Here are some photos of one of many bridge crossings bringing water ever closer to the community of Kwite.
Sunday, February 20, 2011
Building Bridges
Metaphors aside, it feels pretty friggin´ good to just build a bridge, especially with community members. Jon and I are making great progress on the Kwite aqueduct. People are showing up in full force to work days. There's a great satisfaction in seeing everything come together.
Here are some photos of one of many bridge crossings bringing water ever closer to the community of Kwite.
Here are some photos of one of many bridge crossings bringing water ever closer to the community of Kwite.
Ngabe Photo Taking
My community loves photos. Since arriving in Calante, I've taken about 500 photos of people in my community. I've taken so many photos that the place where I get them developed has given me free photos... twice.
After awhile, it really got to be a drag. People wouldn't pay. People would lie. People would claim photos that weren't theirs saying that their cousin had sent them for their photo. Then the real owner would come by and I'd have to explain that I can't keep track of their intricate family groups and then develop a new photo the next time I was out of site. People I didn't even know would come by for their own photo shoot or ask me to hike to some remote locale to take photos of their family. I would greet people on the trail. "Good morning." "Where's my photo?" "Take my photo!" How about a hello?
Here they were with an engineer in the community and all they want me for is to take their photo. It's like using an electric generator merely for a bench.
In an effort to moderate the requests, I tried raising the price of the photos. I started charging $1 per photo, something I thought was astronomically high. For reference, if you earn $48,000/year in the US, it would be like charging $80 for a 4"x6" print. Still, they lined up. Like I said, my community loves photos.
Late last year, I started planning my exit strategy. I told them at a community meeting that I would no longer take photos, that their graduation and Mother's Day (both in December) events would be their last chance. I even said I would take the photos for free as part of it being the last time and all.
The last couple of months have been taking care of the strays, photos that were claimed by cousins or other excuses as to why I needed to reprint a photo. But overall, it's been much more manageable. People don't ask for photos as much. It's been hard to tell the people I like that I can't take their photo anymore, but I'm not too torn up considering they all have about twenty photos from the previous year anyway.
As annoying as the whole photo thing has been and, amazingly, photo taking really has been one of the most frustrating aspects of service, it's offered a lot of insight into the culture. I've learned a lot in the process. Here are some key takeaways:
1) Ngabes value photos a lot, even though they usually won't put them in a safe place in their home. I've seen a ton of the photos crumpled on the floor or in their front yard a week after they got them
2) Like the guy posing in front of his Ferrari, they like to have their stuff in the photo. They usually want their radio or animals in the photo as well.
3) Always take the photo of their whole body, including feet. If you crop in close, they'll think you're an idiot and ask for their money back
4) They hardly ever smile. They could be laughing before and after, and usually are, but you'd never guess from the solemn looks on their faces
5) They love to take a ton of iterations of photos with the same few people in different combinations or maybe with a different person holding the radio or livestock mentioned above
6) At some point, word spread among the muchachos that you should try to make your photo look like a rap or boy band music video. Gangsta mugs and river photo shoots highly encouraged
7) Many parents opt to have a photo of themselves without their children. Sometimes I would take photos only of the mother and not one photo of her kids
8) They would usually wear their Sunday best and break out the hair gel for their Sears family portrait. Photo shoots usually amounted to me going to their home and waiting 45 minutes for them to get ready
Author's Note: Just so you don't think I was pulling a modern day trinkets-for-gold deal, let me be clear. I put all photo profits into their water committee funds. It made for a good fundraiser. The Dollars-for-Oti's-Sanity drive.
After awhile, it really got to be a drag. People wouldn't pay. People would lie. People would claim photos that weren't theirs saying that their cousin had sent them for their photo. Then the real owner would come by and I'd have to explain that I can't keep track of their intricate family groups and then develop a new photo the next time I was out of site. People I didn't even know would come by for their own photo shoot or ask me to hike to some remote locale to take photos of their family. I would greet people on the trail. "Good morning." "Where's my photo?" "Take my photo!" How about a hello?
Here they were with an engineer in the community and all they want me for is to take their photo. It's like using an electric generator merely for a bench.
In an effort to moderate the requests, I tried raising the price of the photos. I started charging $1 per photo, something I thought was astronomically high. For reference, if you earn $48,000/year in the US, it would be like charging $80 for a 4"x6" print. Still, they lined up. Like I said, my community loves photos.
Late last year, I started planning my exit strategy. I told them at a community meeting that I would no longer take photos, that their graduation and Mother's Day (both in December) events would be their last chance. I even said I would take the photos for free as part of it being the last time and all.
The last couple of months have been taking care of the strays, photos that were claimed by cousins or other excuses as to why I needed to reprint a photo. But overall, it's been much more manageable. People don't ask for photos as much. It's been hard to tell the people I like that I can't take their photo anymore, but I'm not too torn up considering they all have about twenty photos from the previous year anyway.
As annoying as the whole photo thing has been and, amazingly, photo taking really has been one of the most frustrating aspects of service, it's offered a lot of insight into the culture. I've learned a lot in the process. Here are some key takeaways:
1) Ngabes value photos a lot, even though they usually won't put them in a safe place in their home. I've seen a ton of the photos crumpled on the floor or in their front yard a week after they got them
2) Like the guy posing in front of his Ferrari, they like to have their stuff in the photo. They usually want their radio or animals in the photo as well.
3) Always take the photo of their whole body, including feet. If you crop in close, they'll think you're an idiot and ask for their money back
4) They hardly ever smile. They could be laughing before and after, and usually are, but you'd never guess from the solemn looks on their faces
5) They love to take a ton of iterations of photos with the same few people in different combinations or maybe with a different person holding the radio or livestock mentioned above
6) At some point, word spread among the muchachos that you should try to make your photo look like a rap or boy band music video. Gangsta mugs and river photo shoots highly encouraged
7) Many parents opt to have a photo of themselves without their children. Sometimes I would take photos only of the mother and not one photo of her kids
8) They would usually wear their Sunday best and break out the hair gel for their Sears family portrait. Photo shoots usually amounted to me going to their home and waiting 45 minutes for them to get ready
Author's Note: Just so you don't think I was pulling a modern day trinkets-for-gold deal, let me be clear. I put all photo profits into their water committee funds. It made for a good fundraiser. The Dollars-for-Oti's-Sanity drive.
The Story of Gra
Usually last names in Ngabere designate where you're from. Basically, you add "-bu" to your origin to get your last name. If you're from Calante, your last name would "Calanbu". If you're from Kwite, your last name would be Kwibu.
When I got to Calante, the first order of business was getting a Ngabere name. We had a community-wide meeting to discuss this matter of grave importance. The oldest woman in the community was consulted. It was a big deal.
For the last year and a half, my name has been Oti. Supposedly, there's no meaning, that it's just a name from the area. In fact, one of the other volunteers from my training group had the same name given to him.
Now there's the matter of my last name, which is not Calanbu, but is instead Grabu. During the community meeting, someone had suggested Grabu and the entire community burst into laughter. Yes, the tribe had spoken. My name would be Oti Grabu. I had no idea what it meant. My name could be Oti Chicken$#!& for all I knew, but I already had all my chips on the experiential table, so I've worn my name like a badge of honor.
There are many communities scattered along the river basin with an intricate network of trails connecting everyone. My "job" involves a lot of hiking so, naturally, you run into a lot of people. If I see someone I've never met, I stop and introduce myself, say where I live, what I'm doing here, etc. Whenever I tell the person my full name, I'm sure to make them laugh. I ask what it means, why my name is so funny. They kinda shrug. Some give me some vague story about how it's the name of the river. I bet.
So after awhile of consistently making people laugh by introducing myself, I looked up my name (don't know why I hadn't done it right after the original meeting). Under gra, the book lists: handle, stem, stalk, support. That seemed to jive with the nebulous stories I'd heard about someone cutting down sections of forest near the river. Maybe the river got its name from the handle of the ax used to clear those areas of jungle. (In a culture without much storytelling or songs, the stories of the past are disappearing quickly). But it was really the last definition in the book that caught my attention.
Gra: puberty ritual for boys
That would explain a few things all right. So I started calling people out on it. But the funny thing is, they've sworn up and down that it was the name of the river, that the name was here long before the white kid showed up. They still laugh whenever I use my name, but I tend to believe them.
So who knows? They could be laughing because I have an old Ngabe name that is so nuanced it's funny to hear some gringo claiming it as his own. Or I could be going through puberty. Either way, my name is a good ice-breaker. It has embedded PR value. Anyone I meet will smile and could never be intimidated by the tall white guy who's still going through puberty.
I don't fully understand their sense of humor, but my name helps bridge the gap. And so on one level, I can have a joke between us, and on a completely different level, I have the inside joke with myself of having a name fitting for all the changes that have transpired in this chapter of my life.
When I got to Calante, the first order of business was getting a Ngabere name. We had a community-wide meeting to discuss this matter of grave importance. The oldest woman in the community was consulted. It was a big deal.
For the last year and a half, my name has been Oti. Supposedly, there's no meaning, that it's just a name from the area. In fact, one of the other volunteers from my training group had the same name given to him.
Now there's the matter of my last name, which is not Calanbu, but is instead Grabu. During the community meeting, someone had suggested Grabu and the entire community burst into laughter. Yes, the tribe had spoken. My name would be Oti Grabu. I had no idea what it meant. My name could be Oti Chicken$#!& for all I knew, but I already had all my chips on the experiential table, so I've worn my name like a badge of honor.
There are many communities scattered along the river basin with an intricate network of trails connecting everyone. My "job" involves a lot of hiking so, naturally, you run into a lot of people. If I see someone I've never met, I stop and introduce myself, say where I live, what I'm doing here, etc. Whenever I tell the person my full name, I'm sure to make them laugh. I ask what it means, why my name is so funny. They kinda shrug. Some give me some vague story about how it's the name of the river. I bet.
So after awhile of consistently making people laugh by introducing myself, I looked up my name (don't know why I hadn't done it right after the original meeting). Under gra, the book lists: handle, stem, stalk, support. That seemed to jive with the nebulous stories I'd heard about someone cutting down sections of forest near the river. Maybe the river got its name from the handle of the ax used to clear those areas of jungle. (In a culture without much storytelling or songs, the stories of the past are disappearing quickly). But it was really the last definition in the book that caught my attention.
Gra: puberty ritual for boys
That would explain a few things all right. So I started calling people out on it. But the funny thing is, they've sworn up and down that it was the name of the river, that the name was here long before the white kid showed up. They still laugh whenever I use my name, but I tend to believe them.
So who knows? They could be laughing because I have an old Ngabe name that is so nuanced it's funny to hear some gringo claiming it as his own. Or I could be going through puberty. Either way, my name is a good ice-breaker. It has embedded PR value. Anyone I meet will smile and could never be intimidated by the tall white guy who's still going through puberty.
I don't fully understand their sense of humor, but my name helps bridge the gap. And so on one level, I can have a joke between us, and on a completely different level, I have the inside joke with myself of having a name fitting for all the changes that have transpired in this chapter of my life.
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