Week 29 - This is What it's Like When Worlds Collide

As some of you may know, my father, in a fit of what can only be described as impulsivity derived from paternal love and relatively cheap airline tickets, came to visit me this last week. Much of the visit was very good, but what struck me was not that it was so good to see an old, familiar face (indeed, the oldest and most familiar), but the way it reflected my image back at me.

I suppose I should clarify that last sentence a little bit. I’d hate for you to think that I was so self-absorbed that I need to see myself in every situation. What I mean is that my dad is someone who knows virtually nothing about contemporary Guatemalan mores, and speaking Spanish is, put lightly, not his forte. In essence, he is exactly like I was when I first arrived.

When I first joined Peace Corps, I knew nothing, and it forced me to construct a new world of familiarity. Everything was new to me. Even the people with whom I came were entirely foreign. They had different educations, interests, Spanish abilities, stereotypes, and accents. Obviously, to survive here, I had to make their acquaintance.

Little by little, I became more knowledgeable about my fellow volunteers, about my host country, and about Spanish as a language. But in doing so, it remained entirely divorced from my life back home. There was no pollution of old relationships—to the people or the culture—that crossed from the old to the new. My point, if I have a point, is that everything that I’ve built here has been unique to this place.

So when my father came to Guatemala it was unexpectedly more complicated than simply having a loved one come to visit. It’s difficult to overlay separate lives, and it felt like a profound collision of my old world with my new one. I’m not saying that I am necessarily an entirely new person, or even that I’ve consciously worked at reinventing troublesome parts of my personality, but I found it uncommonly difficult to straddle both personas: I was the dedicated PCV during the mornings, then the concierge during the afternoons, the translator throughout the day, and the young adult off with his friends after my he went to bed. I loved having him here, but it was a role I wasn’t prepared for. It was a role that others had filled for me during my first weeks in country.

Mostly it felt weird to be in a condition where that was possible for me to do.

It’s happened only one other time in my life: My friend and former roommate Will L. once visited me while I was studying abroad in Athens, Greece during the fall of 2008 just before the U.S. presidential election. While there I wrote weekly emails with almost as much religiosity as I do here. Being a digital packrat, they weren’t hard to dig up. At the time had this to say about his visit:

“I'm finding my ability to speak and understand Greek has improved noticeably. I guess that's to be expected, given that I came to Greece knowing nothing and now know at least a little something, but Will really made me realize that my language classes are not necessarily the poorly-organized jumble I thought they were. I surprised even myself by having a mildly intelligent exchange with a shop owner while Will looked at all the trinkets and t-shirts that stores near the Acropolis try to hawk to tourists like, well, him. I won't go into the meat of the dialogue, but I assure you it was ripe with comments concerning where I was from, what I was doing in Athens, and the didactic nature of Sophoclean thought and its pertinence to the contemporary geopolitical climate. That is, ‘go Obama!’”

What strikes me with this is that it is virtually identical to how I feel now. My question is, is this a normal phenomenon? I’m not talking about the slow acquisition of acculturation or linguistic competency, but rather that it seems virtually impossible to see how far you’ve come without literally standing next to someone on square one? I suppose on some level it’s like anything else, the athlete who doesn’t know how good they are until they disgrace their old training partner; the child who must stand next to last year’s penciled height mark on the doorway to see how tall they are now.

I guess it really doesn’t matter; if you’ve read my other posts you know that I haven’t been too shy about making sweeping claims about personality changes. “I’ve gotten more mature with this,” or “my that has improved substantially.” Still, having a stationary target to compare myself to really helped me to see what’s really going on. As a result I feel mildly refreshed; I looked forward to going back to San Se, to continuing my life rather than staying in Antigua, the tourist heaven I idealized so much during training.

To paraphrase the immortal words of the Pampers jingle, “Mommy, wow! I’m a big kid now!”

Sorry, I forgot my camera while he was here, and so, like last week, there aren’t any accompanying pictures. Next week, I promise…

Week 28 - An Albeit Short Ode to Coffee

In the land of the volcanoes, it’s the little things that keep you going. Perhaps as a semi-intended continuation of last week’s entry, I’d like to talk about that little thing that keeps me going: Coffee.

When I walk into a good coffee shop, you can immediately tell: Only the good ones rely exclusively on their java. In a culinary Darwinism, the good coffee survives and is allowed to spread its bean. It's the ones that water down their menu--even their selections--with too much choice that you have to be aware of. The caramel macchiato with soy milk and extra whip cream, while ephemerally tasty, really isn't about the beans, and the twice-as-large price tag makes it attractive as a profit subsidizer. Still, the good ones are small, with the espresso machine confronting you before anything else. My coffee shop du jour, the Refuge, is a simple hole in the wall about the size of my bedroom. Its L-shaped counter is made of varnished white pine, and it has only 4 drinks on the menu. The lime-green espresso maker sits front and center, dispensing bean-based truth to its gathered disciples.

It’s amazing how much of the stuff I can put back throughout the day if I’m not required to leave the easy proximity of a pot. What’s more amazing still is the nuance in flavor that I can now detect. The old, shriveled beans that have hidden in the permafrost of a freezer since the dawn of, well, freezers, taste much less complex than the babies that were roasted this morning; The slightly burnt, acidic taste of a mediocre drip blend is a 9^th grade Sadie Hawkins compared to the melodious Tarantella created by a professional-grade machine.

Then of course there’s the difference the barista makes: Try as I might, I will never be quite as good as the near-mythical Alex in Antigua, or the dedicated entrepreneurs of El Museo in Huehue. You taste that in the ambiance, and the little flourishes at the end: The garnishes, the designs in the foam, the graceful slant of the sugar spoon against the ceramic. Presentation, while not everything, rates a solid “important.”

But I think it's the routine that I like the most, those infrequent moments where I have the opportunity to read the paper under the avocado trees of my favorite coffeehouses. It feels so sophisticated, especially compared to the rest of my life, to read meaningful articles and ruminate on the lacunae of the global political process.

Will I ever be the same in my predilections for a good java? Can I go back to the mouthwash that I drank in my darker moments of college? God, I hope not.

Also, my dad is currently here in Antigua and, like a few weeks ago, I am finding it hard to write a meaningful entry. Still, if I let it go for a single week I’ll never be able to maintain my near-perfect adherence each week. It’ll be better next week. I’ll have no distractions (or fun, no doubt).

Signing off…

Week 27 - Early Mornings: Suck.

They say that the morning starts out with a quiet calm, and those up early enough catch the worm. Let me tell you: If the person weren’t so sleep-addled, they would realize they have no need for a worm to begin with. After almost 7 months of Peace Corps life, I can tell you that my relationship to the dawn has drastically changed.

The day's genesis isn't always bad, it just feels that way at the time. When I first stir at 5:10am, wipe the sleep bogeys from my eyes, and stumble over to the toilet followed by the percolator (rarely confusing the two pots), I can hardly appreciate the way the mist rolls through the trees and down the mountain behind my house. I can barely stand that soft chirping of sparrows, and truly despise the rustic call of a rooster echoing along the valley.

Gone are the days of forcing myself to bathe as soon as I awake. Our shower is solar-heated, and while you can have a truly divine experience later in the afternoon (just before the rains), at 5am it’s no better than the river. My body has awoken to a hot shower almost every morning since 8^th grade. Even those terrible 8:30am “1a” classes in college usually were preluded by a quick rinse. Now waking up at 8:00 seems like an unfathomable luxury. Oh, how spoilt was I!

During high school I always took a certain amount of pride in the maximal efficiency of my morning routine. It was a team effort, not unlike those rapid pit stops during Nascar races: Wake up at 6:33, out of the shower by 6:45, dressed by 6:48, and out the door by 6:55. I had memorized each split, and the slightest slip from any of my pit crew—“Dad, get out of the damned shower!; Mom, peanut butter that bread faster!”—was enough to upset my morning. Today it’s the same race, but a different course, a solo dune buggy sprint across a feral landscape: Up by 5:12, urinated by 5:16, coffee started by 5:18, pack my bag for the day by 5:21, coffee off the burner by 5:22, and then head back to the bathroom to brush, primp, and deuce. Of course there’s usually no water that early in the morning, so precious minutes are wasted going to the pila with a bucket and bringing back enough water to manually trigger the flush mechanism.

By the time I return to my room for the second time, my coffee has cooled enough to drink, and I spend a few more minutes feebly trying to appreciate it while reading an online article of the New York Times. That first taste of coffee, now taken with a half-spoon of sugar and no milk, is good, but my dozing taste buds can hardly make the distinction between this organic, hand-picked, from the finca previously just-for-family-but-now-also-a-few-select-gringos and that brown swill that's patented by Nescafé.

I toss on my pants—those same dungarees that I’ve been wearing with adroit comfort for 22 consecutive days now—but the coffee has already begun to stagger in its daily war against the tentacles of that beast Slumber. In a final excruciating feat of masochism, I make my bed and flop out the door.

The time says 5:55am.

I live on the very outskirts of town, and walking to the center to beg a ride up the mountain takes just under four minutes. By the time a suitable chariot is found, the caffeine is starting to hit my system. I perk up a little, especially now that the siren song of my bed is drowned out by the chug of a poorly maintained combustion engine and a concentrated effort to not fall backward out of the pick-up bed. The wind is fierce, and I’m jealous of those older/cooler/more pregnant teachers who have secured a seat in the cab. My butt begins to hurt from the rock-strewn road’s constant jolts. I tell my butt to shut up. I’m in the Peace Corps, damn it. It reminds me that this is not that type of hardship it signed up for, and furthermore, I’m talking to my ass. Point, butt.

There are only cars moving along the mountain in the early morning and in the mid-afternoon, so while we are coming up the mountain workers are usually coming down to work in the lower fields or in Huehue. Despite the fact that they see me almost every day, the workers, all indigenous, gawk and whisper. I’ve become more brazen, too; while they stare at me coming up, I stare back. Neither side is willing to give in, their bemusement against my indignation, so we rotate like geriatric sprinklers, hardly blinking as we pass. This uncomfortable dance finishes when the road finally makes another of its ungainly switchbacks, blocking us from each other’s view. In the wind I hear a final Mam catcall of me’xj (pronounced “mesh”; lit. guy-with-the-hair-made-of-corn-silk). Despite the fact most people in the US would consider my hair to be some synonym of dark brown, here in Guatemala there are only variations on the shade of black. Since mine is not equally jet, I automatically get lumped into the category of “blond.”

Trying to distract myself from my growing discomfort allows for a lot of planning: I plan my walk. I plan my pit stops. I plan how I’m going to get back down the mountain, and if there’s anyone I can guilt into giving me a ride. I typically visit two schools each day, and and that means four to seven miles of walking. If I finish early for the day and don’t want to wait for the afternoon cars, it means another ten or more to get home. The Peace Corps does not allow me to own a motorcycle, and the mountains are too steep to use a bike. I often fantasize about owning a hang glider.

The truck stops and I get out. The time says 7:15am. I have reached my job site. It’s time to begin my day.

The photos, an equal mix of work and the walks between, can be found at https://picasaweb.google.com/sigrinj/Week27?authkey=Gv1sRgCL31itPUieWRqgE

Week 26 - American Appetites

It’s an unexpected truism that patriotism expresses itself differently when you’re an expat. Take for instance my typical celebration of the 4^th of July in the US: Maybe hanging out with some friends, drink a few beers, eat a few brats, and call it a night after trying to blow something up with tiny explosives. Here—and I have it on good authority in almost every Peace Corps country—the 4^th of July is one of the biggest celebrations of the year. Perhaps it’s because it’s one of only a few US holidays we get to officially recognize here, or perhaps it’s because all the volunteers come—even those from the mythical Oriente (East side of the country)—and you get to see people you ordinarily don’t, but it’s a party atmosphere all weekend.

I ‘m not going to go into too much detail of what I did. Most of it really doesn’t translate well into an anecdote; do you really want to hear about me eating 3 burgers and a hotdog in only a few minutes and then the stomach-situated misery that followed? I didn’t think so, though I will say at the end of the day it was totally worth it.

Instead, I want to focus more on the sense of patriotism, and more generally, the connection I felt to other Americans on that day. I felt it too when I was in Greece in 2008, awaiting the presidential results that would put Obama in the White House. I’m not by nature prone to what more outspoken conservatives would call “patriotism:” I don’t wear a flag pin on my lapel; despite Rush Limbaugh’s abhorrent philosophies, I’m pretty sure he’s not a Nazi; and, except when I’m in the company of a select few, do not elongate—while simultaneously dropping most of the vowels from—the word “terrorist” (Will, you’re a dirty, dirty trrrrist!).

And yet, I find myself feeling pleased to hail from the United States. Is that really patriotism then, if I only feel it with other Americans, a beer and a burger clutched in each hand? I suppose it doesn’t really matter. More important, at least to me at least, is that Guatemala feels a little bit more familiar…

…I’m writing this in a café in Antigua called Y tú piña tambien (And your pineapple also), and the proprietor just came over and offered me a freshly baked chocolate chip cookie. I figured that it deserved a shout-out.

…And now, upon leaving, I see that he charged me for it. Asshole.

But back to the matter at hand: Is it because we are all, at least in some sense, banded together as expats that we express a common ideology? I don’t think so. We’re all in Peace Corps, and I think that forms the basis of our connection. Patriotism is secondary to talent shows that make people look like endearing fools.

Indeed, when I arrived at a bar on the actual 4^th of July (the Peace Corps’ celebration was on Saturday), I was turned off by the profligacy and boorish representation of what being “American” meant to most of the patrons, only a few of which were Peace Corps. Beer was flowing, shots were shooting, and the playlist was chockablock with southern twang. Granted, it was a “redneck” themed party, but still. I’d be remiss if I suggested that I don’t occasionally party also (and let’s face it: The three lead guitars of Lynyrd Skynyrd are hot enough to melt your face off). There are a lot of volunteers who have a problem with how we portray our culture to locals, but what gets me is the projection we’re emitting of America to each other. Is this who we are? Where have I been?

Sorry this installment is so short. I’m still stuck in Antigua while I wait for the roads to be unblocked by protesting farmers and an “emergency security meeting” tomorrow afternoon at the Peace Corps office, whatever that means. My mind is other places at the moment.

Pictures at: https://picasaweb.google.com/sigrinj/Week26?authkey=Gv1sRgCLujsNvIquKIDg