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.
