April 2013

It’s been a while since I last posted. It’s been a crazy few months, filled with visitors from the States, Semana Santa festivities, and like always, plenty of work. But I don’t think that’s why I haven’t written. Really it’s just that nothing has seemed worthy of an entire entry in quite some time.

I used to make little notes and lists of daily experiences and odd happenings. New foods, funny encounters, anything that seemed different, strange, or particularly Guatemalan. Now, 1 year and 8 months in, I have gotten so used to my new lifestyle that I forget that people back home would be surprised by certain things that happen down here.

Not until my family came down to visit in early March was I clearly reminded of this. Camionetas, pilas, not flushing toilet paper, not drinking the water, all things I have grown accustomed to, were brand new, exciting, and a little unnerving to my parents and sister. All things considered, however, they were troopers. They put up with me wanting to walk everywhere, drinking out of bags of water because it’s cheaper, even toughing out the road between Chichicastenango and Quiché in public transportation, a trip that leaves even the most hardened travelers puking into anything they can find.

During my family’s visit, we saw Antigua, had lunch with my first host family, hung out at the lake, shopped in Chichi, and spent a few days getting to know my site. I was nice to be able to show them everything I’ve been talking about for the last 20 months, but at the same time incredibly weird to have my two separate world crash together so abruptly. Walking the streets of Canillá, the usual attention that I get as a tall, white gringo was quadrupled. Introducing my family to my friends and coworkers was nice, but hindered by the perpetual clarification, “yeah, sorry, they don’t speak Spanish.” All in all, it was a hectic, fun, bizarre, wonderful week. If nothing else, I realized how much a handful of people down here care for me, rolling out the red carpet to make sure my family enjoyed their stay. Plus, my family should be able to understand me a little better when I act weird or forget to flush my toilet paper when I head back for good in October.

After my family left, I had a crazy week of work, getting ready for In-Service Training in Canillá in early April. Then, a friend from college came down to visit for Semana Santa. Hands down one of my favorite weeks in-country. As soon as he sends me the pics I’ll post them, but we were all over the place – rivers, caves, lakes, volcanoes. After he left, it was back to the grind, organizing everything for a bunch of gringos and their counterparts to descend upon Canillá for a 3-day workshop on project design and management and the construction of a greenhouse, paid for by USAID and built on the land on one of the agricultural promoters with whom I work. Everything went great, thankfully, but after a month straight of running around, I watched movies and slept for an entire weekend straight.

Also since I last wrote, I had to give Griffey away. I used to have a lot of extra space where I live, but they began to pave the road between Canillá and San Andrés, so the spare rooms were rented out to a bunch of construction workers. I felt bad leaving Griffey locked up in my small room all day, and gradually, despite all my cleaning efforts, everything began to smell like dog. After attempting to sell him to a coworker in the Muni (who promised to buy him, shook on it, and then flaked out last minute and stopped answering my calls…Rafa, you suck), I ended up giving him to my old host family, who also has a dachshund. My friends give me a hard time for being soulless and giving my dog away, but he’ll be happier running around with his girlfriend than trapped in a tiny, hot room. Plus, I cant justify spending $500 to ship him back to the States when I don’t even know where I’m going to be living or working post Peace Corps. Sad, but the right decision in the end.

A funny story to finish off this post. After a training a while back, one of my promoters came up to me, and in all seriousness, told me that her brother-in-law has been seeing strange lights emanating from his land at night, and is convinced that there is some kind of buried treasure down there. Of course, being from the States, I would know the best way to go about finding where it is buried, or have some special tool to look below the earth, right? I told her I would look into it. Sounds like a good secondary project to me.

February 2013

Happy 2013! It’s been quite a while since I last wrote, over 3 months, actually. In between now and then, I saw Guatemala’s Pacific coast for the first time and spent Thanksgiving with good friends. I flew home to the States to celebrate Christmas, New Year’s, and my sister’s 21^st birthday, a vacation that was much-needed and just the right amount of time. After flushing my toilet paper and drinking tap water for almost two weeks, it was back my warm, little, remote corner of the world. Now, having been back in-country for over a month, I am looking at less than 9 months left in my Peace Corps service.

9 months. For me, and I would wager for the majority of Volunteers, there is a perpetual sort of countdown in our heads, ticking away at the 27 month commitment we made to ourselves, to our country, and most importantly, to the people of Guatemala. This isn’t to say that I was ever counting down the individual days, although I admit that on occasion, out of curiosity, I figure out how exactly how many I have left. More so it has to do with the definite, ephemeral nature of the Peace Corps experience. You come, you work, you leave. Maybe you extend, in which case you work a little longer, but eventually you still leave.

Last week a friend asked me if, once I left, I would ever come back and visit

– “You’re not gonna forget about your cuates in Guatemala, are you?”, he asked.

- “Of course not, I’ll definitely be back to visit.”

But will I? And more importantly, if and when I do, will it be the same? Will I be the same?

Everyone always says that coming home is the hardest part. Nothing changes, but you do. Your friends and family will be curious, but won’t really get it. True, true, and true. While my trip home was fantastic, the first thing I realized that I wasn’t quite ready to be back. The second thing I realized is that I will never again, if at all humanly possible, own an iPhone.

My trip home was a whirlwind 12 days, filled with friends and family, good food, and even a little bit of snow. It was amazing, but not in any of the ways I really expected. First off, and least importantly, I didn’t eat a single bite of peanut butter, despite my mom having stocked up for my return. I did, however, spend the week in sandwich heaven. The refrigerator is a glorious invention.

There were times I was bored simply because I’m not used to being able to do things so quickly or efficiently. I recall asking my mom, “Mom, if I wash these pants in the morning, will they be dry by tonight? I’m used to my laundry taking several hours, followed by several more hours of them drying.

“Eric, they’ll be done in an hour.” Oh yeah. Forgot about those other two glorious inventions, the washer and dryer.

More than anything, I was struck by how nice everything in the States is. How easy. Problems seemed so trivial after relating on a regular basis to people who literally eat native plants and tortillas as the majority of their diet, people who earn 5-6 dollars for a hard day’s work. Dogs pooping in our yard just didn’t seem to bother me. My dog poops all over the place, as do the rest of the animals in this country. What’s the big deal?

The US is incredible in that everything works the way it should. The highways are paved, water comes out when you open the tap, you click on the stove and out comes fire. Crazy. On one hand, it makes me proud to be an American. At some time in the distant past, the US was wilderness and frontier, and people died of diarrhea just like they do in Guatemala. Because of years of hard work, the US gradually transformed itself into the most affluent country in the world, a global superpower, a pillar of democracy. Ha.

But is it all really necessary? What do we lose when we gain all that wealth? To start, the ability to interact with one another. Back to the iPhone. If there was one thing I disliked more about being home more than any other, it is that in only a year and a half, the iPhone has gone from an incredibly useful gadget to an extension of everyone’s being. Put your phone down and talk to the people around you. Take out your headphones and talk to the people on the street. Technology is great, but so are people.

If I have learned anything during my time in Guatemala, is that the lifestyle we lead as Americans is not normal. The US is surreally wealthy, with so many opportunities and the freedom to do what we please with our time. It is really no wonder why so many people come to the States from other countries in search of a better life.

With Obama’s pledge to tackle immigration reform, I thought I would share my perspective on the issue. I should mention that these thoughts are my own and not reflective of Peace Corps or the US government, but they are less opinions and more objective observations, so I’m not too worried.

In Guatemala, the average day laborer makes 50 quetzales. This translates to roughly 6 dollars per day. In the United States, minimum wage is 8.50, if I’m not mistaken. This means that in one hour in the US, you can make more than a Guatemalan will make, doing back-breaking labor, in one entire day.

Now, put yourself in a Guatemalan’s shoes. You’re struggling to provide for your family, and you hear of an opportunity to make almost ten times as much money for the same work you are already doing. If you pursue this opportunity, your family will be provided for, you can save money to buy some land, start a business, and even build a house. You won’t be rich, but you can live comfortably. Naturally you’re curious.

Here’s the catch. You have to save 50,000 quetzales to pay a coyote to guide you across the Mexican desert. You may have to drink from pools of cow piss, run away from dogs and immigration police on motorcycles, even go days without food and water. You will have to sneak across the US border, find a job, and then work your ass off for years while sharing a cramped apartment with numerous, equally stressed-out others. Not to mention, while you’re there, you have to live in perpetual fear that the immigration police will find you and send you right back. You have no documentation, no health insurance, and you don’t speak the language.

Despite all this, I personally know dozens of people who have taken this risk. Some make it, some don’t. They are willing to risk so much for their families, to suffer unimaginably just to get to our country, and then to suffer more while there. I’m not arguing one way or another, in favor or against border security or immigration reform. All I’m saying is that I think it is unfortunate that most people don’t actually understand the situation. I know I didn’t. It can never hurt to think in terms of someone else's point of view.

Meanwhile, and forgive the abrupt transition…I have been really busy with work. 160 baby chickens hatched several weeks ago from an incubator that FAO donated to one of my communities. We have been working hard to vaccinate them and teach proper chicken coop maintenance, and as a result not a single one has died. My old counterpart was let go and my new one is great. He seems to really care about his work, and because he has a car, I can start to work in further out communities as well as the closer ones I already cover.

Rainy season has come and gone, and we are entering into the hottest, dustiest part of the year. Griffey is full grown and now has impregnated two, soon to be three, other local wiener dogs. Apparently I have a monopoly on the local, male dachshund market. In one week my group will no longer be the newest in-country. About time. Finally, I am really looking forward to having my family to come and visit in a little over a month. I’m excited to show them around the country, but mostly I can’t wait for them to see where I live and what I do, and meet who I interact with on a daily basis. Anyways, that’s all for now! Hasta luego.

A la Mitad

I can’t believe it’s been almost two months since I last wrote. Despite the molasses-like pace of the hora chapina, time continues to speed up here in Guatemala. As of October, I find myself looking back at the half-way point of my Peace Corps experience, wondering how the púchica 14 months came and went so quickly.

Now that I’ve reached the summit of my service and started to descend towards the finish line, I can’t decide if I want to start my kick early or dig in my heels. You could say I’m going through a small mid-service crisis. I’ve lived in 5 different houses with 4 host families in 3 cities, struggled to learn basic phrases in 2 Mayan languages, and raised a dog from puppy to soon-to-be father. Peace Corps has gone from 250 Volunteers working across Guatemala to only 90 in six departments. My program was cancelled, my boss retired at the end of September, and despite all this, we are still the newest PCV’s in-country. Change. Change. Change.

Then, calm. There are still some adjustments to be made, but Peace Corps has settled down considerably. There is nothing else to be flung at the fan, no more unpleasant surprises around the corner. (Knock on wood and cross your fingers). Personally, I have more work than I know what to do with, I feel comfortable in my site, and I am continuing to explore the corners of this beautiful country. Now what? Is this the part where I continue to integrate, make friends, and irreparably connect myself to my little rural home? Do I start to plan for what’s next? Where is the happy medium?

“All we have to decide is what to do with the time that is given us.” I’ve used this quote before, but it’s still relevant. If you’re as much of a nerd as I am, you’ll know exactly where it’s from. Simple, if you think about it. Insanely complicated when all you have is time. 27 months to reflect. They call Peace Corps a Masters Degree in Self. I’m tired of learning about myself, yet I continue to get to know me more every day. It’s exhausting. At the same time, I wouldn’t trade this experience for the world.

Anyways, rant aside, what’s new? A lot.

For starters, after 7 months of living with my host family, I decided to change houses. All Volunteers in Guatemala are required to live with host families, the thought being that by living with a family you will be safer and can integrate more easily into the community. This is true, but if there is any one rule in PC/Guatemala that causes the most stress, it is this one. Few and far between are the Volunteers that last an entire 2 years with the same family. Problems that I have heard of range from items gone missing to drunk host brothers to host mothers not being able to aim their feces properly. In my case, my host family was great. They treated me like one of their own, invited me to participate in family activities, and we shared every meal together for over half a year. However, I never received a key to the front door. They would leave the window open, but of course my arm is too big to reach in and undo the lock. So, three times a day I knocked and waited to be let in.

Over the course of a few weeks, I was invited to several dinners with work counterparts and friends. Guatemalans eat late, and on each occasion by the time we finished it was after ten o’clock. Each time, after several calls asking when I was coming home and if I was drunk or not (I wasn’t), I had to leave early to avoid sleeping on the street. Months ago I had approached my host mother about making a copy of her key, each time receiving a vague yet positive response but no follow-through. Finally, when twice in one week I found myself standing in front of my own door after dark, waiting for 15 minutes to be let in, it became painfully clear to me that it was time to go.

The conversation wasn’t nearly as awkward as I expected, my host mom telling me that I needed to make the right decision for myself. Thirty minutes later at the lunch table, however, the lecture began. As I nodded politely and chewed on my beans and tortillas, I felt like I was 16 years old. It’s not okay for single people to live alone. People will take advantage of you. People here believe in witchcraft, they’ll slip things in your food so they can influence your decisions. That’s why I don’t let my kids accept invitations. Needless to say, at this point I knew I made the right decision. Adios!

Now, pending PC approval, I will be living with a new host family, but in an apartment as part of a compound. I’ll have my own room, bathroom, and pila. Most importantly, I’ll have my own KEY! I’ll have to cook for myself, but I’ll manage. It’s not like I eat much more than eggs, beans, and tortillas, anyway.

I mentioned earlier that my dog is going to be a dad. Last weekend a random man showed up at my door with a female dachshund in tow, asking to breed her with Griffey and give me a puppy as payment. Having never been in this situation before, I accepted. Apparently my wiener (dog) has a reputation. The two lovebirds spent the afternoon locked on the balcony.

As far as work goes, my site-mate and I are trying to build a school out of bottles. The project was started by a Volunteer before us, but fell apart when she had to go home early. Now that we’re comfortable in site, we decided to get it going again. It’s been a struggle, but we are making slow progress in getting the community excited. We are also helping out with the Alcaldía Maya to plan celebrations for the end of the Mayan calendar (Oxlajuj B’aqtun), the election of the Mayan Princess, and International Women’s Day. We just finished soliciting money from FODIGUA, the National Fund for Indigenous Peoples in Guatemala, so hopefully they send some cash our way. By the way, no one here believes that the world is going to end, so everyone up North can chill out.

My list of things I’ve killed and eaten continues to grow. Chickens, ducks, rabbits. Next up, a pig (sorry Melissa). Taking an animal from a fur or feathers to individual slabs of meat makes you appreciate where your food actually comes from. If you’re going to eat it, you should be able to kill it as well.

Finally, my first encounter with a Mayan sauna, or tuj as it is called locally, could have been better. I visited one of my friends’ sites in Totonicapán, which is almost completely indigenous Maya K’iche’. Because water can be scarce, many people in rural villages bathe in a traditional sauna, heating up a small adobe structure and scrubbing off inside. We managed to fit 4 people inside, but being gringos, we were a little bit larger than the average tuj user. After thirty minutes of sitting cross-legged and naked in the tiny hut, we all started to feel the heat. Crawling out into the fresh air, I felt surprisingly clean, but also very light-headed. I hadn’t eaten lunch, and I stood up to put on my towel and lean against the wall. One second I was talking, and the next thing I know, my vision faded to black and I was on my knees. Everything was dark, and I thought I was still inside. Luckily, my friend caught me and helped me to sit down, reassuring me that I was already out. I’ve never fainted before, so it was pretty scary how fast you can lose consciousness. I won’t be skipping lunch next time!

That’s all for now! Feliz noche.

One Year!

This post is prompted by an explicit request from my parents to “not be so depressing this time.” It’s true, my last few entries have been less than jovial; I try to prevent my therapeutic writing efforts from turning into giant bitch sessions, but sometimes it just feels too good to complain.

Today, in honor of my one year anniversary in Guatemala, I promise to abstain from the negativity and provide nothing but glass-half-full reflection. Drink up.

7,148 views. Of my blog, that is. Over 355 days, that equates to about 20 views per day. A few hundred of those are my own, of course - I get a kick out of watching the ticker creep its way towards the ten thousand mark. I usually stop at that and am on my way, but recently I was bored enough to discover Blogger’s new statistics page. Here, I found a ton of completely useless information about who is reading what I write. Greetings to the 15 people in Turkey and 2 in Kazakhstan who are obviously equally as bored as I am.

After perusing the various stats for far too long, I stumbled upon a category detailing my blog’s traffic sources. Most people find me through Peace Corps Journals and direct searches, but a few of the queries that lead directly to larsoninguatemala.blogspot.com left me questioning what it is I’m actually writing. During the year my blog has been public domain, 4 people have logged onto Google, typed in “peeing in sweatpants,” and eventually made their way through the search results to my blog.

Lately, however, I’ve been anything but bored. I used to hear stories of Volunteers finishing entire libraries of books during their service. Between work in site, Peace Corps trainings, and several new hobbies, I haven’t finished a book (besides the Hunger Games trilogy) in months. Instead, I’ve been tending my crops, raising worms, and working out. I’ll start with the crops.

A little over a month ago, I started a demonstrative garden in the center of town so that community promoters, beneficiaries (and I) could learn, hands-on, how to grow vegetables. Before, whenever promoters received trainings, they sat in a room for three hours and were talked at – “Make sure you plant your radishes in lines, 5 centimeters apart.” Or “Disinfect your garden with a half pound of ash per square meter before you plant.” For the most part, based on visits out to the communities, this information went in one ear and straight out the other.

When I arrived in site, I was struck by an abandoned tree nursery next to the post office. Hundreds of young pines had grown too big for their plastic bags and were now wilted and dying. The reforestation project of a previous mayor stalled when power changed hands in January, and without upkeep the land filled with weeds, stray dogs, and trash.

With the permission of the director of the Planning Office, over two days we brought in students from the local Instituto (yay child labor) to clean up trash, weed, and till the land with cow manure and dried leaves. Municipal workers painted the fence and adjacent buildings, the malaria workers that share the space got rid of some of their trash, and we formed the seed beds and planted. After weeks of battling the drought, followed by tropical storm Ernesto flooding the place, the garden is somehow looking respectable. Our radishes are about ready to harvest, the tomatoes are looking beautiful, and the squash and cilantro are toughing it out. We added in a worm composting box, started a medicinal garden, and are looking into organizing a giant compost pile with help from town street sweepers. I’m mostly just grateful that I look like I know what I’m doing. Plus, if I ever get cancelled on, I’ll always have my crops to look after.

Next, the worms. Part of the FAO program is that every benefited family must have a worm composting box. Most of the women shrink at the thought of having to work with the crawly creatures, but a lot of people get really into it when they realize that it is essentially free fertilizer. Kids especially get a kick out of throwing in their banana peel and watching the coqueta rojas frenzy around a fresh meal.

I, too, have gotten caught up in the worm composting fad. After starting out by composting unused Peace Corps reading material in a small plastic tub, my worms began reproducing more like rabbits than worms. Despite having donated close to a thousand to get various communities started, my little guys are still chewing through anything I throw at them.  I’m in the process of constructing an industrial-sized worm box so my host mom can compost all the scraps left over from her comedor. In just over a year in Guatemala, this is what I do for fun – it’s amazing how life can change.

Finally, working out. For my first few months in site, the town “gym” was a small  bedroom with a couple benches, dumbbells up to 25 pounds, a pull-up bar, and two bicycles. It was packed with equipment and hot, but after 9 months of homemade weights and pushups, it was fantastic. Having never been an early riser, I would go after work, around five o’clock. Gradually, people would filter in, filling the tiny space in a heartbeat. A 20 x 20 foot space with no windows quickly gets hot. Add to that the fact that Guatemalans believe that the more you sweat, the better, and a fully cranked space heater. Pretty soon you have ten glistening men wringing their shirts out onto the floor, or more often, without shirts at all.

Ironically, this dank, dark environment is ideal for making new friends. Maybe it’s the close proximity to one another, the camaraderie built by lifting heavy objects in the air, or the mix of sweat dampening the floor, but  in this tiny space, I’ve met my best Guatemalan friends. I’ve also learned a ton of useful Guatemalan phrases and beliefs, most of which are pretty vulgar. For example, did you know that crushed raccoon penis is a great aphrodisiac? Me neither.

Luckily, within the last several weeks the gym was moved to a better location, on the second floor of a decent-sized building. With windows.

Anyways, that’s what I’ve been up to. Check out the pics!

Oh, and looks like I’ll be coming home for Christmas!

Planting seeds with workers from the Muni

Radish, the quickest and easiest vegetable

Demonstrative Garden

In charge.

Birthday celebration

Observing cows in Chimaltenango

Digging ditches with Mayan women

Friendship milking

Sitemates! Gonna miss you guys, Justin and Carolyn 

Sitemates plus some

Griffey says, brush your teeth!

July 2012

One month has passed since I returned to Guatemala after spending 10 days in the States. My time back home flew by; after a week of relaxing Florida vacation with my parents and sister and a couple fun nights out in Chicago with friends, it was time to board a plane back to Guate. While sad to leave, I was not dreading the two-day-long trek back to Canillá. Unlike my first departure, I was not venturing off into the unknown, but instead, coming back to a job, house, and host family to which I had become accustomed.

I can finally say that I live in Guatemala. Before now, my Peace Corps experience had been a chaotic mess of almost a year, spending several months with a trio of different host families and never being able to fully settle in or relax. I have now spent more time in Canillá than Comitancillo, a realization that continues to boggle my mind. I wouldn’t say that I like my new site more than my last, but it’s hard to know. You find ways to like where you live, because really, you don’t have a choice. However, I would say that I am getting more out of it. My Spanish is still improving steadily, mostly thanks to the foul-mouthed municipal employees with whom I share an office. My host family continues to be great, treating me like one of their own, and even starting to open up about difficult-to-discuss family issues. Finally, work is challenging, rewarding, and never-ending. Personally supervising close to 200 households, I am never bored.

While I may live here, I don’t know if I could stay here. Occasionally, after a successful workday or a lengthy conversation with a friendly stranger, Guatemala doesn’t seem so bad. And it’s really not; there are a ton of things that I like about my second home, and once in a blue moon, the thought crosses my mind that 27 months might not be enough. However, and perhaps my recent re-exposure to the US of A has made this clearer, there are plenty of cultural idiosyncrasies that I don’t know if I could ever get over. I think that by returning to the U.S. with some of the positive aspects of Guatemala having rubbed off on me, I will be much happier than continuing to struggle as a little, gringo fish in a big, chapín pond.

After around a year in a new place, you start to notice cultural differences that were before masked by a sort of honeymoon period of new experiences and excitement. Certain dissimilarities are obvious from the beginning, but the more serious issues and broader consequences that result remain hidden from sight. In this blog, I’ll explain a couple that are particularly bothersome. The following thoughts are my own and do not reflect the positions of the Peace Corps or the United States Government.

Guatemalans, on the whole, are friendlier than us. There is always time to stop and chat, discuss the weather, or catch up on the latest gossip. Unlike the U.S., where everyone walks to class simultaneously texting and listening to their iPods, every single person on the street in Guatemala will greet you as you pass by. As a result, it is a lot easier to make “good acquaintances”, as I like to call them – people who you know by name but with whom you rarely spend significant time.

Making friends is a different story. In a country where family is the most important societal force, true friends are rare. During our counterpart orientation, my boss, a Guatemalan who has spent time in the States, explained it like this: Imagine a series of circles of increasing size radiating from a point in the center, kind of like the Sun and the planets in our solar system. You are the Sun, and the circles closest to you represent your family. Where Mercury and Venus would be, you find your parents and siblings, then your cousins and grandparents, second cousins, and so on. As you move further out, past Earth and Mars, you go from family to friends, and then from friends to acquaintances. Past the last circle resides the vast universe of people you don’t know.

In Guatemala, breaking into the solar system is easy. The orbits of Neptune through Pluto are filled with acquaintances, people that you know and talk to regularly, but rarely connect with on a deeper level. Acquaintances hardly ever become true friends, so the middle regions of the Guatemalan solar system are surprisingly empty. When I asked my host sister how many of her friends from school she still talks to, she said, “None, they all got married and had kids and think they’re better than me because of it.” My host sister is only 22, and already she can count on one hand the friends that she really cares about. To make up for the lack of true friends, Guatemalan families are incredibly strong. Most people will tell you, without hesitation, that family is the only thing you can count on. Amigos, solo Dios.

In the United States, acquaintances come and go, briefly passing through our outer walls only to fade away later on. We are comparatively wary of who we let in, and picky about the friends we choose to keep around. Occasionally, and over time, friends make their way toward the Sun, entering the middle regions so notably vacant in Guatemala. Certain friends, the “best friends” that we’ve all had at one point, make it even further, sometimes reaching the same level as family. They meet our parents and siblings, enter our homes as they please, and understand us in ways that we struggle to understand ourselves. For these friends, we are willing to make sacrifices. To illustrate this, my boss finished his talk by asking our Guatemalan counterparts, followed by us Volunteers, how many of us had friends for whom we would risk our lives. All the raised hands were connected to the arms of U.S. citizens.

Friends in Guatemala, according to my host family, only stick around when there is something to gain. Perhaps my host family is particularly jaded, but from my experience they seem to be somewhat right. Guatemalans do not hesitate to ask for favors. The best example I can think of is something that is no less than infuriating to every single Volunteer in this country: saldo.

Literally translated, saldo means “balance”, as in the balance in a bank account. In Guatemala, saldo is the money you pay to use your cell phone. The majority of stores sell recharges of various amounts, from 5 Quetzales up to 100. It’s actually a pretty cool system, equivalent to a pay-as-you-go phone, until you throw Guatemalans into the mix. No matter how many times you explain that you are a Volunteer, you are still seen as the American. This obviously means that you have a ton of money and plenty of saldo on your phone. No less than three times per day I am asked by a counterpart or other Guatemalan I work with to let them use my phone to make a call. It’s not just me. Every Volunteer knows that many Guatemalans would rather not get work done than have to pay for their own saldo. Walking to the store to recharge their phone is only a viable option after everyone in the room has been asked. I can’t count the number of times this has happened, but it is still mind-blowing. At first it was comical, but gradually the humor of the situation turned to frustration as I realized how much money I was giving away to people who make more than me. On one particularly stressed-out day, I stubbornly responded to a saldo request, “You know, you might as well just ask me for money.” While this outburst felt so good, for the rest of the day I was teased for being the stingy gringo.

Saldo is just one of many impediments to productivity in this country, which is surprising as most Guatemalans are incredibly hardworking. Farmers wake up before sunrise to walk to tend their corn. Women walk miles up and down mountains and ford rivers just to wash their clothes. No wonder so many companies hire illegal immigrants to tar roofs and work in factories; when it comes to manual labor, they put us to shame. Unfortunately, politics play a huge role in the jobs that could make a real difference in Guatemala, which leads me to my next complaint – the alcalde.

Un alcalde is the mayor of the municipality, a position that in the United States is important, but rarely a career that one aspires to. In fact, many times mayors in small-town America are simply volunteers. In Guatemala, the mayor reminds me of high school European History classes, where centuries of English monarchs claimed their divine, God-given right to rule with absolute authority. While the mayor of my site seems to be a good guy, I have heard countless stories of fast-talking, middle-school educated cowboys that gain enough support to be elected. They then proceed to appoint their buddies to important, decision-making positions and steal obscene sums of money over their 4 years in office, leaving the next administration deep in debt.

We can’t place all the blame on the alcaldes, however, because the people themselves continue to place them on a pedestal and hesitate to hold them accountable for their actions. The alcalde is seen as the ultimate authority, who must be called upon to resolve the simplest of problems and always must be considered when anything positive is to happen. When FAO hands out seeds or food, for example, the alcalde must be present to give a speech, taking credit for something he has absolutely nothing to do with. As the one hundred pound bags of beans are divided, clearly stamped, “Paid for by the government of Brasil”, the alcalde’s benevolent image is further bolstered.

This post is quickly getting long, so for the sake of brevity I’ll leave it here. Below are some pics of recent work I’ve done. Expect a less serious post soon!

Making homemade chicken feeders and waterers out of recycled bottles

Getting promoters involved in a training about Microcuencas 

A poster I use to explain what happens when you don't take care of your chickens. Lots of diarrhea.

BFFs

View from a walk to one of my communities

One of the better gardens I supervise

Making healthy desserts

Peeling carrots and squeezing lemons to make a snack

Home grown raddishes! 

Too many cooks in the kitchen

May 2012

I apologize in advance for the pessimistic tone of this post, but the combination of new, ever-evolving illnesses and my upcoming trip back to the States (and consequent comparison to how healthy I used to be) have left me struggling to make it until May 25^th. This is not to say that I’m not enjoying myself still, but Guatemala has not been so kind to me as of late.

Rewind several weeks. Coming back from a weekend out of site, I’m in a hurry to make it to the bus terminal in Quiché before the last mid-day camioneta departs for Canillá. It’s around two o’clock, and I haven’t eaten breakfast, a meal which I usually skipped back home. Now, when I don’t have my 5 tortillas, eggs, and beans, I’m ravenous by lunchtime. Unfortunately, terminal food is limited, and usually not the safest bet in terms of avoiding diarrhea. Even worse are the vendors that board the buses, baskets of lukewarm chuchitos in hand, trying to deceive you into thinking that the food they’re peddling is fresh. The combination of my hunger, a slight hangover, and the adorable Mayan girl yelling, “Chuchitos a uno cincuenta Chuchitooooos!” leaves me helpless but to order dos, porfa.

24 hours later, I leave the office feeling a little queasy, but otherwise fine. At some point along the walk home, my pace quickens and gradually becomes a sprint to the bathroom, where I spend the next 30 minutes re-tasting everything I’d eaten that day. Queasiness turns to body aches and chills, followed by fever and exhaustion. After a few bouts of diarrhea, I make it back to bed and fall asleep in my clothes. I wake up several times during the night, soaked in sweat, and have to change shirts. That was Monday.

Tuesday through Friday are more of the same. I wake up feeling alright but not great, make some strong coffee to get me going, and suffer through the morning. Tuesday I walk for 4 hours straight doing house visits, Wednesday we give a training on agricultural mechanization, Thursday a charla on how to plant a garden. Friday, more house visits. Every night, I come home and a little part of me dies, my body temperature rocketing up and then plummeting at whim. At this point, you would think I would have called the doctor, but unfortunately, and as I have mentioned before, I fall right into a very well-founded male stereotype – I hate asking for help.

By Sunday morning, after 2 nights of 14+ hours of sleep, I’m feeling okay. The fever seems to have passed, and I’m well enough to do some laundry, a task that in Guatemala leaves me ready to sleep again. At dinner, however, I take a bite of tortillla and am struck by how much it hurts to chew. In the mirror, my gums are swollen and red, and the roof of my mouth is starting to blister. At this point, there’s really not much I can do, because I’m 6 hours from the nearest Peace Corps-approved hospital, and my condition hasn’t quite reached my definition of an emergency. I’ll survive the night. I wake up early Monday morning and start to brush my teeth, but have to stop because it hurts too much. I spit, and even against my black sink, all I see is the deep red of my own blood. Now, we have an emergency. I call the Peace Corps medical office and explain my symptoms. “Yeah, you need to go to the hospital,” is the response I get. Of course.

7 hours of bus rides later, I’m in Xela, the second largest city in Guatemala, looking for a hospital I’ve never been to, and praying that my teeth don’t start to fall out of my mouth. I’m attended quickly, and I impress myself that I can jump through the hoops of a doctor’s visit in Spanish. They take my blood, swab my throat, and an hour later have my results. My blood test shows no signs of infection, meaning my body has already fought it off. As for the sorry state of my mouth, the doctor explains that the swelling and blistering are a result of my body temperature being too high for too long. After a day or two, a fever becomes counterproductive and starts to wreak havoc on body tissues. I’m prescribed an anti-inflammatory mouth wash, Listerine to prevent infection, and anti-virals just in case. As far as what caused all this, there’s really no way to know. I won’t be eating any more bus-chuchitos, that’s for sure.

I spend two days in a hotel in Xela, because protesters have blocked the highway and there’s no way back to my site. Despite the inconvenience, it’s heavenly to have nothing to do but rest, and I even get to watch a couple baseball games on TV. With the meds, my mouth stops getting worse, but takes a couple days to show improvement. Listerine isn’t the most comfortable thing with a healthy mouth, but with blisters and open sores it borders on torture. 30 seconds, 3 times a day leave me clutching the sink, eyes watering. A couple days later, I’m back to  100%, relieved that the nightmare is over.

While I’m on the topic of illness, I’ll touch on some bizarre, yet very common Guatemalan beliefs regarding health. First, there is an idea that all food is either hot or cold. The way I understand it, hot foods can be eaten almost any time. For example, coffee, soup, chicken, eggs, black beans, tortillas – these are a safe bet all day long. Cold foods should only be consumed when it is warm out, and never when you are sick. For example, lettuce, avocado, most fruits/vegetables, fresco (a sugary, juice-like drink). Certain foods are hard to classify, but you’ll know if you get a weird look, as if to say,  “Why would you ever eat that right now?” For the most part, my eating habits have adjusted to fit, with two exceptions. First, Guatemalans love caldo, a soup/stew made with vegetables chicken, or beef. What bothesr me is that they love it even more on really hot days, where the last thing you want to eat is a boiling hot bowl of soup. Second, coffee is almost always the drink of choice at night. It’s a hot drink, and with the cooler temperatures after dark, why would you ever want a glass of water or juice with dinner?

Next, Guatemalans love to inject things; there exists the common misconception that if you stick yourself with a needle, the medicine will work better than its pill counterpart. Many people here regularly visit the pharmacy to receive an injection of wide-range antibiotics, in the belief that they are keeping their immune system strong, not wiping it clean and leaving themselves vulnerable. Tetracycline and amoxicillin get popped like candy – my host mom wanted to give me one for a simple headache. Laxatives are even worse, some people “cleaning their stomachs” as much as once a month, also cleaning themselves of any helpful intestinal bacteria they might have. My host mom, not joking, suggested that we all take a laxative on Sunday to start the week off healthy. While my program isn’t so much health-related, other sections of Peace Corps focus on explaining why these practices are so harmful.

Finally, according to Guatemalans, you should never let a dog or cat lick you. This makes a little more sense, as most of the dogs they are exposed to are street chuchos – vile, homeless creatures infested with fleas, their intestines popping out of their bellies and their genitals oozing of STDs. Griffey, my dog, is clean, and for the most part, flea-less. He eats dog food and the occasional bone, and while I hardly let him lick my face, sometimes he sneaks one in. Last week I heard the story of a woman who had an equally affectionate dog. She let him sleep in her bed, lick her face, and she treated it (God forbid) like a pet. When her and her husband tried to get pregnant, however, it took them a long time. When they finally did, their first child was born with a dog face. Their second, with paws. Both children died within several days, but it wasn’t for several years, after getting rid of their dog, that they were able to have normal children. As I listened to this story, I struggled to keep a straight face, knowing that stuff like this is accepted as fact here.

The early start of the rainy season turned out to be a tease; the week of torrential afternoon rains in mid-April gave way to several more of intense heat and dust. With the heat, out came the bugs. For the past several weeks, I have had to choose between not sleeping because of the heat, or not sleeping because of the mosquitoes. If I leave my door closed, the mosquitoes stay out, but I am left sweating on top of my blankets. Door open, and I can cover myself, but the mosquitoes usually find a square inch of exposed skin on which to feast. Most nights, I stay up reading until 2 or 3 in the morning, killing mosquitoes by the dozen, until finally I’m tired enough not to feel them biting.

Last week, for International Worker’s Day, a holiday when ironically everyone gets the day off, I went with my host family and house-mates to the river to have a barbeque and enjoy the weather. We swam, ate lunch, and played volleyball on a little beach next to the Río Grande. It was a great day, and I really started to feel comfortable with my host family. They have always treated me well and done their best to include me, but it wasn’t until recently that I have truly felt at home here. At the end of the day, however, we packed up to head home. Before leaving, I looked around, shocked at how much of a mess we made. Hating to guilt people into cleaning up, I grabbed a plastic bag and started to pick up some trash. “Don’t worry, leave it” was the response I got. Everyone was shocked at the minimal effort I took to put everything in a bag. They were even more shocked when I didn’t toss it in the fire, instead saying that I would bring it back home. Very few people here know that Styrofoam and plastic bottles are not okay to burn. “That’s so much work,” they said, looking at the one pound bag of trash I had accumulated. I didn’t really know what to say.

At the end of a really fun day enjoying nature, it was depressing to see how people who could appreciate the outdoors could also care so little about taking care of it. I’ve never been a tree-hugger/ Save the Earth/ stand-in-front-of-a-steamroller-to-protect-a-tree type, but I grew up camping and being outside. I don’t litter, and I try to leave things the same, if not a little better, than how I find them.  I know that at some point my bag of trash will be thrown off a cliff like the rest of the garbage in Guatemala, but at least it wasn’t going directly into the river.

Okay, pessimism over. This will probably be my last blog before I head home to visit family and friends in the States. In honor of my upcoming trip to the North, I’ll take a quick look at the main ways my life has changed in the last 9 months:

Things I have gotten used to during my time in Guatemala (in random order): carrying toilet paper everywhere I go in case of an emergency, cockroaches 2 inches long scuttling across my floor, killing said cockroaches, sitting at least 3 to a seat on school buses all day long, eating 15+ tortillas per day, never flushing toilet paper, shocking myself on the electric water heater on a regular basis, soccer, buying purified water or boiling it before I drink, being fíjese-qued, being really tall, speaking Spanish, women in traje, consistently warm weather, dust, mud, rain, more dust, roadblocks, stores never having enough change, firecrackers, evangelical church services, diarrhea, machetes, chuchos, Púchica, Peace Corps-induced anxiety, telenovelas, $1.50 haircuts, bolos, eggs/beans/rice, aaand last but not least, not knowing what I’m doing the majority of the time. 

Things I’m excited for during my trip home (also, in random order): watching a White Sox game, water from the tap, ice, FOOD (I could write a three-page list just about this, but cheese keeps coming to mind), flushing toilet paper, wearing shorts in public, women in pants, beer, English, drinking fountains, giant jars of peanut butter, supermarkets, clothes that fit, real hot water, refrigerators, air conditioning, microwaves, washers and dryers, driving a car, grass, mowing said grass, not having diarrhea (hopefully), carpets, walking around barefoot, but mostly just family and friends.

Check the pics!

Seed selection and pollinization training in San Andres Sajcabaja

Filling out paperwork, although at this point we were really just talking about Arnold Schwarzenegger's Guatemalan mistress and their illegitimate love-child. Direct quote from a promoter, "I wish I were his maid!"

Hot potato during a training

Demonstrating soil erosion by dumping dirt all over the floor 

My bed, mosquito netting a recent addition after 2 weeks of being eaten alive every night

Griffey, looking particularly weiner-like

My little stove, door to the bathroom on the left

Desk, photos, and kitchen supplies to the left

Canillá - Sitio Número Dos

A month and a half ago, I left my first site 1 year and 8 months earlier than expected. After the decision to relocate us came down from Peace Corps Washington, the anxiety of a pending evacuation had slowly given way to denial, acceptance, and finally, boredom. Having had weeks to pack, say my goodbyes, and wrap up loose ends, I was finally ready to leave on my own terms. The day before my departure, I attended a celebration for the Mayan New Year, made an offering to the ceremonial fire (where a Mayan priest spit some water on my face), and partook in a cup of cusha (Guatemalan moonshine). I also spent the entire day on top of a mountain without sunscreen, so I left Comi resembling a lobster. All things considered, sharing in a fascinating indigenous tradition and enjoying the company of a great group of co-workers was the best despedida I could have asked for.

All in all, I was ready to leave, and excited for what was next. A little before 6am, riding shotgun in the pickup truck of a man I hardly knew, I glanced back one last time on the mountain village of Comitancillo. From above, as the sun crested over the hills and glanced off the impressive Catholic church, it finally hit me – I don’t live here anymore. 8 hours later, after several uncomfortable and unrewarding naps, seemingly endless small talk, and only breaking down once, I arrived in my new home – Canillá, in the department of El Quiché.

In the first hour in-site, I visited my three housing options, chose a place to live, moved in my things, and met my coworkers. Over a month later, I am still struggling to catch my breath, but loving every minute of it. When I had finally come to terms with the fact that I needed to change sites, I asked my boss for something as similar as possible to my initial placement – indigenous, remote, and with a community-based host-country organization.

Remote, I got. Canillá is 52 kilometers down a terrible dirt road from the department capital, Santa Cruz del Quiché.  After 2.5 hours of sweating profusely, being launched out of your seat, and eating dust out of the air, you pretty much feel like never traveling again. When the rainy season begins, I’ve heard those 2.5 hours can turn into five or even six. I probably won’t be leaving too much come June.

Canillá, at the moment, is very hot, dry, and dusty. In town, however, there is plenty of water, so they have a well-kept, green central park with flowers and grass that they cut with actual lawn mowers. There is also a church, a basketball court, and both synthetic and real soccer fields. In the town center, there is a lot of money coming in from the States, as just about everyone has relatives in Maryland or Rhode Island. The roads are wide, well-laid out, and clean. The stores are much better stocked than in Comitancillo, and you can even find cream cheese sometimes. There is also a soda called India Quiché, which has a cream soda flavor. That’s what’s up. Just like in Comi, as soon as you head out into the aldeas, the wealth disappears and you quickly stumble upon heartbreaking poverty and malnutrition in just about every household. There is definitely work to do here.

As far as the other site criteria I asked for, I may have been given the exact opposite. Canillá as a municipality is around 60% indigenous Mayan-K’iche. However, I live in the town center and work in the closest communities, where almost everyone is ladino and speaks Spanish. My sitemates and I are taking K’iche classes, but without consistent practice I don’t see myself learning more than basic phrases. While the pronunciation is similar to Mam, it seems like my 4 months of studying were for naught. Here’s all I know so far.

Utz = good

Saqarik = good morning

Xpek’ij = good afternoon

Xoq’akab’ = good night

My work situation has changed drastically from what I was used to in Comitancillo. I am now working with FAO – the Food and Agriculture Organization of the United Nations. Because of the global scale of its work, FAO operates very differently from AMMID. For one, they have lots of money. While this allows them to pay their employees better and purchase materials for trainings, it also means that they have fallen into the ‘cash for work’ black hole of development theory. Because FAO partners with the World Food Program, they can obligate families to make gardens, compost piles, etc. in exchange for the distribution of corn, beans, sugar, and oil. It is already painfully obvious that many of the FAO beneficiaries do the minimum work required, not to improve the lives of their families and children, but to receive handouts of food and seeds. Hopefully during the rest of my two years I can change the way FAO works here and reduce the dependency on insumos that has been created.

While I am first and foremost a Peace Corps Volunteer, I now feel like an employee of FAO as well. The first day with my counterpart/supervisor Pedro Pablo, he put me in charge of the other two, soon to be three técnicos. I also attend all the FAO trainings, which means I have to travel a decent amount, and am responsible for 65 house visits per month. In addition, I have to give trainings and charlas to fulfill the goals of the Peace Corps-Food Security program. There aren’t enough hours in the day. While adjusting to this has been incredibly stressful, I am seeing it as a huge professional opportunity and perhaps a foot in the door for a job after my two years are up.

While I try to stay in the campo as much as possible, I do have a place to work at the municipal building in the Planning Office. Everyone is really nice, and one of my sitemates, Justin, also works there. In Comi, I always had to be the one to start the conversation, but people here are much more open and talkative. My Spanish is getting a lot better, because people always want to ask me questions about the U.S. They are fascinated by us gringos, which means productivity takes a hit. Unfortunately, in Guatemala a lot of jobs are given politically, based more on who you know than how qualified you are. Once you have a position, it tends to be hard to lose it, no matter how little work you actually get done.

I now rent a room and bathroom on the second floor of a family’s house. Eventually I will have a little balcony, but right now my host mom is adding another bathroom so it is occupied by various construction materials. While I don’t have as much space or privacy as before, I like my new living situation a lot more. My host mom, doña Elvia, owns a comedor (a little cheap “restaurant”) downstairs, so there is always food being made. I negotiated a monthly price so that I can eat good food with a family instead of cooking mediocre food by myself. I pay a little over $100/month for rent and food – ESO. Doña Elvia has 3 kids – Ingrid (22), Erick (20), and Mariañeli (17). I’ve learned not to answer when doña Elvia screams my name, because the majority of the time she is actually looking for her real son. Erick worked for FAO last year, and just started a new short-term contract with them. He also likes to exercise, so we’ve been waking up early to go running and are going to start lifting together soon. In addition to my host family, there are 5 other people who rent rooms here – 4 RENAP (the Guatemalan DMV) employees, plus my FAO counterpart, Pedro Pablo. It has the strange feel of a boarding house, but everyone is very friendly and there are always people around, watching TV or inviting me to play soccer. It’s been strange not having 3 little host siblings to bother me at all hours of the day, but there is a little kid from across the street that comes over to fill that role. His name is Angelito (little Angel), but we usually just call him Diablito (little Devil).

The newest member of my extended host family is my 3-month old dachshund puppy, Griffey. He’s pretty cute - I added some pictures at the end of this post so you can see how much so. When he’s not eating or sleeping, he likes bother the host family’s Chihuahua named Saltarín (Jumper) and play with his baseball. He sleeps really well on buses, and is an excellent traveler. We’re still working on the potty training, but he is more or less leash trained, and when there aren’t bones nearby, he comes when you tell him. I have to leave him with my host family during the day, so Griffey speaks Spanish. This may be confusing if I take him home to the States, but I’m sure he’ll figure out English when the time comes.

This post is quickly getting really long, so I’m going to ramble for a bit to wrap up. The first several months in Guatemala, I was worried that I was missing out on life back home. I quickly realized how lucky I am to be here, doing what I am, and that the States will always be waiting for me to come back. This past week, however, I unexpectedly missed out on something that won’t be. Our family’s dog, Jett, passed away, after suddenly taking ill. At 14 years old, his kidneys failed and he died at home with my family. I wish I could have been there to say goodbye, but it is probably easier being here and not having to see him go. RIP buddy.

By far the coolest, weirdest thing I’ve done since arriving in Canillá is cooking (and eating) tadpole soup. After work one day, I was invited down to the river to fish for tepocates. Not knowing what a tepocate was, I agreed, and realized upon getting there that we would be eating tadpoles for dinner. We used nets to fill a big bowl with the soon-to-be frogs (some even had started to grow legs), and proceeded to pop off their heads and clean out their intestines. We then added them to a pot of boiling broth with tomato and onion, and ate next to the river. The sun set and the stars came out, and in that moment I was profoundly happy to be in Guatemala.

This past week was Semana Santa, or Holy Week – the end of Lent and the week before Easter. No one in Guatemala works all week, but Peace Corps only gives us Thursday and Friday off. I took a day of vacation and headed to Antigua on Wednesday to see some processions, and then to the lake from Thursday to Saturday. We stayed at a quiet little hostel in Santa Cruz la Laguna, and made day trips to hike to a waterfall and see some alfombras (intricate carpets made of colored sawdust). It was a relaxing week with good friends, but it is nice to be back in site after traveling so much.

It’s official! – I’m heading back to the States at the end of May for a visit! I’ll be heading straight to Florida on May 25^th with my parents and sister for a week, and then spending a few days in Chicago, starting June 1^st, to see my friends. I literally cannot wait to be back in the States. I’m not particularly homesick or desperate to be back home, but now that I’m for sure coming back, it’s all I can think about. Enjoy the pics!

Giving a training over wastewater to 70 promoters in Canillá

Teaching how to make a Bocashi compost pile

Meet Griffey!

Not enjoying his first bath in the pila

Passed out in my laundry bin

Enjoying the sun

Three patojos during a house visit

Adorable K'iche girls

Sitemates

Saint Patty's Day