Promoting Global Peace and Friendship

I feel like I am too comfortable here in my site. Like it’s too easy. I went running yesterday with two women my age at the plaza. I make myself breakfast every morning- an American breakfast, really, of cereal and coffee. I can ride my bike at my leisure. I can laugh and cry with different members of my community. I can have girl talk. I can go to sweaty dance parties (sober). I could put on black pumps, a dress from Forever 21, do my hair, do my make up, and put on perfume and leave my house on a Saturday night without question. I can watch a movie, listen to the radio, read a book, play a board game, paint my nails, draw, write, nap; I can even spend the night at the school English teacher’s house…

In order to feel like I’m too comfortable or that life is too easy, I would have to be comparing my experience to someone else’s. I really did come into the Peace Corps with no expectations, so I was neither disappointed nor excited when I first arrived at my site. I had nothing to compare it to. Now, however, getting together with other RCD volunteers, it is hard not to think about what it might be like or could be like if my site were smaller, more rural, rainier, less developed, less organized, less fiestera (fiesta = party, fiestera = one who likes to party). In this regard, I actually think it is more a matter of being in Guanacaste than of being in Ortega.

Is it a bad thing to be comfortable in the Peace Corps? I guess it would be one’s ideal situation. But do people join the Peace Corps to be comfortable, or because they want a personal challenge; they want to test their limits. It really is a mind game. We came to Costa Rica, already a little befuddled, honestly, but certain that there must be a reason why Peace Corps has been in Costa Rica on and off (off once due to analysis of the Human Development Indicator, which was thought to be high) since 1963. But, again, what was the reason we were looking for- something out of a Peace Corps television advertisement like hunger, poverty, education, health.

I have just made the deposit for the Centro Cultural books I will request for my two English classes of 10 and 6 students, which begin on September 7th. The majority of the students who paid the $15 for the student workbook and textbook are involved in the tourist industry and have high hopes of being able to better serve their American customers. Two of the students are high school aged, one student is in his twenties and works on a farm, 13/16 are women, two students received scholarships from a business owner in town, and at least 10 students were not able to register- the majority of whom were not able to pay the $15.

I will be giving two Centro Cultural classes twice a week for two hours a day. In addition, I will continue giving my test prep class one night a week for 1 ½ hours for two dedicated high school students. Finally, I hope to give an advanced conversation class one afternoon a week for six students who are either currently studying English at the university level, or who have had considerable English in the past and want to brush up on their pronunciation and build confidence. In addition to English, I hope to continue with bi-weekly FODAs (strengths, opportunities, weaknesses, threats)- one would be exclusively for members of the Development Association, while the other would be open to committee members and community members.
In writing this blog, I am reminding myself that I am here to work, want to work, and am working despite the fact that I also happen to be enjoying myself.

That brings me to the other reason I wanted to write this blog. I wanted to tell you about the surprise birthday party that my community threw for me on Sunday. The funny thing is, while it wasn’t really a surprise, I was extremely confused when I walked into the Salon Comunal with my host mother and was not greeted with a “Happy Birthday”, “Surprise”, or any other expression that one would expect to receive on their birthday. At the same time, there were balloons, tables, chairs, cake, presents, people… If you remember a previous blog entry I wrote about some confusion around a birthday party the aerobics group was planning to throw on August 23rd, you will understand that that was their intention. I had told myself all along that there must be another member of the group who was born on August 23rd and, when I found out she was turning 26, I knew it must be Frania. Anyway, long story longer, I later found out that Frania celebrated had already celebrated her birthday earlier that month. Hence the confusion.

Anyway, the ladies asked me to stand next to Frania in front of the cake when they sang her “Happy Birthday” and when they got to “Happy Birthday to…” they said “KATHRYN” and threw confetti and said “SURPRISE!” Again, while I had had suspicions, they still managed to surprise me and threw me a beautiful birthday party. As one woman told me after, “although it was humble, we put a lot of love into it.” I told her I felt it, which I really did. The aerobics women had collaborated with the women’s group, of which my host mother is a member, and made pasteles, sausage, chips and dip, and rice pudding. They tried to set up karaoke which, unfortunately, did not happen; but, what did happen was a whole lot of dancing. It was a blast! They kept asking me if I was tired, but I told them that it was imperative for the birthday girl to dance on her birthday. We even did the Middle School thing, where we got in a circle and each person had to dance in the middle. My favorite person to dance with is undoubtedly my Aunt, whose nickname is “Tita”. As she said yesterday, “I kept Kathryn company all night dancing because we’re friends. And friends stick together.” (Or something like that.) The funniest part is probably the fact that my host mother had decided she would drink for me on my birthday “since I don’t drink.” (I decided on day one, by the way, that it was a sticky situation to mix drinking with work, even though my personal life and social life are wrapped up in my work. )

Finally, when my host mother told me that I was probably going to receive quite a few articles of clothing for my birthday, I felt extremely uncomfortable. I talked about it with my host mother beforehand, who assured me that this was customary; that people loved giving gifts; that it came straight from the heart; and that it had nothing to do with the fact that I was an American or a volunteer. There is a feeling of solidarity in the community of Ortega, which was actually expressed several times as a strength of the community in the FODA that I held several weeks ago. More than that, I think the women here with whom I have developed a relationship want nothing more than for me to feel loved and supported while I am away from my family. Several weeks ago when we had a Mother’s Day party with the aerobics women, they said a prayer specifically for my mom “wherever she may be.”

Mom, while I know it was hard for me and probably hard for you to talk on the phone for a mere five minutes on my birthday; and while I know you were upset that I didn’t have anything to open from you when I woke up; I also know that you would have been so happy to have seen the love that the women put into my birthday party on Sunday. As I told the women in my thank you notes, I know that I’m not alone in Ortega. I am among friends. It is always helpful to step back and remember that one of the primary goals of the Peace Corps is to promote peace and friendship. Being too comfortable or feeling like life is too easy is a result of having made real friends in my community. This is what I came here for.

Dia de Madre a la Guaro

I hate to write about dancing again, but it feeds into a bigger issue, which is that everything I do is apparently cause for laughter or chisme (gossip). Today, I was excited to wake up with a tentative plan for the afternoon- helping my host mother make pasteles (basically fried dough filled with some sort of rice mixture) for the school bake sale. (My host mother is one of the cooks at the school.) Anyway, if I do something well it’s funny and if I do something badly it’s funny too. I started off rolling out the dough in less than perfect circles. Then, when I switched to stuffing the pasteles with the rice mixture, it was “take a picture and send it to her novio!” When I finished this task, I asked for another (this is my strategy for getting through the next two years- stay busy). One cook then turned to my host mother to ask, “can she chop?” My host mother responds, “yes, she chops for me.” This indirectness drives me loca. More than once, I have been in a situation where someone has asked someone else for my name or some other piece of information about me when I am sitting right next to them. “My name is Kathryn,” I always jump in curtly.

But back to dancing. So I just faced another impromptu, unplanned, unanticipated Friday night dance and thought I would be safe sitting at the door selling food. Nope. I can’t even tap my foot without being called out. They laugh. They point. “Are you going to dance?” “We’ll see,” I always say. I buy food at the bake sale and I get laughs. “Your teeth are going to fall out,” someone said when I ordered a fried dough-type pastry. I felt like saying, “I don’t put four heaping cucharaditas in my coffee twice a day.”

I think the real reason that I am uncomfortable with the dancing scene here is because it goes hand in hand with the guaro (general term for hard liquor) scene. Adults and young adults alike get giddy like guilas (general term for any child, but also used to refer to groups of guys or groups of girls) on Christmas Eve when faced with the possibility of drinking guaro. I was invited to a Mothers’ Day (Mothers’ Day in Costa Rica falls on the 15th of August) party on Thursday for the mothers of the sixth graders, who will graduate in December. Upon arrival, I realized thay this was just another excuse to drink guaro, as is every holiday, party, birthday. “Get close ladies,” the host said, “so we can drink guaro!” Giggles followed. The best part was that the “guaro” they were referring to was the Costa Rican equivalent to a bottle of Andre champagne (flash back New Year’s at Moots). After a cheers, they sipped their shot of “guaro”, meanwhile making comments about where they would crash later that afternoon; joking about someone having finished theirs before everyone else. When they brought out bottles of Pepsi and Ginger Ale, instead of frescos of tamarindo, moro, or limon, I should have known something was up. In the center of the table appeared a smaller Pepsi bottle filled with a questionable liquid (flash back parties in the tri-bar). “Who wants guaro?” Did I mention it’s 3pm and we’re celebrating Mothers’ Day?

Back to work- so I am still not over the fact that I singlehandedly got nearly 40 people to attend my FODA last week. When I say singlehandedly I must admit I am a little bitter and proud at the same time. I am bitter because it should not have been an independent effort. I made invitations and distributed them to all of the committee leaders in my town, as well as made and hung posters in the pulperias advertising the event. Days before, I visited the committee leaders and other friends to remind them of the date and time. I bought the fresco and galletas and arrived early to assemble five tables and set up 30 chairs. Meanwhile, I was thinking to myself, am I not a stranger in this town and in this country? How is it that I am here setting up for an event that I will facilitate in Spanish in a community that has no real alliance to me? I might have written before about the laziness/apathy factor, which I was strongly considering when I was in the store debating whether or not to buy refrigerio for 30, knowing full well that if it rained that night I was going to be eating cookies and drinking fruit punch for weeks.

Perhaps I did not give myself enough credit. Or perhaps I did not give my community enough credit. The majority of the people I invited, from friends to neighbors to committee leaders, showed up- and not on “tico time” (this is typically ½ hour late). Representatives from the following committees were present: the Catholic Church, sports, crafts, emergency, roads, health, women, children’s rights, aerobics, development, and nutrition. It is also noteworthy that poor communication, egoism, and lack of unity are among the greatest problems faced by the community of Ortega. As such, I was extremely pleased to see both friends and foes seated around the same tables. (This was after I had to ask them to come and sit with the group.) It was even more striking to see them participate in (and enjoy) an icebreaker I insisted on doing.
While I was upset to have had to have asked for feedback from my counterpart group- I am still unsure as to whether or not they understand that the activity and my work here is intended to be supportive of their initiative, which is community development-, I received nothing but positive commentary from all of the attendees. The hard part comes next week, when I will get them together again to analyze their needs, wants, and obstacles so that we can rank them according to feasibility, cost-effectiveness, time and resources needed, and utility. My goal is to keep the discussion going as long as possible- I would like to continue with biweekly meetings because it is a unique opportunity to get many of the major players in town in the same place at the same time. Fast forward two years and this would certainly be a major success, as organizational development is one of our principal goals as Rural Community Development volunteers.

La Negrita

Yesterday was the Day of the Virgen of Los Angeles in Costa Rica. Many people walk miles to make a promise to the Virgen either in Cartago or, in my case, in Los Angeles, which is just outside of Santa Barbara in Guanacaste. During training, we participated in a scavenger hunt in Cartago, and my group was tasked with learning the story of the Virgen of Los Angeles and the meaning behind the holy water. It’s a pretty cool story- there was a girl that discovered a doll in the forest but, when she returned to the spot the next day, the doll was gone. This continued to happen- one day it was there, the next day it was gone- and the girl finally went to speak to the priest. The priest concluded that this could only be explained by a miracle- an act of God.

Anyway, they built the church in Cartago in the exact spot where the doll appeared. The Virgen of Los Angeles is associated with miracles. For this reason, many of the people who make pilgrimages to visit La Negrita, as the Virgen is called, are asking for a miracle. They collect the holy water with buckets, as they believe that it has the power to heal. (When we were in Cartago, we witnessed people bathing themselves with the water.) Many approach la Negrita on their knees, inching forward from the entrance of the church to the altar.

When I heard that there would be a romeria (also called a caminata- caminar = to walk) from Ortega to Los Angeles, I decided I would participate, as it is a local tradition and I am trying to integrate into my community. I was told that we would meet at the church at 4am; although, I had spoken with others who wanted to leave at 1am or 2am in an effort to avoid the many guilas (general term for girls and boys) who go to vacilar (to joke around). Anyway, when I arrived, I was disappointed to see that there was only one other person waiting. Fortunately, I knew her from aerobics. She wanted to get going, so we set off, just the two of us, for burrolandia (the land of burros) sans foco (flashlight). I tried to make conversation, figuring it would be a much longer walk in silence, but was confronted with one word answers. Maybe she’s praying, I thought, as many recite the rosary as they make their promise to la Negrita. I don’t want to be that person that sits next to you on the plane or bus and asks filler questions while you’re trying to read or listen to music. Luckily, shortly after we left, we ran into two other women I knew, so I stopped stressing about making conversation.

Four hours later, and about 15 miles, we arrived in Santa Barbara, greeted with food vendors selling pastels de arroz con pollo or arroz con carne (rice with chicken, rice with meat) and frescos de zanahoria, frutas, y horchata (carrots, fruit, and something that tastes like chocolate milk). While we rested in the center of town, the guilas arrived from Ortega on bikes, and we headed toward the church. They processed with La Negrita from the church to a beautiful outdoor altar, where they would say mass later that morning. With a pounding headache from the sun and dehydration and throbbing pain in all of my joints, I decided to make my promise to the Virgen and head back to the bus stop. I definitely pulled a Tara O’Brien waiting in line to touch the representation of the Virgen, thinking as I inched closer, H1N1… I ended up touching it in the most obscure place I could find- one of the stars dangling in the back. Ha, I do the same thing in public bathrooms- trying to touch a really high or really low part of the door. Anyway, it was a memorable experience and I decided that I’m going to train for next year’s romeria so that I can return on foot as well. (I hitched a ride back to my town with the girl from aerobics.) Hitching a ride, by the way, is basically the same in Spanish- “ride”, but roll the “r.” Ticos use the thumb too, but they hold it out sideways…

One other tradition on the Day of the Virgen of Los Angeles is to host the rosary for community members. There were prayers at at least four houses- at 2pm, 3pm, 4pm, and 5pm. Those that host the rosary do so as their promise to the Virgen and prepare chicheme (drink made from corn) and comidita (could be arroz con pollo, arroz con carne) expecting to feed at least 100 people. While many participate in the rosary, I would estimate that more than half of the people that go to the rezo (prayer) go to socialize and eat. I heard more than a few people complaining of a stomach ache yesterday because they had gone to all four rezos.

To change the subject, you might be interested in knowing that I’m taking a class through UNED, which means something like the “distance learning university.” The class is 20 hours (five Saturdays for four hours) and has to do with project planning. My work counterpart is also enrolled, as well as a member of our Comité Tutelar, which is a community organization that has to do with children’s rights. The material has a lot to do with community development and sustainability, so it fits well with my project assignment in Ortega. The other “students” are community leaders as well.

Four random cultural notes to leave you with:

Sunscreen- this is a completely novel concept apparently because, over the course of a day, I am told more than a few times that I am really sweating. Even if it weren’t suntan lotion, OF COURSE I’M SWEATING! YOU ARE SWEATING TOO, I want to say sometimes.

Gorda- the word “fat” is thrown around way too often, in my opinion. “Isn’t she fat,” I am frequently asked. They can hear you, I panic. They’re sitting right next to me. My response? “They’re beautiful.”

Brava- so the word “brava” is used in a million and one different contexts. The literal translation is something like “angry” or “furious.” The following things can be described as “brava”: women, waves, the sun, dogs, and people who are eating.

Ahorita- this has thrown many of us PCVs off since day one. “Ahora”, which we were taught to have meant “now” in Spanish 101, can mean anywhere from “in a few minutes” to “3+ hours from now.” For example, yesterday, when I was waiting for the bus back to my town, I was told that the bus was coming “ahorita.” It was 920am and the bus was due to arrive at 1130am. That’s not “now”, I thought, that’s FOREVER from now!

KennedyBunkPork

Many Peace Corps volunteers pick up odd hobbies over the course of our 27 months in an effort to help pass time. As a matter of fact, Tico 19 is planning a talent show for 2011, when we will show off our new so-called “talents” to our peers. Lately, I have taken to making elaborate birthday cards with magazine cut-outs, colored pencils, and markers. Get excited… if you’re lucky, you’ll get two before I complete my service! I have also found a guitar teacher, who is committed enough to helping me learn the guitar that he is trying to coordinate a trip with me to San Jose to pick out a guitar. Who knows, maybe I’ll return to Queens to be part of a mariachi band?

I am also pleased to report that I have finally confronted my fear of dancing in Ortega. People in Ortega live for parties! While work is seasonal and times are tough, we would rather have our coffee “con lengua” (literally means “with tongue”, which is another way of saying that there is no money to buy bread), than forego having an Imperial at the Saturday disco. Anyway, I certainly did not expect to find this scene in my Rural Community Development site as a Peace Corps volunteer- the salon comunal transformed into a dance floor, smoke machine, strobe lights, and karaoke screens. Up until last weekend, I have conveniently had (made) plans on dance nights, so as not to have had to face the questions: “want a drink” or “want to dance?” I should have known that the weekend of the celebration of the annexation of Guanacaste would bring not one dance, but two. So when I came back to my town on Sunday, I was greeted with the dreaded question: “are you going to the dance tonight?” I decided it was the perfect opportunity to face my fear- a dance put on by the sports committee that was not being hosted in the cantina. So I offered to help take money at the door- my plan being that I could convey to my town that I was not afraid of dancing, but also defend my refusal to dance by explaining that I was “working.” It’s really quite a shame, I must say, as those of you who know me know that I LOVE TO DANCE. Unfortunately, though, it gets a little tricky when you’re the only gringa in a town of macho men, who like their women, their music, and their guaro (the general term used for hard alcohol). I also must add that it is more than a little intimidating when the majority of the action takes place outside the dance- say, for example, that the dance begins at 7pm. From 7pm until 10pm, people get dolled up just to come and stand outside the dance to see who is inside, what they’re wearing, who is dancing, who they’re dancing with, and how they are dancing. Wouldn’t they just love to see the lone gringa step out on the dance floor, I thought. So my heart raced-from 7pm until 10pm- wondering if someone was going to ask me to dance, who was going to ask me to dance, and why… was this a plot to get me on the dance floor to laugh at the gringa and her non-existent hips, butt, and rhythm? Long story short, I was saved by the bell when the husband of my good friend asked me to dance- not a creeper, not a fabulous dancer, and no hidden agenda. I don’t know how many eyes were on me for those five or ten minutes, but I will tell you that I am still hearing about it days later. And thank goodness, I was given a “ten.” With that, I said “goodnight”, locked my door, and let out a huge sigh of relief.

Finally, while many Peace Corps volunteers arrive as vegetarians and leave as carnivores, I am moving in reverse. Strike one was the chicken coop behind my house in Río Conejo. Colby would come to language class with the news “our mothers are killing forty chickens today.” Then, sure enough, when 6pm rolled around- chicken. Strike two was the chanchos (pigs) at my grandfather’s house. I had spent the previous afternoon watching the three of them run (I did not know pigs ran! And fast!) and take turns trying to get at the rice my host mother was cooking for the mass for the anniversary of her mother’s death. Anyway, I was hooting and howling, tears rolling down my face, watching these lazy creatures scavenge for food. Next day- chicharrones (carne de chancho- pork). “We killed a pig yesterday,” my mother said. I choked. I explained to my host family, so as not to cause any confusion, that while I understand and appreciate the tradition of killing a pig and eating the meat for various celebrations, I will opt to eat rice and beans come December. I explained that I like pork, but I have never before been faced with the prospect of eating the meat of an animal that I knew (and grew fond of, quite frankly). Strike three was the monta de toros I went to on Saturday for Guanacaste Day in Santa Cruz. Unlike Spain’s corrida de toros, where they kill the bull, Costa Rica’s monta de toros is a spectacle that showcases the bull and the rider of the bull- yes, someone gets on the bull, the bull is let loose in the ring, and the rider tries to stay on the bull as long as possible while it is bucking and jumping and running and FREAKING OUT. Meanwhile, the bull ring is filled with macho men (many of them drunk), who get a kick out of taunting the bull and running for their lives when the bull FREAKS OUT. What didn’t I like about the event? One, my palms were sweaty, looking at the crowd of people in the ring, anticipating whether or not they would be able to jump the barreras in the event that the bull took off in their direction. Two, rather than letting the bull retreat from the ring when he had successfully bucked the rider off, (which was what he clearly wanted to do), horsemen came out and lassoed the bull by the horns and the neck. Stuck, and often tangled, the bull put his head down in a gesture of surrender. But no, five, six men grabbed onto its tail and started pulling with all their might. At the same time, another proceeded to jab the bull in the butt with a metal prod. NO ME JODAS, said the bull. Rightly so.

Just a footnote to this last vignette- I recognize that the monta de toros is an important part of the culture of Guanacaste, as is the corrida de toros an important part of the culture of Spain. For this reason, I went to a corrida de toros in Madrid and went to a monta de toros in Guanacaste. I didn’t like them and will probably never go again. But I went. I will try it all, but I don’t have to like it. Integration is about trying.

I want to leave you with this- remember what chanco means? This is how my host father understands the name of my town, Kennebunkport:
Presidente + bunk + chancho
He thought “bunk” was pretty easy, and so were the other parts, when you subbed in “Kennedy” and “pork” = KennedyBunkPork.