I love it when I stumble upon a good book. I love it even more when I realize that reading the author’s words actually inspires me to write. I recently have had the pleasure of both experiences, enjoyment and motivation, all stemming from one person’s thoughts on a page. Highly recommend “Honeymoon With my Brother” by Franz Wiser.
Today I planted. I trudged through mud with a sack of plantones on my back. I helped measure and fill holes with fertilizer. I liberated baby saplings from plastic bags, and I planted trees in God’s good green earth.
500 trees later, I was dripping in sweat and had mud caked on my fingernails. I was dizzy and my pink water bottle with the colorful flowers on it was dry as a bone. The important part was I made it to the end, hombro a hombro con la gente, and maybe just maybe earned a tiny glimpse of respect.
I worked today with a crew of all men. The majority, del campo, were raised with a curriculum in hard outdoor labor. The “city” folk were environmental and agriculture agency reps, the local authorities with whom I hope to work in my future projects. It wasn’t so much the work that war hard, (well it was, but I liked that part) but relating to this boys club was the bigger challenge. I decided to work hard, attempt a few interested conversations, and really just focus on getting the job done. Hard work seems to speak volumes here. At the end of our workday I felt accomplished. While I didn’t run any meetings, teach any new skills or probably even impress anyone, I made headway. I showed a group of men that, yes, not all women would prefer to stay home and cook the food (while I equally have the greatest respect for those who do, for God’s sake, THAT would be a challenge for me). Beyond that however, I think I showed commitment. At one point, when I really was looking exhausted and a bit sunburned, a few of my work partners told me to go wait in the shade for them to finish. I surprised myself by responding with a defiant “NO, quiero terminar el trabajo” and got back to work planting. Later in the day a man from my community passed me on horseback. I realized he was one of the gentlemen from the mornings endeavors. While I had already showered, changed clothes, and spent about 3 hours in bed reading, he appeared to be in the same condition, probably as a result of a much longer day of labor in the sun. While we had met on many previous occasions and only exchanged trivial greetings, this time he instead called out my nickname “Natty” and trotted off along the road. For one more person, I stopped being just “Gringa.” That felt pretty good.
On a side note: The terms Gringo and Gringa are not meant to be offensive. I truly believe that people use these terms because they have no other vocabulary to express who you appear to be and where you appear to come from. Calling people names for their appearance is one of the few things I do find a bit shocking in Panamenian culture. For example when a third grade girl agreed with her parents that she was indeed “fat” I almost shock the girl’s mother. “What! You can’t instill this negative body image in your child!” But this is my point of view. What is seen as negative in general in our culture is not necessarily the case here. And it seems nearly impossible to be politically correct when people flat out ask you to clarify who a person is based solely on their level of darkness or lightness of skin tone. By the way I still don’t really understand this system when everyone seems tan and brunette to me, but I still cringe when I hear people call their little sister a “negrita.” That’s just my cultural filter for ya! So Gringa, yeah it still offends me a bit when I hear it. Not when I am passing a random small community and a young child yells it out (Hey! There’s a Gringa!), nor when someone refers to the appearance of myself or past volunteers (The other Gringa that was here was named Margarita). What does push my buttons is the more direct use, referring to me as if my name were Gringa. I decided to try this out today when I realized this campo man just was not going to stop. I switched up the conversation and inquired a bit about his farm, his family, his life etc. After chatting a bit more I introduced myself and asked his name. He gave me his full name and I repeated it back (a good strategy) to make sure I got it correctly. Good. Set. We are proper acquaintances now right? Wrong. First words out of his mouth here “Here, Gringa” as he hands me more sacks of plants. Oh well, I tried.
Highlights from the week
I met a grandmother who could not remember how many grandchildren/great grandchildren she had. She laughed and just told me another is expected next month
I introduced two sisters, age 7 and 9, to peanut butter and jelly for the first time. And whole wheat bread. They are hooked. I have created two little peanut craving monsters who know I will continue to keep this stash over the next two years. They also know I have a hard time saying no.
Taught my first environmental lesion on the composition of air and the negative effects of burning forests and trees on the air we breathe. I used dry beans, lentils and corn to represent oxygen, nitrogen and other (and sometimes poisonous) gases, respectively. It went pretty well and the kids invited me to play volleyball after.
The chiva driver (think pick up with two wooden benches in the back… hang on!) has taking a liking to me and has made it his duty to show me around the HUGE corrigimiento, or district, that is pertinent to El Cedro. I enjoy the free rides and breathtaking glimpses of the mountain vistas at sunset. I also get to meet random people who live too far for me to pasear, but who I am still trying to serve. They have interesting stories and live off some very difficult roads. I also get to ride upfront! What a treat!
I watched the same whole-wheat bread and peanut butter munching 4th grader use a machete twice her size to split open a wild coconut. I barely moved from my seat on the patio to help, a brief “Cuidate” was all I could muster. Kids here are tough. She was fine. She still has all 10 fingers and ate the coconut with a spoon. Como se dice Badass en Espanol?
I am starting to like rice. Yes, after nearly 3 months, I find myself not just tolerating, but ENJOYING plain white rice. WHAT?! Ask anyone, I am a noodle girl (props Italian roots). But hey, I guess you can grow to like just about anything. I think the fact that I recently bought hot sauce (best balboa, i.e. dollar spent in Panama thus far), and discovered my host grandma has a stash of some other mysterious Salsa Condamenta (my money is on soy sauce) has contributed in this boost in my rice preference. Plus, after working in the fields all day, beans and rice just plain hits the spot.
My body clock has now adjusted to 6:15. This is actually a blessing as it is later than the time I was waking up before due to a variety of distracting noises (dogs, roosters, cows, people going to milk cows, 5am loud conversations, phones ringing, tipico music). I actually found myself acknowledging the racquet and sleeping on through! CULTURAL ADJUSTMENT HERE I COME!
I am becoming more morena. The sun is darkening my skin despite my use of sun screen, and for some reason not having its normal lightening effects on my hair.
My weekly duro (think homemade Popsicle (icy pole) in a bag) count seems to be on the rise. They are just too good and there are so many new flavors! This week I has duro de nace (pronounced Nancy) and leche de ideal. Sounds exotic, but the later is actually just named for IDEAL brand evaporated milk. So delicious! At 5 centavos these little plastic bags of ice filled joy are the number one reason I am happy my site has electricity. I could give up light and tv, but I could not comfortably live without duros.
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