January of last year, I became the proud owner of my riverfront property, a small thatched-roof hut to call my very own. The house was the result of countless days hauling wood in the rain. In a weakened state from parasites, drenched from pounding rain, I have memories of slipping in the mud coming down from the mountain thinking that Peace Corps was more corps than peace.
Over the course of a few months, the house took form. I would buy food for the community members helping me with the construction. I bought a pig for the junta when we hauled the penca for my roof. I remember feeling I really was worlds away when I went through the process of buying a tree in the middle of the rain forest, then paying to have someone cut boards with a chainsaw, freehand.
Over the past year and change, I've loved my house. Every morning I open my window and drink my coffee, taking in the view of the river. I've made a little finca with bananas, plantains, yucca, pineapple, squash, and flowers. I'll repeat for emphasis. I love my house.
As I entered the second half of service, the topic of what I'm doing with the house when I leave has popped up with increased frequency. Originally, I had discussed with my community my selling the house to a follow-up volunteer. Later I realized this would pose a logistical challenge, since my time here wouldn't overlap that of the volunteer. About that time, my neighbor had expressed interest in buying the house. I discussed the idea of them buying the house and renting to a follow-up volunteer if he or she wanted to live in the house. They were on board and I felt good knowing I would be selling the house to my favorite family in the community. While discussions with most of the community has been limited to photos or trying to get something out of me, my neighbors have actually taken the time to get to know me. The least I could do was sell them the house at a big discount from what I had spent.
So things remained that way for months. Over time, more and more people started asking about the house. I told them that my neighbor had already asked and I would be selling her the house. I would later find out this would be the beginning of the telenovela that would become my life.
A few weeks ago, Felipe, my counterpart, stopped by to say they would be meeting on writing the solicitation for a follow-up volunteer. I said that the rumor mill was running on the house and I wanted to take the opportunity to discuss my plans with the house to set the record straight. I told him that I would be selling the house to Magdalena for $400. I had paid $600 for everything, so this seemed fair. He said that was fine and then left.
Not long after, Magdalena came by with $200. We had discussed paying in installments of $100, but $200 was fine. She was also paying earlier than we had discussed. Nevertheless, I made out a receipt and shortly thereafter headed to the meeting.
The meeting was really more of a trial. I was completely blind-sided by an entire community making viscous accusations. People I thought were my friends said I had no right to sell the house. My counterpart led a discussion nothing short of character assassination. Benancio, normally the gentle grandfather figure, was yelling at me two feet away. Magdalena, who I really respected, saw the writing on the wall and paid that morning instead of discussing what the community was saying in Ngabere. Awesome everyone. Thanks. Then they wanted me to respond.
Obviously it took a moment to collect my thoughts. What was going on? Who were these people? Why were the community leaders suddenly hanging me out to dry? I explained that I had paid for all the materials and bought the food for the workers. Out here, providing food is like paying the workers. As far as I could tell, I had the right to sell the house. I said that I didn't understand why, after a year and a half of giving to the community, of taking photos, of reading with their children, I was being thrown under the bus. The community relented a bit. I now had the right to sell the house, but why was I selling it to Magdalena? Why had I not talked it over with the water committee first? I responded that when Dima, one of the store owners, wants to sell a pound of rice, he doesn't bring the community together for a meeting. I was at a loss as to what the water committee had to do with my house.
More angry words were exchanged, mostly in Ngabere. A few people walked out, disgusted with me. They said they would no longer request a follow-up volunteer, that they had learned their lesson from me. I half expected them to throw me into the river to see if I would float. Then Maestro Juan got up to say his piece. He basically told everyone to calm down. He reminded them that the community hadn't really invested much in my being there and that there was still some time left in my service. While he didn't exactly defend me, he was able to reduce the hostility. The community would write their solicitation for a follow-up. I walked out of the meeting in a daze.
The next 24 hours were spent trying to figure out what had just happened. I found out that many people don't like Magdalena, so it was an act of aggression to sell the house to her. Many people felt they had contributed to the construction of the house and they wanted their share.
I was sad and dejected, closer than I'd been been to quitting. Those 24 hours were also spent with community members stopping by to personally express their disappointment in me. I took each moment as an opportunity to explain how I had no idea I would be making people upset, that I would never intentionally wreak havoc on relationships I'd been building over the last year and a half.
After awhile, it became apparent that even if it meant damaging my relationship with Magdalena (which it has), I had to return the money and break our contract. I did just that and then embarked on a PR campaign to try to patch things up with the community, which has been more or less successful.
Sigh. What a mess. My sadness quickly gave in to anger. How could they be so hateful and trite? I know they live in the moment, but to not think about who I am before casting stones was appalling. I was witness to a community caught up in a frenzy without a single person sticking up for me.
Then anger turned to resolve. Like it or not, I have to live in close proximity with these people for five more months. And while my first impulse is to write them off, I've had a year and a half to practice taking "the high road". We're building a new toma to add to the water supply in the dry months, so I'm working with community members. I've made peace with everyone that was upset with me. I'll probably end up giving the house away just to wash my hands of the whole thing.
In spite of everything... everything... it's not about my ego. It's about helping provide water to the kids who had no part in their parent's escapades. It's about swallowing pride and making amends. It's about showing this somewhat forgotten group of people that someone actually cares.
Saturday, May 14, 2011
On Blogging
This marks my 100th post in Panama (!) and I figured I would blog about... well... blogging. Initially, I saw the blog as a way of blasting stories and photos out to those back at home. I think as I've grown, so too has the blog.
In the early days of summer camp that was pre-service training, I have fond memories of frantically uploading photos in my limited time at internet cafes. If time allowed, I would add a cute description about my adventures bouncing around Panama. Then came the crazy stories of my adjusting to the community and the new locale. Having gotten the breezy stuff out of the way, I found myself thinking about what else to write.
While I will have spent two years hiking through the jungle and bathing in a river, that's not what has been exceptional about my time here. I slowly realized this and blogged accordingly. Novel experiences gave way to novel thoughts, thoughts about myself and the world we live in.
In the same way that readers may never fully realize what this experience has been for me, I don't think I can fully realize what it's like to read my posts. I probably spend too much time worrying about what others think. How do I talk about larger themes without sounding patronizing? Just because I'm in the Peace Corps doesn't make me an authority on a subject. How do I talk about my growth in a way that captures all the trials and tribulations (i.e. the reasons why I'm growing) without making my family lose sleep at night? My time hasn't exactly been sunshine and high-fives, but I certainly wouldn't have grown as much if that were the case.
One of the more surprising aspects of the blog has been how much I've enjoyed it. Alongside the blog, I've kept a journal that's more free-flowing babble. It's been fun thinking about what will make the cut for the blog. What do I think is worth sharing?
I've realized the blog also addresses some immediate personal needs.
In the early days of summer camp that was pre-service training, I have fond memories of frantically uploading photos in my limited time at internet cafes. If time allowed, I would add a cute description about my adventures bouncing around Panama. Then came the crazy stories of my adjusting to the community and the new locale. Having gotten the breezy stuff out of the way, I found myself thinking about what else to write.
While I will have spent two years hiking through the jungle and bathing in a river, that's not what has been exceptional about my time here. I slowly realized this and blogged accordingly. Novel experiences gave way to novel thoughts, thoughts about myself and the world we live in.
In the same way that readers may never fully realize what this experience has been for me, I don't think I can fully realize what it's like to read my posts. I probably spend too much time worrying about what others think. How do I talk about larger themes without sounding patronizing? Just because I'm in the Peace Corps doesn't make me an authority on a subject. How do I talk about my growth in a way that captures all the trials and tribulations (i.e. the reasons why I'm growing) without making my family lose sleep at night? My time hasn't exactly been sunshine and high-fives, but I certainly wouldn't have grown as much if that were the case.
One of the more surprising aspects of the blog has been how much I've enjoyed it. Alongside the blog, I've kept a journal that's more free-flowing babble. It's been fun thinking about what will make the cut for the blog. What do I think is worth sharing?
I've realized the blog also addresses some immediate personal needs.
- Feeling like I'm connected to the world back home, however peripherally
- Documenting a strange and transformative time in my life
- In a setting without much in the way of art, culture, or productivity in general, the feeling of actually creating something
So thank you to those that follow my blog. As much as this blog is for me, I think about all of you during the process. I hope all is well on the home front and to the fellow volunteers, keep on keepin' on en la lucha.
More Site Photos
- View out of my window
- Scorpions in the house
- A small kikajou, unfortunately shot by the proud owner =(
- Crazy tree vines
- Tree frogs
- Kwite tank connected. There's water!!!
- Rainforest cows
- Tragic death of Magdalena's horse
Do It For the Kids
I live in a world of unpredictability. Rain comes from nowhere and sometimes dissipates with a similar level of alacrity. Work days will be cancelled because someone's uncle passed away in the night. Banana trees in your front yard will be found eaten to the ground because someone's cow got loose. The only things that are certain is that the person you pass on the trail will ask you were you're going or if you can take their photo, the person at your house came to ask for money or some type of handout, and that there will be children at your house, all day, everyday.
I live in the center of Calante. The school is about 200 feet from my house. As such, kids are around, always. Early on in service, I instituted "office hours". Oti's Day Care Program opens at 9am and closes its door at 6pm. When I turn kids away, they usually stare blankly. Juxtaposed against the noisy chaos of their homes, it must seem really weird that at times I want peace and quiet. After all, they're used to having at least ten people in the home and never being alone. (I repeatedly get asked by both children and adults if I get scared at night living by myself).
I have a ton of books in Spanish. Mostly the kids just thumb through the images. Some read aloud simultaneously in a cacophony of learning. There's a few chapter books that usually get put back in the pile in disgust. Where are the pictures?!
Reading is their favorite pastime. Sometimes they color. Sometimes I give them chalk and they draw on the floor and outside wall of my porch. For awhile, we made bracelets. I think more than anything, they come to my house because I give them the time of day, something they're not used to with the adults.
Seeing as there's about five kids between the ages of 3 and 11 in every house, and that many come over to Oti's, at times it can be a bit much. Occasionally, kids get into fights on my porch. They whistle incessantly. They manhandle the books. In short, they can be kids. Sometimes cute. Sometimes, really, really annoying.
It could be an outsider's guilt at seeing a demographic so deprived of stimulation. It could be the call to service. But those days I'm not out working, the door opens at 9am. There are many days I don't want to be babysitting, days where I'd rather be pondering life's questions alongside Ira Glass instead of responding every 15 seconds to a kid showing me every single page of Jorge El Curioso. But I try to make the effort.
In a world where my efforts are something nebulous, I like to think that this is one of my greater contributions, that I'm touching the lives of these children in some profound way that neither party can fully appreciate.
That's my reward in all of this. It's a feeling of satisfaction that is all too rare. I'm also rewarded by having a group of people that light up when they see me, that call out my name from across the river. I know as a volunteer, I'm not alone in saying that my best friends are on average about 8-years-old. I'm laughing as I write this, but it's the honest truth. As I battle my almost daily existential crises, it's the children that keep me grounded. The adults may still call me chui, the Ngabere word for foreigner (somewhat derogatory), but it's the kids that accept me unconditionally. And that's how I've developed my daily mantra. Do it for the kids.
I live in the center of Calante. The school is about 200 feet from my house. As such, kids are around, always. Early on in service, I instituted "office hours". Oti's Day Care Program opens at 9am and closes its door at 6pm. When I turn kids away, they usually stare blankly. Juxtaposed against the noisy chaos of their homes, it must seem really weird that at times I want peace and quiet. After all, they're used to having at least ten people in the home and never being alone. (I repeatedly get asked by both children and adults if I get scared at night living by myself).
I have a ton of books in Spanish. Mostly the kids just thumb through the images. Some read aloud simultaneously in a cacophony of learning. There's a few chapter books that usually get put back in the pile in disgust. Where are the pictures?!
Reading is their favorite pastime. Sometimes they color. Sometimes I give them chalk and they draw on the floor and outside wall of my porch. For awhile, we made bracelets. I think more than anything, they come to my house because I give them the time of day, something they're not used to with the adults.
Seeing as there's about five kids between the ages of 3 and 11 in every house, and that many come over to Oti's, at times it can be a bit much. Occasionally, kids get into fights on my porch. They whistle incessantly. They manhandle the books. In short, they can be kids. Sometimes cute. Sometimes, really, really annoying.
It could be an outsider's guilt at seeing a demographic so deprived of stimulation. It could be the call to service. But those days I'm not out working, the door opens at 9am. There are many days I don't want to be babysitting, days where I'd rather be pondering life's questions alongside Ira Glass instead of responding every 15 seconds to a kid showing me every single page of Jorge El Curioso. But I try to make the effort.
In a world where my efforts are something nebulous, I like to think that this is one of my greater contributions, that I'm touching the lives of these children in some profound way that neither party can fully appreciate.
That's my reward in all of this. It's a feeling of satisfaction that is all too rare. I'm also rewarded by having a group of people that light up when they see me, that call out my name from across the river. I know as a volunteer, I'm not alone in saying that my best friends are on average about 8-years-old. I'm laughing as I write this, but it's the honest truth. As I battle my almost daily existential crises, it's the children that keep me grounded. The adults may still call me chui, the Ngabere word for foreigner (somewhat derogatory), but it's the kids that accept me unconditionally. And that's how I've developed my daily mantra. Do it for the kids.
Do-Gooders
Since college, I have loved "This American Life". Equipped with my iPod and pocket stereo I've been able to catch up on old episodes recorded long before I developed a true appreciation for public radio.
On a rainy day in my hut, I heard an episode on do-gooders. The first act really caught my attention. For those readers back at home scratching their heads about my experience, listen to the first act. It's as analogous of my time here as any American example could ever hope to be.
I've pasted the link and the description below. Enjoy!
http://www.thisamericanlife.org/radio-archives/episode/126/do-gooders
Act One: You Can't Go Home Again
On a rainy day in my hut, I heard an episode on do-gooders. The first act really caught my attention. For those readers back at home scratching their heads about my experience, listen to the first act. It's as analogous of my time here as any American example could ever hope to be.
I've pasted the link and the description below. Enjoy!
http://www.thisamericanlife.org/radio-archives/episode/126/do-gooders
Act One: You Can't Go Home Again
Jackie and Kenny Wharton were kids in the tiny town of Canalou, Missouri, off of old Highway 61. They moved away for 40 years but always dreamed of moving back. After Kenny retired, they finally did. Canalou had fallen on hard times. They hoped to do a few things to help restore some of the spirit it had when they were kids: Modest, innocent things, maybe start a softball league, build a place for kids to play ball, maybe pave a few streets. And the more they tried, the more people resented them. After three years, they realized that something had changed in Canalou that would take a lot more than two do-gooders could fix. This is the story of what went wrong. (33 minutes)
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