Fantastically Normal

When living in the country-side of Paraguay, my life becomes the countryside of Paraguay.

When I have nothing to do, I can now sit for hours and simply appreciate life. When I look for excitement, I cross the street anxiously to my neighbors house to hold her baby and gossip about how rude the senora down the road acts in committee meetings, and watch the road for new traffic. When I look for natural beauty, I sit on the porch as the sun sets below the palms. When I thought about New Years resolutions for 2011, they all involved my site; from getting to know new family’s, making my garden more environmentally friendly, and finally trying some sort of tongue. For all intents and purposes. My life in this town.

And oftentimes last year this fact began to bother me. I did not want to be that small-minded, that small-town, or that potentially ignorant to the parts of the world that existed far away from our daily happening. Which is why when Christmas vacation time came around, I was anxious to re-discover the world, or at least parts of Argentina.

And discovering I did. First San Carlos de Bariloche, where nature’s wonders continually surpassed my minds predisposed notions of beauty and shocked my system’s ability to handle extreme fluctuations of temperatures. Days were spent frolicking along snow-capped peaks lining a lake whose sheer size and fairly consistent whit-capped waves were reminiscent of the ocean.





After a delightful (and meat filled) parrilla dinner on Christmas eve, it was off to Mendoza, where dirt roads were actually maintained, mountains were even higher, wine flowed freely, sushi actually existed and was delicious, and even rainy days could not keep city life from happening.







It was a good vacation. Full of new experiences and so visually stimulating that I find my photos, although beautiful, disappointing in comparison. When I left for vacation I planned on a re-adjustment period in Asuncion, and worried it would not be enough time to be ready for site. And yet, despite myself, after so much discovery, fun, excitement, newness… etc, upon arrival at the hotel in Asuncion, I was antsy to get home.

Finally, I made it back. And the first thing I did was cross the street to hold my neighbor’s baby, hear about the gossip I missed, and watch the sun cross below the palms with her. Instead of feeling small-minded or trapped this time, I felt happy. This is what we do in the Paraguayan countryside. This is the life I chose, or rather, the life that chose me, and which I accepted.

Vacation was amazing, wonderful, an experience that widened my perspective and inspired my future, but I think so did my hours of starting into the fields, chatting about the weather or neighbor’s bad behaviors, and sitting through black-outs in the countryside of Paraguay for the last year. So for 2011, I am going to embrace the amazing-ness that somehow develops despite a lack of incredible natural beauty, fairly temperate weather, unexciting social lives, and too much free time. Even though full of the traditionally unappreciated, the small-town life of my Paraguayan community provides me a plethora of wonders and surprises. I will be sure to keep you all posted about the un-incredible, yet amazingly intriguing, inspiring, and exciting happenings of life in the campo!

Its good to be home!

The Chicken Project

My relationship with chickens in this country would be best defined as Love-Hate. I do love eating the home-grown chicken soup, and the beautiful orange-yolk eggs they sometimes lay in my compost pile. But I also do so hate those chickens that have figured out how to fly, and manage to clear my 3-foot tall garden fence and munch on all my red tomatoes, cabbages, and baby pepper plants before I realize what’s going on, as well as their sticky droppings they love to leave on my front porch.

And then, a few months ago, chickens became much more.

Almost every family in my community already has chickens. They are all over. They eat everything they can find, wander to far-off places, and when they decide to lay eggs, they do so wherever they see fit before climbing high into a mango tree to sleep for the night. But in July the agricultural committee randomly received 10 well-bred chicken babies sponsored by the mayor. I’m still unsure when the inspiration hit. It may have been the moment I saw those boxes of fluffy chicks being passed out to the agriculture committee. Or maybe when people started talking about how the chicks were dying. But I think it finally hit when one lady, chicken-less after only 4 weeks, recognized out-loud that she had no idea how to raise those chickens or why they died.

The committee had been hankering for a project, and after these chicken stories I couldn’t escape the opportunity glaring me in my face. I would teach my women how to care for their chickens. But they needed a reason. Other talks with them had established that beyond the winter-garden season where they could sell vegetables, they often lacked a steady income. Recent trips to the local store demonstrated that the local economy also lacked eggs. And so, it was born: the chicken project.

After watching to many easy projects fail in arriving, in their implementation, or in sustainability, I worked with all my resources to protect my project from a sad and unfortunate fate. Rules were born:
1) To be involved in the project, each woman had to be a long-standing and participatory member of the women’s committee.
2) Each person must attend a series of 4 talks about chickens in order to receive the project.
3) Each woman must contribute an equal percentage of crops from their fields towards the production of home-made chicken feed.
4) Each woman must work equally to raise the money for the community contribution.
5) Each woman must plant at least 5 lines of pigeon peas, a green manure, in their fields to go towards future chicken feed.
6) Each woman must have their chicken house built within a month of the materials arriving.
7) Each woman must keep at all times at least 6 chickens in her chicken coop.

At first things were hard. Despite constant reminders, good friends in the community tested my rules by skipping the first talk. When I had to kick them out of the project committee, I worried that everything would go downhill. I lost faith.



Slowly, faith returned. The 24 women that came to the first talk, came to the last 3 as well. When chicken-feed ingredients were requested, they took their time to make feasible promises that equaled what we needed. Women have already shown up at my house with contributions towards the chicken feed that may be months away in the making. And at every house I visit, something clicks in the minds of the women about mid-way through the visit, and they jump up excitedly to go show me their pigeon pea seedlings and show me where their chicken house will be built.

As of now we are waiting for the money. The application for a SPA grant through Peace Corps is in, thanks to great help from the president of the women’s committee, and hard days of cooking and selling chicken and empanadas has us only a few dollars away from our community contribution goal. And now we wait.

And now, though the chickens that get into my garden still piss me off, I see in them an opportunity. The ‘chicken chatter’ around town is positive, women are even putting some of the practices learned in talks to use with the chickens they have. The room underneath my guest bed is almost full of corn, beans, and coco waiting to be ground for future feed.

They did it. They followed the rules, and have astounded me with their progress. As I work to ensure that my part in the project pulls through as well, I notice that the women walk into meetings a little taller and laugh a little louder. Those garden destroying chickens have already begun to empower a capably group of people looking for a chance to prove themselves. And prove themselves they will continue to do, I tell them. Because though we may have to wait, when those chickens finally get here, are well fed and well kept, and start producing lots of eggs, I will be over at each of their houses to try one.

First came the chickens, then the eye-opening empowerment of the women, and now comes my time to learn patience in the funding process. We finally got confirmation of funding! But red-tape keeps its from materializing too soon. The day will come though, I hope, when its all about the eggs, and six months after, a few plates of home-made chicken soup as we watch baby chicks chirp away the beginning of the cycle.

Thanks for Coming

Sorry for the lack of blog posts recently.. internet in the countryside sometimes fails. Here is a little note I wrote to myself a while ago... I hope you enjoy! I'll do a photo update when I get to better internet!

From the first day I arrived in Paraguay, Peace Corps mentioned the importance of visiting families to get to know them. In training it was simple: I visited the families that the other Peace Corps Trainees lived with, and then we all left together to play Frisbee.

It was not until I got to site that I realized how complex the simple task or visiting families could become. My initial visits were easy, introductory, full of simple questions, temperature commentary, and the periodic meal or gift of fruit to welcome me to the community. It was pleasant.

Once the first visits to all the families were over, disaster struck. Apparently you visit once, and you have to keep going, fairly frequently, meaning about once a week. If you fail, you will know you did, because they will hound you with “Where have you been?” “Why don’t you want to come back to my house?” “When are you going to visit me again?” “Why haven’t I seen you in a while?” To answer: “Because you never come to my house,” is inappropriate, and so an immediate promise of a visit to come and excuses of a heavy workload is the only way to excuse yourself.

Then you realize that with some families you simply have nothing to say. Maybe it’s a personality difference. Maybe it’s a lack of patience allowing for the conversations to go anywhere. And these visits slowly die, because you leave feeling bored, and they stop asking why you never come around.

But other families just click. You have fun with them. You can sit and talk about things other than the rain last week. You can make funny noises together. They order you right inside if you arrive past ten am to help them make lunch and expect you to stay for it. They also have a tendency to give you things. None of this is solicited and yet so far I have walked away from various family visits with, but not limited to: a pumpkin, bag of hot peppers, sweet potatoes, a cup of sugar cane juice, a bowl of mandioca, roasted pig skin, a bag of beans, a floor mat, a large hair clip decorated with 2 yellow poinsettias and brown feathers, and several delicious meals (normally already in my stomach).

It’s awfully nice of them. I guess they are just so happy to have a visitor that they want to thank them for coming. I have seen them do the same with Paraguayans. I try to return the kindness when I can, baking and distributing cakes and breads periodically to the heavy gifters, or even the ones with the kindest or strangest offers (I have an outstanding offer to bring my towel and bathe whenever I want at one family’s house. Even when I told them I had a hot shower, they replied that they just wanted to let me know that if I wanted to bathe at their house ten minutes away from my own and then walk home on a dusty or muddy dirt road, I was welcome to).

I have already decided that this is something I am going to miss about Paraguay. It really brightens your day. Not only do I accomplish something each day I go and talk with Paraguayans for 3 hours about their lives, mine, and mention some gardening tips amidst it all, but I also walk home with something like a large pumpkin to eat.

Maybe I will continue this in the US. I think I should. I will have a bowl by the door of long-keeping vegetables and dollar-store treasures, and depending on my mood as I walk my guest to my front door they will get a yam, an onion, or a leopard print snap-bracelet.

A Good Day

I complain a lot on this blog. I acknowledge that. I admit that it is often easier to find the motivation to post when I am stressed, concerned, overwhelmed or upset than when I am content, happy, and even a little giddy with my life here. Today I attempt to change that. I know this story is cheesy, but its true.

I had a trainee come visit this weekend. Last year this time I headed far north to visit a volunteer from the group before mine and see just what volunteer life is like. This weekend, it was my turn.

It was fun waiting for the visitor. Thinking of what she might be like, remembering how little I knew about what my life would become later on in training or even once I swore in. And then she was here. And I told her how it is. There are hard days, and tiring days, and long days, and hot days, and generally good days, and vacation days, and work days... etc. But I forgot to leave out that one kind of day, the one I leave off my blog too. Lucky for her, she was here to witness one.

After a lunch of ample vegetables and a nap, we headed to my neighbors house to plant macuna, a green manure, amidst her two month old corn crop. She planted along with us as I explained the nutritional and mineral benefits to the soil of plants such as macuna. It was a pleasant planting experience, and I was about to leave the experience calling it a good day, when she asked to show me her tomatoes.

It was then, walking around the back of their house that I saw it, a recycled trashcan just like the ones I made at the school back in May. My first, pessimistic one-year volunteer reaction was to think "damn little kid, he stole the school trashcan!" My host saw me looking at it, and said, "My son is so smart, he really loves you, he came home the day you taught the school how to make these and made us save bottles until he could teach me how to make this one. We use it for all the trash in the house, to gather it together, and almost have enough bottles to make another. I love it. Isn't he smart?"

My face lit up. "Now that has to be re-warding," said the trainee. And it was. For a brief moment I felt accomplished. While other kids wacked their friends on the heads with bottles the day I taught about recycled trashcans at the school, at least one took it to heart and even shared the knowledge. I had made an impact, my work meant something.

Without being able to wipe the smile off my face I headed to see the tomato plants and made plans with the lady to help her build a natural shade structure before the upcoming scorching months before heading home.

And that was when I took the time to tell the trainee, as I tell you all know, that every once in a while you get a day that reminds you why you are here. When, although you know you cannot save the world, you realize that you can help some of its peoples through your work. That there is a reason for you me to be here, and that my work, however it may seem at the time I do it, has and will make an impact on people's lives. Days where this realization materializes in front of you, well, although rare, those days are what makes everything else worth while.



Rachel demonstrates how to use one of the recycled trashcans in the school yard.

You live alone?

Paraguayans are all about family. As far as I know, the family I live next to in my town is related to everybody else in town. I happen to know that a lot of the tias and tios are way beyond first generation, but the specifics get confusing. What I do know is that the fact that I live here alone blows the minds of close, distant, and fake Paraguayan relatives alike.

Most assume that I ran away and I have two sad and very disappointed parents in the states. Others try to think better of me; since I have two brothers, they must be staying and taking care of my mother, and I am simply the youngest committing one last sin of absence before buckling into the family agenda. The truth of american culture has been verbally bestowed upon these thinkers of the worst, and yet they sway their hand in the air as if they just heard a fairy tail.

And so, when the day came to announce my mother's soon arrival in my very community... the questions stayed exactly the same. Excitement however, grew, for them, and for me.

Before the members of my community could sweetly embrace, question, and pity my mother for having a daughter who left her, I had some vacation time to attend to. After months of waiting, September arrived, and after a few days of medical testing and a hefty anti-biotic prescription, I left Paraguay for the open, beach-filled lands of Florianopolis, Brazil.



The signs in Asuncion advertising Brazil as one big beach with the occasional surfer and palm tree... was the perfect description for this island of sand, surf, fish, and fisherman. Although slightly cold the week was spent in a breezy mind-dance of amazement at how much water access and beans and rice can do for the soul.





Tromping back into Paraguay for a night brought back my reality bluntly. Skirting my last flight due to scheduling errors, I was grabbed and yelled at to get back on my plane. Thankfully my Spanish is swift in times of need, and the women yelling at me likely had no case, so the following day My mother and I crossed the border again, into Argentina for the famous falls.



Days of steaks, wines, and a third trip to the falls ended with the final ride to my site. It was time.



Having my mother in site was, well, eye-opening. Rather than the astonishing disappointment normally portrayed to me at my abandoning my mother, the faces of my community were washed with thanks towards her for letting me come. Rather than the 12 straggling women who eventually make it to my women's committee meetings, all 23 showed up, with snacks, and even some hand-made ao po'i as a gift for a woman they had only heard about. It was beautiful.

And then she left, and the comments returned. "How's your mom?" "She is so brave to let you stay here." "I cannot believe she still came to see you after you abandoned her." "You mean, you STILL live alone?" While their hearts seemed to lighten a bit with her visit, their basic understanding has not changed.

And while my mom got to visit families, see my house, taste a few bites of Paraguayan food, and experience the hot Paraguayan sun, I have to wonder how much that little time could impact her understanding of my time here.

I have been here a year, a little more now. I see things differently. The water going out for a day barely affects me, while a little comments about me or my lifestyle by a Paraguayan that has been said one to many times can turn my week upside down. There are things about this country that make me happy and the other things that drive me CRAZY, but they are the things that make this Paraguay. I don't think meeting my mother excused my lack of Paraguayan tradition in my life choice one bit. I don't think that translating Paraguayan jokes about me sunk in to my mother as it does to many volunteers. But the trip brought unexpected benefits as well. I do think they felt proud and productive giving her their ao po'i, and I do think she liked it. The exchange of s'mores and gifts with my family left everyone smiling through goey mouths. And so, while the deep lessons I wished to involve in my mothers visit seem to have fallen short, perhaps they landed just where they needed to be.

And now, when asked, "You REALLY live alone?" I can reply, "Yes. And remember that time you met my mother? She lets me!"

Show and Tell

In second grade show and tell was great. I remember being proud of things as small as a painted rock, and my teacher made sure that everyone else appeared to care as well. Smiling broadly I presented whatever I brought, and then compared the items of others. I was generally jealous of the kids with stay-at home moms and new puppies, and prided myself that I chose to paint a rock, rather than the kid with a green stick…

Growing up I never thought about how it felt to be the object, to be displayed and talked about. Of course there did appear in the classroom the periodic parent with a really cool job, but adult-hood seemed like such a far off dream that I concentrated on little more than how is was too bad we already had a teacher, so my mom wouldn’t be anything unique for show and tell.


Holding Pedro, his mom calls him my child, he does make the visits easier though!

Then I got to Paraguay. At first I thought everyone invited me everywhere with them because they liked me. Then it dawned on me that they were asking me if they could take me to their Associates house. Take me, like I took my rock. Word gets out further, and suddenly I find myself with invitations to be taken to the houses of people’s elderly parents, grandchildren, cousins, and estranged aunts five towns away.

An invitation is an invitation. It means mingling with the people I now work for. Best of all I imagine Peace Corps giving me a high five and whispering “yeah girl” every time I head out on foot or horse cart. After-all, I will be completing the 2nd goal of my work here: teaching Paraguayans about Americans and their culture...because inevitably one of my weird American quirks will make itself evident. Also, I tend to leave with funny gifts, but that’s another story. It’s a win win. So I go.

Upon the arrival at the stranger’s house, their lives are put on hold. They kiss my cheeks, kick someone out of a chair and make me sit in it, offer me juice or tea, admire my hair, ask me to look at their garden (when they hear I have one), ask me how Paraguay compares to Germany (I remind them that not all blond people are Germans who moved to Paraguay after World War II, and that I am actually from the US), talk to whoever brought me to the new place about me for a while (she is pretty, she is big, does she eat well? Does she speak Spanish? (funny considering I have been speaking to them in Spanish before this conversation begins), Guarani? (ditto)), and then the person responds with her precious little known facts, like how white my calves actually are, etc…

Its a big thing that I have a camera. Visiting a family on birthday day leads to epic photos. Children in front of my cake gift, not smiling.

Eventually we return to the interactive time where I answer questions, and periodically am made to do a trick, from making fruit salad to saying an English word. In this time I have to watch what I say. Yesterday I accidentally mentioned I was thinking about trying to make mandarin marmalade and before I knew it they had the ingredients on the table. I was then ordered to supervise a project I had no idea how to complete. Luckily the sun saved me, and I skipped out on a horse cart before the stuff was done cooking. (Which was probably not great…. I am pretty sure I quadrupled one ingredient and halved another accidentally…)

I have no idea what these families say about me when I leave. I would like to think they spend the evening discussing how great and beautiful I am. Most likely they catch up on the time they lost during my visit, and forget about my visit for a little while, until they go to their neighbors house the next day to buy milk and remember to share with her about the quirky Spanish and Guarani speaking German who came to their house yesterday and made some pretty watery marmalade.

The cake another neighbor hired me to make. That was a fun party. Everyone was so happy that the german girl knew how to make cakes like the Germans in town, but for cheaper!


Baby chickensssss. Some wealthy politician gave the committee money to buy everyone ten chickens. They were cute.


Baking my own Rosemary bread. Delish! (and gives people something to brag about with!)

Dirty Dirt

One of the most ironic things about Paraguay is its iconic, the infamous, red dirt. It is red. And it is everywhere. Its sandy, it does not stay put, it dries quickly, and its hue is well, beautifully red.

Amidst this dirt lives a people who are probably the tidiest people I know when it comes to negating this dirt from their lives. They embrace the dirt as their own, and then work hard, and yet seamlessly, to make its presence only known in their minds. As Peace Corps volunteers we were advised not to bring white shirts because of this dirt, yet Paraguayans living in the same town as I flaunt a white that almost glows.



I will never understand this. My shirts all have a little pink tint now. Short up straight-up bleaching them every wash, I accustom it to the power of the dirt. If its been a dry week, and a truck drives by me walking down the ruta, or main road, I arrive to my destination coated in a pinky-dust. Every week I brush off an every-returning pink hue from the side of my fridge and top of my stove. Even with doors and windows closed, it seeps in.

I had come to embrace the dirt. What else could I do? Recently a mis-understanding regarding a safety policy and my host family’s pride has caused a falling out. As we work our way back towards normalcy I immediately decided that it was probably good I never took to the fight against the dirt as they did. Sure, my white t-shirts (which they used to insist they wash) might be a little pink, along with the soles of my feet, but it does not bother me.

One morning about a month ago, I received the funniest ultimatum ever: My family decided to make me fight the dirt. You see, every morning they sweep the area surrounding their house to remove the ‘dirt’. Ironic because it’s dirt, it’s a dirt yard. I recognize that it does look beautiful and organized when they are done, and perhaps they have successfully maintained the ground from becoming a sandy mess. But looking at the tree roots laying out and vulnerable looking atop the glowing orange ground, I also wonder what they are doing for the erosion process…

Sweeping out my house, and my brick porch, my aunt said hello, followed by, “what you really need to sweep is your dirt lawn, it’s dirty.” Without complaint, to avoid confrontation, and giggling inside at the absurdity of it all, I stepped out in my boots and pajamas, grabbed the home-made broom resembling a witch’s favorite ride, and swept my little dirt area as best I could. We worked together to put the swept dirt in a bag to carry away.

My lawn does look pretty. But I have to wonder if sweeping away a centimeter of dirt every day is any better than paving a road through an ecosystem. Which is more civilized? Which is right? And how many more mornings will I now feel guilted into participating in what is surely man-made erosion.

And below:
Tony learned to shake! a blurry photo of my english class at graduation, and my garden in full bloom! Delicious!