One year in site (March)

I am now a year older and a year wiser as a Peace Corps Volunteer.  When I first arrived in my community a year ago, everything was new, interesting and worth sharing, regardless of how much anyone wanted to hear about it.  I wanted my friends and family in the States to understand what Panama really means to me, what it means to itself.  I wanted to share the abundance of fruit, the different ways corns is prepared and eaten, the generosity of my community, the relief of the first rain after the desiccating winds of the dry season with those who had not experienced Panama for themselves.  At that time it was easier because to me these were all new, wondrous things.  Now, a year later, I take many of these things for granted, and so it is no surprise that I have slacked in my blog entries.

I have now been in my community for more than a year, meaning several things.  First of all, I have now come full circle, so for the first time I actually have an idea of what to expect from the annual community events and weather changes. I can now say, from experience, “how weird it is that it’s so breezy this time of year!” or speak intelligibly about what kinds of mangoes to expect in the next few months.  I can also recognize everyone’s face at the various Stations of the Cross that I have attended in anticipation of Holy Week, and I know who exactly will be hosting the annual fiesta in April.  It’s a comforting feeling of belonging, especially when my community members tell surprised visitors that “oooh!  She knows everyone!  You should see how much she walks!  Everyone loves her.”  This year has also given me the confidence to speak to people I didn’t have the nerve to last March (ahem, intimidating soccer guys for one).  And when I realize that I should probably be wearing nicer clothes than I am for an event, I say “oops, try better next time,” whereas last year I would have fretted for half an hour about how much people might be judging me.

Being here a year also means that I have less than a year left, making me second guess how I have been using my time the past twelve months and wonder how I will spend the next set.  Put on paper, my activities seem at once more impressive than they seem to me and less time-consuming than they have been in reality.  I work in the school three days a week, teaching English, helping with the school garden, and planning environmental activities for special days.  I support an environmental volunteer group that was started many years before I arrived and a bakery group that began while I was here (I am proud to say they have done an AMAZING job organizing themselves and are now selling bread twice a week!).  With the help of several dedicated community members, we have made bricks for ten different ecological stoves that will use less firewood, create less smoke, and protect the cook from the heat (now we are just waiting to put them together).  Finally, my pet project (that I have unfortunately had to put on hold for the past two months) is an environmental youth group that has a large amount of support despite its slow start.  And of course, I have helped with training for the new Peace Corps Trainees and assisted other Volunteers with their own projects.  Like I said, impressive on paper, but when I live it day to day I can’t help but wonder if I could have done more. 

One year really doesn’t seem like long enough, what with all I want to accomplish and how much I love this community.  I have thought more than once about extending my service and staying long.  Of course, I have been told by people who have gone home to visit that while they feel that way while in site, they do not once they have returned.  Who knows?  I wouldn’t be the first to stay longer than expected, but I also wouldn’t be the first to change my mind last minute and go home.  I do still have a year to think about it.

Feliz Cumple!

Luckily, my birthday coincided nicely with my one year in site and I was able to celebrate both in typical Panamanian birthday fashion.  I asked my host mom for advice on food preparation, only to be told that if I gave her everything needed, she would make everything for me and bring it my house at the designated hour in a wheelbarrow.  As I am no expert in making large quantities of food, much less Panamanian food, I was more than happy to agree and gave her everything needed to make arroz con pollo, and ensalada de papa (potato salad with beets).  It took me a week to collect all the materials needed, and as there is no store near my house, I was more than a little concerned I would forget something essential, like rice.

I was also happy that my host mom had volunteered to make the food because that day was the second day of our junta to make bricks for our ecological stove project, stoves designed to burn more efficiently and safely.  To top it all off, I had also been suffering for two weeks from stomach cramps and diarrhea.  Needless to say, I woke up on my birthday a little anxious at how all the events were going to play out. 

The night before had been the worst so far, as I had spent pretty much all of it with intestinal cramps that resulted in nothing but frustration.  Luckily, the day dawned cramp-free, and I tentatively got out of bed, hoping that the worst was over.  I called the Peace Corps Medical Officer on duty (aka PCMO) and finally told them of my problems.  You may well be surprised to find that I had waited two weeks to tell them that there was even a problem, but I knew that they would have just told me to go to the nearest approved hospital in my provincial capital where I would have received only partially helpful advice and an IV.  I would have also had to stay the night in a hotel, and truth be told I just didn’t have time to be out of my community for two days.  It was much easier to suck it up, eat white food, and hold out until after my birthday when I would have to go to the city anyway.  After being told what I had expected, I ate some white toast and headed to what I hoped would be the last day of our work junta.

The Saturday before, we had begun our junta expecting to finish all the bricks before lunch.  That was when we only planned on making bricks for five stoves, the number of people who had told me or my counterpart that they wanted one.  As the morning progressed and more and more people showed up unexpected requesting a stove, we quickly realized that we would have to finish the bricks the following week, on my birthday.  Of course, this time around, we had already made the hole where we would make the adobe mix out of clay, dry horse manure and creek water.  The participants organized themselves immediately, some going to look for more clay, others for horse manure, and others stepping and stomping the mixture to make a smooth, homogeneous adobe for bricks.

Unfortunately, I was still not feeling 100%, and after I realized that I was unable to contribute any work, I returned to my house.  On the way, I picked up the chicken that a friend had donated for my arroz con pollo and dropped it off at my host mom’s house.  An interesting fact about chickens – when you carry them upside down by their feet, they don’t move at all.  It could have been dead, except that I could feel the warmth of the chicken’s legs, its weight, the softness of its feathers as I walked along the highway.  In a few hours, this chicken would be nothing more than shredded meat, and it would be delicious, but now it was still a loud, bug-eating, living animal.

I finally made it home and spent the rest of the day lounging in my hammock, eating nothing and trying to recuperate as much as possible before I entertained all my friends and chowed down on delicious birthday food.  Since Panamanians are always late, I had plenty of time to rest, sweep and find chairs for everyone.  The day before, I had made chocolate cake with a woman in my community.  Chocolate cake is my favorite thing to make for my birthday, and since chocolate is expensive and not traditional in this region, I was excited to share this tradition with all my friends.  To my surprise, my host mom also brought me a more traditional yellow cake for me as well.  As more and more people showed up, I was glad we had the extra cake to give out to everyone.

In the end, everyone I invited came, totaling around 30.  I stood in front by the table with my two cakes and they all sang Happy Birthday to me in English, and then in Spanish.  My birthday wish was that I would not regret eating all my birthday food, and as I blew out the candles my neighbor’s daughters smudged icing on my face (tradition).  All of my host family helped me to hand out the food, which turned out to be just enough, and before they left, they washed my dishes for me and packed up the few leftovers in my fridge.  I myself took only a little bit to eat, as I was afraid about what my happen in my digestive tract later, but my host sister scolded me saying, “no wonder you are sick!  You never eat anything!”

I went to bed that night feeling the way one should on their birthday – full of delicious food and chocolate cake, and feeling loved.

And my wish came true.

Funeral and Day of the Dead (from November)

                I found out when I went to help my bakery group make bread.  They still didn’t have a bakery built, since the government is slow to deliver its promises, so we were at one of the women’s houses, luckily only a ten-minute walk from my house.  I arrived late – since the group was formed by a government agency and the women are pretty self-sufficient, my participation with the group has been largely supportive, and as my family’s visit and Christmas draws closer, my motivation has diminished to a minimum – and so the women were already forming the dough into little breads, braids and rolls when I arrived.

                “Se murió el señor,” the group’s president told me – the man had died.  I immediately knew who they were talking about, but she continued.  “Francisco’s dad.”

                For the past month, a man in my community, Sr. Cirilo, had been fighting an uphill battle with stomach cancer.  I had heard little spoken about it, though it was the topic on the back of everyone’s minds.  As a small community, anyone’s business is everyone’s business.  I only knew him a little, but three of his sons were in my elementary school and I knew that Francisco, a sweet but struggling fifth grader, was really attached to him.  He was one of the few fathers who actually showed up to clean the school garden.  He was a short, mild-looking man of about sixty with his right eye missing.  I often saw him walking to work, machete over his shoulder, and he always shook my hand with a warm smile in typical Panamanian greeting fashion.  But as I sat with these women, kneading out bread and placing them on the pan, I learned more about him.  The dead are much more talked about than the living.

                “Not two months ago,” one lady said, “everyone was saying he was the worst man.  Now everyone is saying ‘pobrecito, pobrecito.’  Why bother saying it now, now that he’s dead?”

                “He wasn’t a bad man,” spoke up another woman.  “He worked every day to provide for his woman and children, he just changed when he drank.”

                As it turned out, Sr. Cirilo was quite a violent alcoholic.  His first wife had left him because of the abuse, and his second wife, the one he had been supporting, had moved out so she could lock herself and her sons in the house as needed.  A while back, he lost his right eye to a machete fight with his son, who, they say, was protecting his mother.  The son lost his hand.  Machete fights are not long – a few whacks and then everyone to the hospital.  Of course, he only became violent when he drank, which he did a lot, even when the doctors told him it would make his cancer worse.

“Two months ago, he was the worst man.  When he hit Sra. Chila, everyone said he was the worst man.  Now?  ‘Pobrecito, pobrecito.’  If someone is angry with me in life, let them be angry with me when I’m dead.”

The next day, the whole community waited for the body to return from the morgue in Panama City to have mass and carry the body to the cemetery.  When there was a delay in the delivery, the mass changed from 2pm to 4pm, but most people had already gone to the wife’s house anyway to pray the rosary and wait with his family.  His family is one of the poorer families in the community, so his house was set back in the forest off the main road.  We walked down a grassy road that wove between pastures and fields and under mango, orange and guava trees.  After 5 minutes, there appeared amongst the trees a small hut with adobe walls topped with a penca roof of palm leaves that resembled a bad haircut.  This was the house of Sra. Chila, the mother of Francisco, José, and Juan, the three boys in my elementary school.  Sr. Cirilo’s house was an exact copy, but to get there one had to go down a slick, clay path, cross a creek, and then climb back up the other side.  That is exactly how they had carried Sr. Cirilo’s casket – by hand – so that his spirit could say goodbye to his home. 

By the time I arrived with my host family, the people who had been praying the rosary were crossing the creek with the casket to make the procession to the chapel where the mass would be held.  Everyone loitered around the yard, giving hugs to friends and family they hadn’t seen in a while and chatting about what traditions were customary at the funeral, as if they were exchanging a well-known recipe of arroz con pollo.  Jokes were exchanged, compliments on clothes were given, and slowly we began the return on the grassy path back to the main paved road where everyone climbed into the back of trucks to go to the community chapel.

The mass itself was no different than other masses.  The women and children filled up the benches in the front of the one-room chapel, while the men either sat in the back or waited outside leaning against the sides of their cars.  The casket sat in the middle of the aisle, a plain brown box with four decorated iron handles resting on two small benches, guarded by four candles throwing their warm yellow glow at the wooden sides.    There were the Hail Mary’s, Our Father’s and Praise Be To God’s.  The priest spoke about Eternal Life, God’s Mercy and God’s Will.  He gave out the soft round wafers during communion, which only a fourth of the congregation received.  The day was overcast, hot and still, and as I sat crammed onto the bench in that tiny church, I passed most the time waiting for the fan to blow some air in my direction.  Eventually, we all poured from the small chapel to the line of pickups waiting to transport everyone to the cemetery. 

The last time I had been to the cemetery was the Day of the Dead, at the beginning of November, when all the families attend to the graves of their deceased, cleaning off the crosses, pulling out weeds, dusting off the cloth flowers and lighting candles.  When we arrived for the funeral, those who had people buried here went to their families’ graves in the same fashion, making sure that the graves were tidy and orderly.  Since graves are grouped by families, most families huddled together in their respective lots and watched from afar as Sr. Cirilo’s casket was prayed over, sprinkled with holy water, and lowered into the ground surrounded by his huddled grieving family.  I do not know how long they stayed, but I left with my host family shortly after.  Now, once a month for the following year, people gather together in Sr. Cirilo’s house to pray the rosary on the day of his death, the 28^th of each month.  At one year, there will be a mass, and then the family can finally let go and move on.