two years. For more details and in case I renege, once again, to maintain this blog, you can always follow me more consistently (although only slightly) on my blog at Organic Gardening Magazine.com (http://organicgardening.com/blogs/theguestblog/).
Life here in Paraguay has been a continuous mixture of emotions and thoughts. As ideas and feelings reel about inside my mind, assuming any one of 3 different languages (English, Spanish or Guarani), I have found myself almost incapable at times to actually sit down and form coherent sentences. This rare moment of clarity is following another week of culturally-integrating madness that ranged from visiting my immensely remote future field-site after catching busses across the entire south-eastern half of the country, experiencing my first of many classic developmental challenges (apart from language and cultural barriers), and dining in the mansion of the US Ambassador to Paraguay on the Embassy grounds in Asuncion. Other than passing my first major Thanksgiving holiday without any family and in 90 degree heat (which turned out to yield more home-sickness than I had originally expected), this week straddled such a range of social, cultural, political and economic strata that I am still trying to process it in its entirety.
When it comes down to it, I have been trying very hard to get a good feel and an honest taste of this country to stick in my mouth. But, even as I continually push myself to distill the essence of Paraguay, I am finding it impossible to assume anything and immensely difficult form a single, reliable characterization of this country and culture. Far from stereotyping, I am simply hoping to have a better idea of what I am going to encounter every morning when I wake up and walk out the door. This has more to do with my psychological need to find some sort of familiarity in the life I am currently living (and will continue to live for the next 2 years) and less to do with an ignorant desire to generalize or idealize. Then again, maybe I am fooling myself.
Paraguay really is a strange and wonderful place. It is a country that seems, even in this globalized and interconnected age, to be remarkably culturally isolated. This country is simultaneously extremely homogenous and yet immensely (and subtly) diverse. The natural beauty here is also less overt. One must sit and stare, wait and watch, or walk and contemplate to eventually realized that, you know what, it actually is very beautiful here. The mountains are not much more than slightly larger mounds, a vast, vast majority of the land choosing instead to remain distressfully flat. The lakes and rivers, quite numerous, are usually hidden by dense canopies or the fact that any topographical relief is hard to come by. Changes in landscape are gradual and often, unless someone is particularly detail oriented, difficult to recognize. This is a place where the true beauty, the immensity of wealth and diversity hidden in this land, only becomes evident when one can discern and dissect the innumerable species of trees and flowers and birds. The Paraguayan people, in their traditionally tranquilo manner, seem to have followed in suit.
Certainly, this is one of the curious characteristics that has led to Paraguay’s strange disconnect with the rest of the world. For several hundred years, the Spanish conquerors of the 16th and 17th century did little more than found the city of Asuncion. Paraguay, without the obvious material riches associated with the high-societies of central Mexico and the Peruvian Andes, was largely left to its own devices. The Spanish did little to tame its interior or to disrupt its indigenous populations (other than Christian conversion) for far longer than many other areas in the Americas. Without a coastline and with a vast, desolate desert (the Chaco region) comprising almost the entire north western half of the country, the Spanish must have considered the few potential profits to be gleaned from this land drastically offset by the difficulties of its conquest. Evidently, they too failed to obtain a perspective that revealed what truly lies at the very core of this mystical land.
And yet, Paraguay is still a country with an immense wealth disparity. The huge numbers of impoverished people either occupy shanty-towns in the few large cities or the vast expanses of rural land where most engage in subsistence farming. In this place, a fledgling democracy is set upon a unique and yet uniquely South American history. This is a country where ox and horse drawn carts wander the streets of the capital city, where modernization has come by strange and often non-linear steps, where the natural beauty is slashed and sold faster than it can be recognized and appreciated. This is a country where buildings crumble, but education is on the rise. Here, in the heart of South American continent, the pulse has been set to a rhythm to be found no where else on earth, fluctuating only with the heat of the summer sun.
As I continue to stumble around this wild and strange place, I can only hope that a better understanding does come, however slowly, and hopefully not at the price of my sanity. These tropical forests and plains, these impenetrable marshes and vast deserts do have a funny penchant for swallowing both traveler and memory, a peculiar fact to which both history and legend will both eagerly attest.
From Paraguay,
Mario
Life here in Paraguay has been a continuous mixture of emotions and thoughts. As ideas and feelings reel about inside my mind, assuming any one of 3 different languages (English, Spanish or Guarani), I have found myself almost incapable at times to actually sit down and form coherent sentences. This rare moment of clarity is following another week of culturally-integrating madness that ranged from visiting my immensely remote future field-site after catching busses across the entire south-eastern half of the country, experiencing my first of many classic developmental challenges (apart from language and cultural barriers), and dining in the mansion of the US Ambassador to Paraguay on the Embassy grounds in Asuncion. Other than passing my first major Thanksgiving holiday without any family and in 90 degree heat (which turned out to yield more home-sickness than I had originally expected), this week straddled such a range of social, cultural, political and economic strata that I am still trying to process it in its entirety.
When it comes down to it, I have been trying very hard to get a good feel and an honest taste of this country to stick in my mouth. But, even as I continually push myself to distill the essence of Paraguay, I am finding it impossible to assume anything and immensely difficult form a single, reliable characterization of this country and culture. Far from stereotyping, I am simply hoping to have a better idea of what I am going to encounter every morning when I wake up and walk out the door. This has more to do with my psychological need to find some sort of familiarity in the life I am currently living (and will continue to live for the next 2 years) and less to do with an ignorant desire to generalize or idealize. Then again, maybe I am fooling myself.
Paraguay really is a strange and wonderful place. It is a country that seems, even in this globalized and interconnected age, to be remarkably culturally isolated. This country is simultaneously extremely homogenous and yet immensely (and subtly) diverse. The natural beauty here is also less overt. One must sit and stare, wait and watch, or walk and contemplate to eventually realized that, you know what, it actually is very beautiful here. The mountains are not much more than slightly larger mounds, a vast, vast majority of the land choosing instead to remain distressfully flat. The lakes and rivers, quite numerous, are usually hidden by dense canopies or the fact that any topographical relief is hard to come by. Changes in landscape are gradual and often, unless someone is particularly detail oriented, difficult to recognize. This is a place where the true beauty, the immensity of wealth and diversity hidden in this land, only becomes evident when one can discern and dissect the innumerable species of trees and flowers and birds. The Paraguayan people, in their traditionally tranquilo manner, seem to have followed in suit.
Certainly, this is one of the curious characteristics that has led to Paraguay’s strange disconnect with the rest of the world. For several hundred years, the Spanish conquerors of the 16th and 17th century did little more than found the city of Asuncion. Paraguay, without the obvious material riches associated with the high-societies of central Mexico and the Peruvian Andes, was largely left to its own devices. The Spanish did little to tame its interior or to disrupt its indigenous populations (other than Christian conversion) for far longer than many other areas in the Americas. Without a coastline and with a vast, desolate desert (the Chaco region) comprising almost the entire north western half of the country, the Spanish must have considered the few potential profits to be gleaned from this land drastically offset by the difficulties of its conquest. Evidently, they too failed to obtain a perspective that revealed what truly lies at the very core of this mystical land.
And yet, Paraguay is still a country with an immense wealth disparity. The huge numbers of impoverished people either occupy shanty-towns in the few large cities or the vast expanses of rural land where most engage in subsistence farming. In this place, a fledgling democracy is set upon a unique and yet uniquely South American history. This is a country where ox and horse drawn carts wander the streets of the capital city, where modernization has come by strange and often non-linear steps, where the natural beauty is slashed and sold faster than it can be recognized and appreciated. This is a country where buildings crumble, but education is on the rise. Here, in the heart of South American continent, the pulse has been set to a rhythm to be found no where else on earth, fluctuating only with the heat of the summer sun.
As I continue to stumble around this wild and strange place, I can only hope that a better understanding does come, however slowly, and hopefully not at the price of my sanity. These tropical forests and plains, these impenetrable marshes and vast deserts do have a funny penchant for swallowing both traveler and memory, a peculiar fact to which both history and legend will both eagerly attest.
From Paraguay,
Mario
Wednesday, October 26, 2011
The Simple Beauty of a Pit Latrine
Its funny how quickly one’s standards can change. Before arriving here in Paraguay, there are many things I would have considered somewhat necessary, or at least fairly conductive, toward living in a relaxing manner. Amenities such as running water, electricity, a stove to cook on (as opposed to an open flame), a fan (or some sort of rudimentary air cooling system), a bathroom, a refrigerator or even a kitchen that isn’t periodically occupied by any number of barn animals all made this list. I have spent much time backpacking and camping, going without such luxuries for weeks at a time, however, living without some of the above (currently for a month, but prospectively for 2 years) presents a different sort of perspective. At no point will I be able to relish in a nice hot shower without hand-sized insects swarming around the 60-watt lightbulb and exposed electric wires that illuminate the outhouse--this is simply the conditions to which one must become accustomed. There is no porcelain throne awaiting me at the end of a long week in the field, only a hole in the ground and the continual honing of my ‘squat-and-aim’ technique. And yet, this does not highlight those things that make life in this developing country difficult--for those things are far more profound and fundamental--this is simply a different lifestyle that one must learn to embrace and appreciate. There is beauty to be found everywhere in this world, even in the simplicity of a pit latrine.
I spent this last week visiting a Peace Corps Volunteer named Gabriel in the Paraguayan department (state or district) of Caazapa in a small town called San Francisco-mi. The point of this visit was to gauge our abilities to travel around a country with an ever tenuous grasp on both national languages and still come out safe on the other end. Additionally, this trip was intended as a means for us to begin constructing a better picture of what volunteer life in the field would be like. Both missions, I must report, were successfully completed.
The trip to the field site was typical of a developing nation-- I paid for a ticket and boarded a Bieber-type tour bus, albeit a decrepit version of one with missing windows and an erratic driver. The ride was several hours to the south-east and as we disembarked from Asuncion I quickly realized that we were picking up more people than we could fit in the limited number of open seats. Soon, the aisles were packed full of riders, all intent on making the 5 hour trip whether standing or otherwise. As I stood up to give my seat to an older woman, I saw the ‘Maximum Occupancy: 49’ sign by the door. I couldn’t help but laugh; there were at least that many people in the aisles, not to mention those in the seats, jammed in the small bathroom at the back of the bus, and the last few riders sitting along the dashboard next to the chain-smoking ‘Rico Suave’-esque bus driver. Glorious.
Around midday, I arrived at town of Maciel--a town large enough to warrant a municipal building but small enough not to require neither street names nor any other features of note. At one intersection of the main road, as if from an old wild-west frontier town, signs pointed off in twenty different directions giving approximate headings and distances to the nearest places of note (Asuncion, Ciudad del Este, Concepcion, Buenos Aires etc.). This seemed to imply that Maciel itself did not make the same list and that those few that might be passing through were only just.
I met Gabriel at the bus stop and we began the six kilometer walk down a dirt road that led us from tiny Maciel to the community in which he was serving--even more remote and far-flung yet. The land was flat and featureless, a natural grassland dotted endlessly with termite mounds both new and old colored iron-red and dust-brown, respectively. We walked over the gently undulating landscape toward a grove of trees on the horizon in which, he informed me, his community was buried. Any way to find relief from the sun was a good thing, I thought, although I would later find out that the trees, while cool and shady, only meant armies of relentless insects. Pick your poison.
Regardless, the three days I spent in San Francisco-mi were amazing. As far off the beaten trail as it may have been, its people were warm and inviting as ever. The ratio of Spanish to Guarani speakers changed dramatically and I realized that to serve effectively in such an area, one must learn to speak the language. It was a great impetus to invigorate my Guarani practice, although it will hardly make the task any easier. The lifestyle in the ‘campo’ (as Paraguayans refer to the country side) is also much different. People grow more of the food they eat and the diet is biased even more so with carbs and meat. The number of farm animals per house increased greatly and everything--from the cows, to the horses, to the chickens and goats and pigs-- were as free-range as could be.
In addition, the amenities offered so far out in the Paraguayan campo also differed from the situation closer to the cities. Water was not free flowing and must be lifted out of wells; showers came from a bucket and the notion of ‘warm water’ involves lots of time and energy that most do not have. Electricity was variably available and several families chose to go without. Along the same lines, many people lacked refrigeration or even separate rooms for a kitchen. If lucky, most houses had enough space inside for most family members to sleep; otherwise, all activities were done outside.
Some of this was different from my current situation with my host family, located more in the suburbs of a larger city, while some was not. There, close to Guarambare, almost all families had running water and most had electricity (to some capacity or another). Refrigeration was more of a necessity as less food was grown and more was purchased (as land-availability and incomes dictated). People here were still poor, but the face of such poverty changes slowly as one moves from more rural to more urban. This transition is subtle but evident; it creates small but significant changes in lifestyles that have the power to effect qualities of life in any number of ways. Life in the campo was not worse than life in the city, hardly. It was different, and those differences are neither bad nor good, but they are conditions to which one must make concessions and adaptations. Regardless, there is nothing with which any person cannot someday learn to live.
As I returned back to my host community several days later, I felt the comforting feeling of returning home. While I wasn’t going to be back with my family in Pennsylvania, I was going to soon be showering in my own shower (with wires exposed and fist sized beetles to boot) and I was soon going to be squatting over my own latrine (it was still just a hole in the ground, but at least it was my hole in the ground). My host family would still be cooking outside over an open flame and doing dishes, washing clothes and shaving in an outdoor sink that is otherwise occupied by roosting chickens outside. But already, after only 3 weeks or so, this has become the norm. When I leave for my host site in another few months, my living conditions will once again change, but I have no doubt that no matter how I will be living, no matter what amenities are or are not available, I will certainly adapt to and learn to love wherever I am. Here’s to pooping in a hole. Cheers.
From Home,
Mario
I spent this last week visiting a Peace Corps Volunteer named Gabriel in the Paraguayan department (state or district) of Caazapa in a small town called San Francisco-mi. The point of this visit was to gauge our abilities to travel around a country with an ever tenuous grasp on both national languages and still come out safe on the other end. Additionally, this trip was intended as a means for us to begin constructing a better picture of what volunteer life in the field would be like. Both missions, I must report, were successfully completed.
The trip to the field site was typical of a developing nation-- I paid for a ticket and boarded a Bieber-type tour bus, albeit a decrepit version of one with missing windows and an erratic driver. The ride was several hours to the south-east and as we disembarked from Asuncion I quickly realized that we were picking up more people than we could fit in the limited number of open seats. Soon, the aisles were packed full of riders, all intent on making the 5 hour trip whether standing or otherwise. As I stood up to give my seat to an older woman, I saw the ‘Maximum Occupancy: 49’ sign by the door. I couldn’t help but laugh; there were at least that many people in the aisles, not to mention those in the seats, jammed in the small bathroom at the back of the bus, and the last few riders sitting along the dashboard next to the chain-smoking ‘Rico Suave’-esque bus driver. Glorious.
Around midday, I arrived at town of Maciel--a town large enough to warrant a municipal building but small enough not to require neither street names nor any other features of note. At one intersection of the main road, as if from an old wild-west frontier town, signs pointed off in twenty different directions giving approximate headings and distances to the nearest places of note (Asuncion, Ciudad del Este, Concepcion, Buenos Aires etc.). This seemed to imply that Maciel itself did not make the same list and that those few that might be passing through were only just.
I met Gabriel at the bus stop and we began the six kilometer walk down a dirt road that led us from tiny Maciel to the community in which he was serving--even more remote and far-flung yet. The land was flat and featureless, a natural grassland dotted endlessly with termite mounds both new and old colored iron-red and dust-brown, respectively. We walked over the gently undulating landscape toward a grove of trees on the horizon in which, he informed me, his community was buried. Any way to find relief from the sun was a good thing, I thought, although I would later find out that the trees, while cool and shady, only meant armies of relentless insects. Pick your poison.
Regardless, the three days I spent in San Francisco-mi were amazing. As far off the beaten trail as it may have been, its people were warm and inviting as ever. The ratio of Spanish to Guarani speakers changed dramatically and I realized that to serve effectively in such an area, one must learn to speak the language. It was a great impetus to invigorate my Guarani practice, although it will hardly make the task any easier. The lifestyle in the ‘campo’ (as Paraguayans refer to the country side) is also much different. People grow more of the food they eat and the diet is biased even more so with carbs and meat. The number of farm animals per house increased greatly and everything--from the cows, to the horses, to the chickens and goats and pigs-- were as free-range as could be.
In addition, the amenities offered so far out in the Paraguayan campo also differed from the situation closer to the cities. Water was not free flowing and must be lifted out of wells; showers came from a bucket and the notion of ‘warm water’ involves lots of time and energy that most do not have. Electricity was variably available and several families chose to go without. Along the same lines, many people lacked refrigeration or even separate rooms for a kitchen. If lucky, most houses had enough space inside for most family members to sleep; otherwise, all activities were done outside.
Some of this was different from my current situation with my host family, located more in the suburbs of a larger city, while some was not. There, close to Guarambare, almost all families had running water and most had electricity (to some capacity or another). Refrigeration was more of a necessity as less food was grown and more was purchased (as land-availability and incomes dictated). People here were still poor, but the face of such poverty changes slowly as one moves from more rural to more urban. This transition is subtle but evident; it creates small but significant changes in lifestyles that have the power to effect qualities of life in any number of ways. Life in the campo was not worse than life in the city, hardly. It was different, and those differences are neither bad nor good, but they are conditions to which one must make concessions and adaptations. Regardless, there is nothing with which any person cannot someday learn to live.
As I returned back to my host community several days later, I felt the comforting feeling of returning home. While I wasn’t going to be back with my family in Pennsylvania, I was going to soon be showering in my own shower (with wires exposed and fist sized beetles to boot) and I was soon going to be squatting over my own latrine (it was still just a hole in the ground, but at least it was my hole in the ground). My host family would still be cooking outside over an open flame and doing dishes, washing clothes and shaving in an outdoor sink that is otherwise occupied by roosting chickens outside. But already, after only 3 weeks or so, this has become the norm. When I leave for my host site in another few months, my living conditions will once again change, but I have no doubt that no matter how I will be living, no matter what amenities are or are not available, I will certainly adapt to and learn to love wherever I am. Here’s to pooping in a hole. Cheers.
From Home,
Mario
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