Los Simpsons

On Comfort...Opportunity...Rubianess

Here is a puppy. She lives at our house and her name, coincidentally, is Sasha.

Hello everyone. Things are good. If you’re checking this on a commercial break, the gist is that everything is good and I’m suddenly like a celebrity.}

The rest of you might want to take a pee break and get a snack, because I had three rainy days to just sit and write, so this is a little long...Don´t feel like you have to read it.

This morning I had a good laugh when I told my friend that I was going to shave my head in the summer. She said, Like Britney Spears? Maybe you had to hear it in the Paraguayan accent, but it was pretty hilarious.

By the way, who’s reading this blog these days? Grandma, is that you? Say hi via comment or email me. Just curious.

Sept 16: Consider myself presented

I had my presentation yesterday, with the director of Rural Economic Development.

Here are somethings he told the crowd:

For the first six months, my job is mainly to sit around getting to know people.

I’m not an employee of the coop, and I don’t have to have regular hours.

I can work on whatever projects I want, and if I don’t want to do a project, I don’t have to.

I have to go into Asuncion every now and then. (Where yes, I do sometimes work).

My boss also reminded me that I’m a first volunteer, so my projects are going to evolve very slowly and I shouldn’t worry about trying to get too much done too fast.

I really like my job.

Sept 18: Dia interesante

I received a card from my mom at the Villarica address, hence I loaded the little bus to go there. On the way there, the camposinos sin tierra, or countrypeople without land, were blocking the road in protest. We took a choppy route around the group that was holding hands across the road.

I picked up my card at my the compound where my friend lives and a send-off barbeque was winding down. An urban youth volunteer asked if we ladies wanted to go get free manicures and pedicures at a beauty school.

We went and while we sat around waiting in school desks, one of the women just pulled up with a bucket of water and patted the towel on her lap for me to put my foot there. I was so uncomfortable. Getting my feet washed and toes painted for free by a Paraguayan is not exactly what I had in mind for my “service”. I swear I’m going to help someone. Soon.

Sept 19: Rainy day with time to write

I was in a good mood today. People spoke in Guarani to me and laughed when I didn’t get it, but somehow I was able to laugh it off. They made fun of me because I didn’t know it was Friday, and they said, yes, it’s Friday, then Saturday, then Sunday. And somehow, though it sometimes seems so impossible bad days, I laughed with them.

Another volunteer was telling me a story about she nearly snapped when a woman made fun of how she was rolling dough balls. It can be the littlest thing that sets you off under the stress of missing family, being a perpetual guest, speaking another language.

But the alienation is starting to give way. People here tell me about the deaths in their families, they let me in on their funny stories, they teach me things.

Comfort

Reading my new yoga book, I found this quote: “What was very uncomfortable becomes comfortable. The principle of learning to live without ‘comfortableness’ is the same for all levels of experience. It is overcoming our need to be comfortable that expands our horizons and facilitates our growth. So this going to the direction of ‘uncomfortableness,’ and making it comfortable, is what keeps pushing the envelope of our limitations.”

We know comfortableness well. The motto of America could be changed from “In God We Trust” to “No no, don’t get up.”

I initially signed up for the Peace Corps looking for discomfort to make me a better person. I was exhibiting all the symptoms of someone raised in the environment we find ourselves in. I was thinking I needed more, more travel, more success, more ego-food, to be happy. I was upset that life wasn’t like it was on tv, though I knew I should be able to be happy with what I had. I thought the Peace Corps would change that. I booked it as the Inner Peace Corps.

I wanted a pre-packaged transformation that I could pop in the microwave for two years. I wanted my Peace Corps experience to massage my character the way those electric wraps jiggle away fat on the thighs of people on the infomercials, while they lounge reading a magazine.

I wanted that my choices be taken away. I wanted to be forced into being healthy/simple/at peace, like I was signing up for soul fat camp.

I thought there was something magical about that lack of comfort. Luckily, before I left, I read A New Earth, and realized all that changing would be up to me, no matter where I was.

If I had been planning on that lack of comfort to fix things, I would have been quite panicked upon arriving. Because the easier it is here, the harder it will be to be changed. I’m not going to start eating healthier because all that’s availabe is nuts and veggies from the field. They have cookies and cake here, just like home.

I’m not going to stop watching tv because there’s no electricity. They have their talk shows, just like home. I’m not going to stop spending money because there’s no shops. I was just in the mall last week.

I almost have as many chances as I did back home to screw up. Which is good, better even, because after fat camp you go back home.

But, going back to that quote, there are other kinds of discomforts that I’m more able to accept now. My discomfort with Spanish makes me study harder. My lonliness makes me more self-reliant.

And when strangers evolve into friends and unease gives way to familiarity, give it time, I remember that stretching my life is limbering up my character the way yoga limbers the limbs.

But I’ve been changed

I suddenly realize how rich I am, in opportunities and in money, even if I earn $30,000 a year for the rest of my life.

I saw this woman on the bus in Asuncion with a picture of her disabled son in a wheelchair begging for money. She told her story then looked to the left and right aisles and people kept their eyes on the road. And I thought I saw her eyes tear up.

And my eyes teared up, as I put myself in her brain, thinking that her son is disabled, that she has no job, that her only option is to beg for money. As little as that yeilds, there’s nothing else to do. As hard as she would work if she had the chance, she can’t.

Granted, maybe that was just a picture she found on the sidewalk. Even if her story was fake, there are so many people here who are stuck between two paths that both lead down the road less desired.

What other choice but to go hungry must there be if the only other option is to send your barefoot four-year-old out to wash car windows on a busy city street?

As much as we’ve been taught that against all odds, you can rise up and be the success story, for millions, billions, it’s just not true. Their life will be hard and dirty and short and sad.

For this I chide myself for all the times I’ve thought that I couldn’t be happy with what I have.

So goal number one: to be happy in my life situation.

Side effects include an acute awareness of my opportunities. As hard as other people work for a few pennies a day, I want to work to make the most of what I’ve been given. Suddenly I want to go to Columbia to get my Master’s. (This is where I make that joke that I left my $100,000 in my other jeans.) I never really thought I wanted to further my education. Then, suddenly there it is. And if I really want it, I can make it happen.

That’s the difference between me and so many people in the world that were previously invisible to me.

Opportunity is what I hope I can give the people I come in work with here.

Sept 21: Dance Party, Paraguay

Today is the first day of spring, if you happen to be in the southern hemisphere. This is a popular weekend for a big dance party.

There had been signs up here and in Villarica. The painted sign here showed a blond reclined in a bikini. During the day a honking line of car zigzagged up the street with signs advertising the party.

I went with my host sister. We met up with her friends and they straightened their hair, put on makeup, and asked each other whether they should wear this or that another way or “asi no mas.” (just like this). Sitting around with them, I felt at the same time like this was just like a scene out of my life, getting ready to go out with the girls; I also I felt like a reporter again, like I had no business being there, and how random that I was right there, witnessing this scene somewhere in Paraguay.

We arrived early by Py standards, at 11 o’clock. The community center had just a few people milling around the gymnasium-size hall. There was a dj booth with a cat walk, and some girls in dresses and devil horns (apparently there was a theme) strutted up and down. The spinning lights and the fog machine failed to fill the space. We began to dance in little groups, and by midnight things had filled out a little. In Py people form two lines and dance. They face each other, but it’s just two lines. A guy had his friend ask my friend if she would move so that he could dance on the opposite to me, in the other line. We later found out he was 18.

We danced and people passed around Brahmas. The girls strutted the catwalk again and blew kisses to the whistles. I think they were competing for Miss Spring.

The bathroom, guarded by one of the senoras I knew in town, cost a mil to use, and I couldn’t find the Spanish to say I thought I was being unfairly taxed for my weak bladder.

I was exhausted by 2 and we didn’t leave until 3. I woke up an hour later and heard the music still going.

Today we had a big asado with the other family. Two long tables pushed together. Beef, chicken, one big fish cooked with the head on and it’s body filleted out in halves.

I’m really liking the family I live with. I’m starting to be in on the jokes -- like the fact that the beans will be “working” in a few hours -- that tell me that when I’m around, it’s doesn’t mean the company’s mixed.

September 22: The Rubia Has Arrived.

My self esteem is having an identity crisis.

Back in the states, I’d rate myself a solid average: your garden variety Big Blond Amazon.

Since landing in Paraguay, I’ve muffin-topped out of my Columia pants from all the fried meals, I’ve barely worn makeup or heels, my face has regressed back to my teens with the acne, my legs have reverted back to hairy prehistoric times. Meanwhile, I’m surrounded by billboards with greased-up, thonged women and telenovelas with scantily-clad seductresses reminding me of what I could only hope to look like through the miracles of science and an eating disorder.

So I feel a little like, ok, we’re just going to put sexiness on the sideshelf and worry about that later.

And right when I stop trying to get male attention, I suddenly enter the Twilight Zone.

Here I am The Rubia, The Americana. It’s what my mother calls the “Only Donut in the Fat Farm” syndrome. It reminds me of the short while that I lived on a U.S. Marine Base.

I’ve gone from garden variety to exotic delicacy. But it has more to do with novelty that anything else.

Yes, my hair is yellow, and it is getting a bit long.

So when I walk into a dance party, six inches taller and five shade lighter than the women around me, apparently the text messages started to fly. Of course I hear about this after the fact, from my giggling friends. Apparenty a few guys thought they were the quickest route to getting my number.

I thought most people had seen me here, but apparently the dance party was my coming out party, with all kinds of people wondering, Who’s the rubia?

My friend Eric went through the same thing when he went to Japan. Everywhere there are different standards of beauty. We tan while the Filipino women use skin-lightening cream. Who knew that the key to beauty is travel?

So to get a big head about any of the cat calls would be pathetic, I remind myself when I’m tempted to get a big head. It’s like the people I see here in Asuncion, who are Paraguay-rich. It’s those who show it off, who think they’re better than everyone because of it, that make me laugh. All I can think is: You’re middle class in America. I have to remember that so am I.

Foster Home No. 3...American Vacation...Bacon

Sept. 9: Foster Home No. 3

I was driven to my new house in the back seat of my host’s car. My new host “mom” sat shotgun.

“What does she eat?”

“Oh, she’ll eat whatever. No problem.”

“Does she drink cocido?”

“Oh, she likes coffee.”

“Coffee?”

“Yeah, she drinks it in the morning...”

I just sat silent in the back.

My new house is nice. It’s right next to the soccer fields, the roaming grounds of sheep, hourses, cows. Next door there is a yard where another farmer lets roam his cows and ostriches in rotating shifts. I like to watch the ostriches with their backward knees.

I’ve spent the last few days passing out invitations to my “presentation,” where my boss is going to come here and explain to the people exactly what I’m doing here.

I went to the radio station to invite them, but they ended up having me go on air to invite the whole community. My friend Mariela was next to me on the couch, whispering the answers to the questions the DJ was asking me to help out.


Sept. 11- Come se dice 'slackin'

Ok, 5:30. Time to put down “Eat. Pray. Love” and study. Yep, Spanish time. Yay Spanish.

Oh look, my computer is right here on my table. Hmm...Well I guess I could just write my blog for a little while.

And so it goes that I’ve been slacking on my studies. Guarani has me frustrated and I’ve barely passed “I go.” The main problem there is that I can get along with Spanish alone here. I’m trying to find the joy in learning for the learning's sake (along with the kudos from the locals), but the joy is just so wrapped in frustration. It seems every time I ask for help in Guarani, someone just started rattling off in words I don't know.

Spanish. Ugh. It’s been four months. Why don’t I know this yet?

But when I’m just sitting around chatting in Spanish, I try to remember, I’m sitting around chatting in Spanish. This couldn’t have happened four months ago. I’ve always wanted to know Spanish, but always thought I was too lazy to actually learn.

And so, in the words of wise Sasha, “Ain’t nothing to it but to do it.” Ok, here I go...


Sept 12: Slow Slide to Hippiness

I’ve started doing yoga, which I usually associate with boredom and discomfort. But I’m willing to give it one more try.

I Googled for yoga positions, and clicked on a site that seemed to have some printable ones. Next to the articles section of the page, it said, “Did you know women have 11 moon centers?” Oh lord. I’m not looking for my moon centers. I’m looking to fit into my pants.

Remember when I thought I would lose weight in the Peace Corps?

The yoga stuff has been prompted in part by the fact that I just found out that I can’t move into my own place for another six weeks. Six more weeks of eating Paraguayan, of breaded meat bathing in bubbling oil. Something has to be done.

I jog and walk sometimes, but it’s always a scene and it’s weird that I go alone.

I’d rather being doing Krav Maga, but the local YMCA quit offering classes. (that’s a little PC humor.)

So I lay out my quick-dry towel and I stand like a warrior and I bend like a flower, and at least my shoulders ache, which tells me I’m doing something. This morning I laid down to do my snakey pose, and I had to push my Birkenstocks out of the way to make room for my head.

And I thought: Birkenstocks, yoga, Peace Corps. Oh God, I am a hippie.


Sept 16 - American vacation

Before I came to the Peace Corps, a second uncle tried to convince me to instead to the Foreign Services and/or work for embassies. I didn't, of course, but this weekend I got a taste of what it would have been like if I did.

A friend of a friend who works for the embassy had a cat that needed to be taken care of for a few nights. So I joined the cat-sitting team of seven volunteers and met up at a three-story brick house in the middle of chuchiville, Asuncion.

We opened the heavy front door, flanked by stained glass, to see a house straight out of Pottery Barn. We piled our shoes by the wooden staircase and went around the house exclaiming like it was our first day on MTV’s Real World.

“There’s a treadmill in my room!”

“She has chocolate syrup!”

“This toilet paper has plies!”

I stayed in the room the internet, aka Skype-central. The desk had wavy vases that wobbled everytime I played in the rolly swivel chair while talking with the headset on. The desk was stacked with mail and catalogs, including Pottery Barn.

My friend told me that embassy employees get free shipping, which means that most of the stuff in the house was shipped in, including food. The extra freezer, in the garage where my clothes were enjoying their first mechanical drying, was filled with Kellogg and Aunt Jemima and Betty Crocker. Within the first few minutes of checking in, I was drinking a tall glass of chocolate milk and examining everything Burt's Bees and Lysol and Pledge.

After Eric enjoyed a real shave from a sink that had hot water, he asked me, “How does it make you feel to be in this house?”

“I don’t know,” said, thinking maybe I don’t want to know.

He said, “Yeah, I don’t know if it’s a good thing or a bad thing.”

I let myself watch whatever crappy tv show I wanted on cable that was in English, with Spanish subtitles. I laid on the couch looking at the life of Denise Richards on E!, with the Spanish commercial pronouncing her name Denise Re-tards. We watched the Global Edition of the Daily Show, followed by the Best of Will Ferrill.

Mr. Whiskers or Muffins or Boots or whatever name we threw out enjoyed lots of attention. My friend the Captain Cat Sitter was so nervous about letting the cat out that he carried it much of the time. We were only allowed to open the door about six inches and slide through while another person scanned the area for any sign of an escapee.

The first night we sat outside, drinking and chatting on the porch by the little pool.

In the morning we walked to the huge grocery story, determined to make bacon, egg and cheese croissants happen. It was your typical cluster of four hung-over people trying or organize a grocery mission and figure out how to ask for chedder cheese in Spanish. Between a little chuchi shop and the big supermarket across the street, we went through the same culture shock as in the house.

“Gummy bears!”

“Bubbletape!”

“Donuts!”

We got there on sample day, and even though it was 10 in the morning, we felt the need to accept the glasses of the new Brahma beer. I consider drinking beer in a grocery store an acceptable cultural exchange.

We ate the donuts, with white frosting and sprinkles, immediately outside the store and took the groceries home to make the most delicious breakfast I’ve had in a long time.

I went to the Peace Corps office to get things done. I perused the library for as long as I wanted. I just love how many random books are there. I brought home a bag full. I walked around Asuncion by myself, enjoying, loving the freedom, and basking in the feeling of knowing where I was, and that if I got lost, I knew I could ask for directions, even in Spanish.

And now I’m back, as if sucked through a portal to America and back. And how did it make me feel? Fine, I think.

After my slight freak out, both my aunt and my mom reminded me that I can come home, any time I want. And that’s true.

If I wanted to work for the embassy, I could have. If I want to go home now and get a PR job and live in a three-story house. I can do that, too.

So I’m remembering that I choose to be here, even if, at times, I get lost remembering why.

On that note: Things I miss:
* hot baths
* nice, strong showers
* lookin’ sharp
* Grimbergen
* Krav Maga (and seeing my Krav Maga teacher)
* Yankee candles
* Food, sweet, glorious sushi, thai, mall chinese, Bagelicious stinky-stank special (tunafish with cheese on toasted everything bagel)
* This American Life
* Intervention, Cheaters (which I just actually saw a commercial for here!)
* My press pass
* Our beach

Things I’m surprised I don’t miss that much:

* my car
* couches
* my cell phone rings
* going out every weekend
* fast food

Things I like better here:

* Salad, served with a little oil, lemon juice and salt, ok too much salt. And I love how they just make it with whatever’s around. One day we had a cucumber and onion salad.
* The fresh-squeezed juice
* The double cheek kiss hello. Lots of girl-friend affection, walking arm-in-arm and such.
* Watching futbol/soccer games. Par-a-guay! and fireworks in the street when we score

Upside down...Homesick Cry

Hello. My name is Paulette. I live in Yataity. I am happy there. I work in the cooperative. I'm going to live in Paraguay for two years.

Hola. Soy Paulita. Yo vivo en Yataity. Estoy feliz allí. Trabajo en la cooperativa. Voy a vivir en Paraguay por dos años.

Mba'éichpa. Che Paulita. Aiko Yataitype. Che avy'a upepé. Amba'apo cooperativape. Aikota Paraguaype mokôi ano.

Sept 2 - Upside-down

I stood tonight thinking about the stars. They’re different here. Gone are my dippers I could spot easily. Now I look for the Southern Cross.

The stars on the other side of the planet, confirming that we are surrounded on all sides by space. Floating here. I thought about this while looking up at the top of a palm tree with the stars behind it and for a moment dizzy, like I might fall into space. I looked at the trees, and knew that they grew here at a different angle that the trees back home, growing out instead of up, like spokes on a wheel.

Sept 3 - Liver and Onions.

I had seen it in the refrigerator, a huge mass of non-meat with an off-brown color flowing off both sides of a plate. Whatever it was, I hoped I wasn’t around when it was served.

Lunch today. I sit down to what looks like meat with onion. I poke it with my fork and it’s resistance is more spongy than my liking. My host heaped more onions on top. And I think: Onions. Liver and onions.

I taste it and I know, from a practical joke my dad pulled on me, saying something a spoonful of brown stuff was chocolate ice cream when it was really liver pate.

After my first bite, I panic inside, looking at three large piece on my plate. “Oh crap. It’s liver. I hate it. Maybe I can eat it with some rice. (Another bite) Oh god no. Can’t. Won’t.”

For the record, I have eaten everything put in front of me thus far in Paraguay.

Ok, so there was one time where I took a bit of tripe, which looked like meat when I picked it up. Then I bit into it and suddenly I thought it someone had walked into the house with poo on their shoe, then I realized what I thought I was smelling was the taste in my mouth. So I spit it into my hand while the host was grabbing more drinks, and later threw it to the dog outside.

But other than that, I have been a dutiful guest.

However, this time I figured I’d had a good run, and thought of what Sasha says when I get too sensitive about offending people. (Later, she would say of this event, “I’m a grown woman and I’ll eat what I want to eat and I’m not going to eat that. Period. Next question.”)

I ate around the liver and I heard my hosts mention it in that way that I can kind of tell what people are talking about, even in Guarani, by their expressions. And I smiled and said sorry, I don’t like this part of the cow.

And they were very nice about it. I ate another serving of rice. And by the time I got to the cooperativa later it seemed everyone had heard that I finally found something I didn’t like to eat in Paraguay.

Sept 7: One big home-sick cry: Check.

This morning the family came over. And while I did Ao Poi, they spoke in Guarani. A pig that the empleada had woken up at 3 a.m. to kill was dragged in piece by piece. Both rib cages slopped on that countertop. They hacked it to pieces and partitioned them out into grocery bags while I drank my morning coffee. Later I opened my fridge and made a frightened “Mway!” noise at the sight of three shelves full of red carnage.

When I put my Ao Poi down to try and socialize, I just stood around, staring. Ao Poi is something you can do to be invisible, to look like you belong there even if you’re alone, like smoking a cigarette.

A hummingbird came and picked a the flowers right next to my head. I had time to look up and see it’s flutter of wings around a body no bigger than a human bite and a long orange beak. It was an amazing experience that I couldn’t really share. Everyone there had seen picaflors plenty of times before.

I was called when there was food. And I sat there while we ate and they talked, in Guarani.

And it’s hard to be the outsider at someone else’s family time, when you haven’t seen your family in four months and all you can think is how much longer it’s going to be. When you used to be the one joking and now your the quiet one, not saying anything for hours.

And I’d had a dream the night before that my nephew didn’t know me.

Walking to my casita, it started. The big tears you can’t stop, and you just flop on your bed and have what my mother calls “a good cry.”

I talked to Paula in Key West for a while. It calmed me down. But right in the middle-beep! Out of minutes on my phone.

The store that sells minutes didn’t have any today, maybe tomorrow, and the internet cafe is closed. Nothing I can do but take a walk and buy myself some ice cream.

There’s something else I cry about too. It’s not just missing home, it’s a kind of home-sickness that will follow me back to the states. Even there, I won’t have the kind of life where all my relatives can come over for a barbeque on Saturdays and pull up chairs under the shade. Our together time involves hotels and flights.

When I want to call my friends and family, I call Key West, Sebring, Tarpon Springs, St. Augustine, Virginia, Pennsylvania. There is no home where a big welcome home party is waiting.

Sometimes our whole way of life, or my whole way of life, moving around so much, makes me homesick.

And with all I want to do, (maybe) get my masters, be a traveling crazy, I’m afraid of the truth of one of my least favorite quotes: “You can’t have roots and wings.”

It hurts every time I rip up my roots.

Sept 8: Feeling Better

Sitting outside with my laptop and the hummingbirds and butterflies, thinking about the slight breakdown yesterday. “Everything is going to be alright,” mom would say.

There are ups and downs, everyone says about the Peace Corps. I think when I have my ups, like in two years when I’m chatting in Guarani and I forget I’m a Norte, when it feels like family here, then it be all the more amazing remembering how much of a foreigner I used to be.

Ao Poi...Feeling Like a Volunteer...Settling in to life here...Packing List

Hi all,
Ok, so the nice ladies at the post office who paused making their Ao Poi long enough for me to send some post cards told me that I could get packages right here in Yataity. They’ll go to the post office, and the ladies said they’d bring them to me.

So the address is:
Paulita
Cuerpo de Paz
Yataity, Guaira
5140
Paraguay

The Paulita, Cuerpo de Paz part I just made up. You could probably put “Rubia” and it would get to me.


August 28
Today I woke up and walked outside and the lawn people were here. A man in a straw hat was pushing around what looked like a toy lawn mower, with a long cord, with other cords added on with black electrical tape, the whole contraption stringing its way inside. There was a machete on the ground for trimming the hedges.

I sat outside with my host mom and made Ao Poi. I’m in that phase of learning something new where it’s all I want to do. I keep trying to make myself study, but I say... one more line, one more line. So I brought out my laptop, and we listened to Amy Winehouse in the breeze with our embroidery.

I feel like I’m slacking, but all the ladies here love that I’m so into Ao Poi. “Que guapa,” they say. “How hard working.” They tell me I’m going to make lots of money, but I don’t think I’m allowed to sell my stuff.

I bought the fabric for my first shirt today. They marked it for me and I sat in bed tonight and worked wearing my headlamp.

I have this weird time at night, after I have my 5 o’clock coffee. I usually head back to the casita. My options are: listen to music, read, write, do ao poi, study, or play the snake game on my cell phone. Lately the snake game and Ao Poi have been winning vs. all other options.

Me in the shop with my nearly finished shirt.

August 29 - Feeling like a volunteer
Today a few of us met up in Asuncion to change our phones to the other company, Tigo. It’s a big deal which line you have here, or which chip. Because it’s expensive to call across lines, many people here have different chips. When they need to call their Personal friends, they pop open the back of their phone and trade out their Tigo chip for the Personal one.

It’s a competitive market, so, just like back home, the cell phone companies are huge advertisers. I think they have a deal where they offer to paint the outside of businesses for free where their chips are sold. Many are either red with Personal logos and the business name painted, or blue Tigo with the same. All over the TV, billboards and radio are spots, Tigo uses the cutest Paraguayan futbol player as their spokesman.
On the bus ride this morning we passed a hotel with its sign in Guarani, and word by word I realized to my surprise I could read it. Che Sy Roga. My mother’s house.

I got the bus at 6 a.m., so by the time we passed the chipa ladies, I was ready for my usual bus breakfast.

Now you have to be careful -- many a cases of the BIG D have been blamed on bad bus chipa. But there’s this area on Routa 2, where ladies in thick stockings and short skirts wait on the side of the road with their baskets. I think the buses are contracted to stop at this one company, where one lady and one person with a thermos of cocido get on. The bus continues on as they sell the chipa, which is like a Paraguayan cheesy bagel, and small plastic cups of hot cocido. This time I was surprised at how it felt -- like my usual favorite.

For once in Asuncion I felt like I knew where I was going. I bought my bus ticket for the ride home to make sure I could get a window seat, a task that felt like it was out of a language class.

On the local bus to the PC office hopped on all the usual vendors, including one fat man who, if it didn’t molest (annoy) us, would just like a minute of our time to show us this wonderful product. He then demonstrated this high-quality belt (I noticed he was wearing another kind), knocking the buckle against the rails so we could hear that it was metal. And he was going to offer it to us for just 10 mil. But wait, there’s more. Here’s also going to throw in this handly lighter. Oh, wait, and this wonderful wallet with pockets for your photos, cards, etc.

I got off before he handed out the clear-wrapped packages to be viewed by the unwilling infomercial audience. I watched the bus go by, followed by one with two men standing in the aisle, one playing a guitar and the other an accordian.
I checked into the Peace Corps Office, which is like our little Bat cave. There’s the doctor’s office, the director’s offices, a seed bank for free help starting a garden and even a lounge with a dvd player for us to hang out in. But the real spot is the library, with its free internet. There’s a free-for-all book trade of paperbacks, as well as references we can use back at site. I filled my backpack with books on marketing, feasibility studies for our web site, and new novels.

We all have our own little lockers, and people post funny pictures of each other on them, slip each other notes and dvds, and that’s where we get our free Newsweeks. It feels like camp, which is good. Because my motto is that life should feel like field trips and camp.

In the library you hear volunteers talking about vacations they’re going to take,

projects they want to start and collaborate on. People know each other from being in the same group of trainees, being in the same VAC (or area group), and from crossing paths in Paraguay. People share the goodies in their packages (Eric got Oreos! Oh my word I miss those.)

I spent too much money, as I usually do in Asuncion. On one bus, this little kid came around, putting two chocolates and a little piece of paper on everyone’s lap. The paper said something like: Please give me one mil for these chocolates as I am poor and need this money to feed my family.

Dammit.

No, I’m not spending any more money. Yes, I am a sucker.

I’m very aware of my obvious position as The American. Like everyone is watching me to see what an American will do. Like, oh look at your expensive clothes, but you can’t give a poor little kid the equivilant of a quarter?

I gave him the mil when he made his way back to the front of the bus. He took the little paper to use again.

August 30 - Yataity Saturday
This morning my host’s son came with his wife and their 2-year-old. The toddler played in the yard with the little girls from across the street. I sat in the sun and stitched my Ao Poi. My shirt is coming along.

I went to the cooperative for a little bit, then left at noon with a “Aha akaruta.” (I’m going to eat lunch) And they said Ok, Chau. It was my first Guarani sentence where people actually responded like it was normal conversation, they didn’t laugh like, ha, look what the Norte learned.

Back at the casa we had a huge asado with beef, pork, cheesy rice, salad, and madioca.
After that I went back to the cooperative to hang out with the ladies. My friends had me look at some lyrics they had looked up and written out in English, to “November Rain” and “Wish You Were Here.”

Alf was on the TV, with a voice like a dubbed voice like a Mexican Cookie Monster.
We were talking about clothes and sizes and one of the women asked me: “Tu madred es gorda?” Is your mother fat? Oh I laughed inside, thinking of all the middle school “Your mother’s so fat....” jokes. Your mother’s fat, the ultimate insult. And Is your mother fat? The ultimate off-limits question. But here, it’s just another fact. Your mother is fat or she isn’t. (Don’t worry mom, of course I said No.)

When I’m in the shop, the customers always come in, look at the racks to the right, then pause as they see me on the left, with my embroidery hoop by the window light. A Rubia making traditional Paraguayan craft. It gives them something to talk about with the shopkeeper.

After we closed shop I headed over to the girls’ house. On the way there I learned some Guarani cuss words. One popular phrase translates to Satan’s ass.
That night we watched a Thai kung fu movie, dubbed in Spanish with English subtitles, and ate popcorn.

August 31 - Who kills the chickens?
Sunday I returned to lunch, and helped them make empanadas and pizza. The chickens tried to peck their way in from the back door.

“Who kills the chickens,” I asked, with a nod to their feathered pets. Their mother, the girls told me, with a shudder.

Then we were talking about St. Augustine while pinching the sides of the dough filled with chicken and hard-boiled eggs bits.

“And in St. Augustine, Paulita,” said one, “Who kills the chickens in St. Augustine?”
This time I laughed outloud.


And now, a public service announcement:
This is for all the future Paraguay volunteers who just Googled “Peace Corps Paraguay Packing List.” I found some lists like this when I was preparing to go, and they were very helpful. So here’s my commentary to help you out:

Peace Corps Paraguay Packing

Things that have been key
220-volt adapter with surge protector
baby wipes
baseball cap
bath towel (The quick-dry campy type)
deodorant - Bring your own brand if you’re picky. One guy brought 40 sticks. I think that’s a little overboard.
Digital camara
duct tape - for when your spanish dictionary starts falling apart.
face wash, and maybe extra because it’s expensive here.
flashlight, the wind-up ones are convenient and impress the kids
frisbee
Gatorade powder - nice for when you’re sick.
Gifts
gloves
headlamp - In case you need to use a latrine at night.
hiking boots - when the roads turn to slush
hooded raincoat
internal frame bag
ipod
journal
laptop - Peace Corps advises against it, but everyone who didn’t bring one feels like an idiot.
Lightweight pants
long sleeve or flannel
Long underwear. I sprung for the under armour, and I’ve been happy I did
Makeup. For those nights when you go out in the city and you just want to feel like a lady again.
Medium fleece jacket. I got a North Face three-in-one and it’s great.
Nalgene bottle - The Starbucks cup of the Peace Corps
nice shoes. You’ll want some work shoes. and ladies, bring some going out shoes!
Birks
Scarf
sheets
sleeping bag. Bring one that had a hood, so that if you’re sleeping in questionable circumstance, you won’t have to touch anything but your sleeping bag.
Hand sanitizer
Swim suit
Purse, or something to carry around on a daily basis. Something like a small backpack that fits your notebooks.
USB Flash drive
warm hat

Take it or leave it
money belt - I wear it in Asuncion and I haven’t been robbed, but whatever.
nice outfit for swearing in
Notepads. Bring at least one for training, or you’ll have to buy one with the cast of High School Musical 2 on the cover
sunscreen - they give you some, but it’s not good for the face

Things I haven’t used yet, but you never know
baby powder
bandana
Bug spray
Camera cards - My friend in Africa told me he sends his home rather than upload his photos, but internet’s not that slow here.
can opener
deck of cards
Leatherman - It still makes me feel cool to have it.
permanent markers
recharchable batteries
sun hat

Things I didn’t need to bring
books - there’s a big network of book trading here
Camp soap - just bring regular soap
Compass/whistle
Shampoo/co (aah! Huge spider! ...destroyed) nditioner - they have plenty here. I’m a Suave girl now.
Digital alarm - my host family woke me up during training and now I have a cell phone
A modest dress - I bought an ugly long-sleeve brown dress, because I thought I needed to look. My host sister asked me if it was a uniform, and I have yet to wear it. (The women here do not really dress as modest as it seemed in the PC handbook)
glowsticks - I thought they’d be good for light, but now I have no idea when I’d use them.
knife sharpener
Spanish-English Dictionary - They give you one
TP
Top-of-the-line water purifier. The water here is fine, and they give you chlorine tablets anyway.

I wish I had brought
beads (or whatever craft stuff you like)
more ankle socks so I don’t look like a loser wearing tube socks with shorts and sneakers.
sneakers. What was I thinking in leaving my sneaks?
a nice comfy hoodie
photos. I have some on my computer, but not nearly enough. And they’re not portable.
More shorts. PC said that the women here don’t wear short shorts. Um, I beg to differ.
More sports bras
More tank tops


Also, just go for the 80 pounds you’re allowed to pack. I bought every compact, light-weight, camp-style piece of equipment I could waste my money on. I was at 66 pounds with my internal-fram pack and one rolling backpack. Then I got here, and one other guy brought two huge rolling black bags like he was going on a trip to Miami. You don’t really have to carry everything you own. So just pack what you want to bring, because once you get down here, it’s going to be super expensive to ship or buy here.
But really, if I got here and all my stuff had been destroyed on the flight, I still would have been fine. I mean, the Paraguayans are fine with what they have down here, so so will we. So try not to freak out about it.

Slumber Party Weekend

August 22 - La Rubia y la Morena

Sasha came to visit today, discovering that we are just one quick hour bus ride away from each other. I played Show and Tell tour guide with my town. As we were walking by one of the Ao Poi shops, we heard a voice from a group of women doing embroidery: "La rubia y la morena." "The blond girl and the dark girl"

I took her over to meet my girls, and while we were there I mentioned that we were going to be eating dinner at Rosa's place, the restaurant where I sometimes eat lunch.

"Well, did you call her?" the girls asked.

Sasha and I looked at each other. Um, no.

So they called her for me, dialing 40045.

"Um, hi Rosa, yeah, we wanted to eat dinner there."

"Bueno, What do you want to eat?"

"Hmm...milonesa?"

"Bueno. And what time will you be here?"

"About 7"

"Bueno. Chau."

"Chau."

Paraguayan dinner reservations.

At dinner Sasha and I mowed down Rosa's riquisimo milonesa, which is your typical slab of meat, breaded and fried.

After dinner the Kung Fu guy came in with his guitar, and Sasha and I sang Guns N Roses' "Don't Cry" while he played with a pick cut out of a phone card.

Sasha flirted in Guarani.

August 24 - Wild Weekend in the big city

Sasha and I headed out to the compound in Villarica to chop it up a little with the other volunteers. Walking there we saw a guy riding a motorcycle holding a can of Budweiser.

Across from the bus stop was a store we found out later was the chuchiest furniture and appliance store in town. Sasha went in looking for a hair dryer. We priced refrigerators, floor fans, blenders. We joked about having the overstuffed sofa and chairs in my little grass-roof house. There was an air conditioning unit for two million Gs. I asked if I could buy the flat-screen tv. She said no.

I kind of thought that my standard of living would be decided for me down here. It´s hard when you decide, when you can buy air conditioning, a washer and dryer, almost anything you want. I guess the deciding factor for me is if it sets me apart from my community. The girls have hair dryers, but almost no one has air conditioning.

We arrived at the compound with plans to dance it up with everyone that night, but when I mentioned the club to my friend there, he said that we can go, but he's not coming with us. For reasons no volunteer here seems to understand, the club doesn't open until 1 a.m. There are no other bars really to start at, nothing much else to do but wait.

Sasha chose to sleep until said start time, but I thought it best to plow through. So I played cards with the guys until it was time. We ended up walking out the door with Stewart, a volunteer from a nearby town and the only other one willing to brave the madrugada, starting our night out at 2 a.m.

The club was like any other in the U.S. There were the Paraguayan versions of men I'd see back home, those with their shirts sleeves rolled tight against their biceps, looking for ladies who enjoy a good gun show.

We drank Brahmas and danced almost from the second we walked in. We attracted a friend who knew how to lead and took turns twirling Sasha and me.

Sweaty and tired, we nodded to each other at about 4:40 and took it home. At nine a.m. the neighbors in the compound started blasting Limp Bizkit.

We breakfasted on pineapple, rolls, honey, instant coffee and leftover pizza. Sasha returned home straight from there. I took the bus that dropped me off at the routa and walked a few kilometers into town. As I neared my house, I heard kids running and yelling. Around the corner flashed what looked like a running puppy. Then a boy came into view, and huffed for a second at his losing pace. He then restarted after after the animal with his friend. As the scene passed me, I saw that the huffing boys were losing ground in the chase of a very fast little piglet.

New President...the TV Question...The Exercise Question

Hello everyone! I´m settling in, hanging out. I had my first successful video conference the other day. I´m on Windows Live Messenger if anyone wants to find me.

Yesterday I bought the fabric to make my first shirt. Hooray. I´m going to experiment for a while to see what patterns I want to use.

This morning I had the thought that this is going to be like when I went to Penland, aka craft camp. Then I worked in the kitchen on a work-study scholarship while I learned to make glass beads. Now it´s like a two-year craft camp, where I work in the cooperative. Oh, life is good.

I talked to a woman who actually makes the clothes, and she asked me if I wanted to learn to sew. Yeah, we´ll see. For now I´m going to pay her to make the clothes after I do the Ao Poi.

It´s Sasha´s birthday so she´s headed here then we´re going to spend tomorrow in the big city (Villarica) to hit the club. (Usually, it´s hit the clubs.)

August 15 - A new president

This morning while I was enjoying my cafe con leche, fireworks started in the streets. I’m accustomed to these on Sundays, when futbol games are won, but not on a Friday morning. I had forgotten it was the day for the new president.

In the first peaceful passing of power from one party to another in the history of Paraguay, Fernando Lugo became president this morning.

In fact, I can’t believe I’ve gone this long here without mentioning the story that has lead up to why Paraguay is the way it is, why the people are the way they are.

From 1954 to 1989 Paraguay was ruled by the dictator Alfredo Stroessner. In this time, many writers and musicians were exiled to Brazil. People with differing opinions and voices disappeared. No one enjoyed a good job unless they were part of the ruling Colorado party. During our training, some of our Paraguayan teachers told us about family members and friends who had been tortured, disappeared for a while or who locked for days in a room with a wire floor and white walls for sensory deprevation.

Paraguay became a democracy in the 1989. But even after the dictator left, his party ruled. Until this morning.

This is the first generation of people becoming adults now that didn’t grow up under a dictatorship. That’s where many of their parents got their tranquilo attitude. They didn’t have the power to change the way their lives were, so why worry? One of our trainers mentioned to us that when we ask a campo little girl what she wants to be when she grows up, probably no one else has ever asked her that in her life.

As Americans, we have that power, those opportunites, to pick ourselves up and change our lives. We´ve never known anything else but opportunity and freedom to make our lives better, if we only worked for it.

Yes, Paraguay is known for it´s coruption, but the people can see and hope now that things are changing. With an emphasis on transparency and shared profits, cooperatives are one of the ways Paraguayans are changing their country and their opportunities. And I feel really lucky to be a part of that.

August 17 - Television

The reports are starting to come in one how everyone is doing. One volunteer is up in the second floor of a vacation house with a washer and dryer he bought. My friend Tim called me from in a tree -- the only place he gets reception -- to tell me that his family served him pig’s head, skull included. Somehow it’s been miscommunicated that he likes the telenovela Marina, the one with the sexy villianess whose implants separate an extra inch every time she screams during her tantrums and return toward the center every time she takes a breath.

Oh television. It’s as much of a conundrum here as it is back home. When I watch it, I hate it. All the drama - The women with their tantrums. The bad fake slaps. The steamy sex scene that puts that adds an awkward touch to an otherwise pleasant evening with a Paraguayan family.

And there are the commercials. Somehow, the advertising seems more rediculous here. In America, no matter how anorexic and photoshoped the models are, we somehow think, if we throw enough money and gym time into it, we could look like that. Here, it’s like two different worlds. I see perfect world on the tv, then look around and see the third world.

But, everyone watches tv. It’s what’s done. Like back home, the conversations are on what happened last night on such-and-such a show. While I’m searching for ways to connect with people, it’s the easiest thing to chat about. And when I do catch an episode of Marina or Pura Sangre, it’s something to talk about with some of my PC friends who are far away. (Sasha thinks she might have to buy a tv, she´s that deep into Marina.) If community is shared experiences, then sometimes television is one of the only things you have to share with the people you want to keep in your community.

And, it´s TV. I like it. You don´t have to think. You don´t have to move. However, I consider myself a reformed couch potato, and I know my life is much fuller without. Must. Resist. Temptation.

I’m going to try to avoid it. Since the average American watches 5 hours of tv a day, I heard a statistic that by the time he is 60 years old, he will have spent 15 years in front of the tv. I want those 15 years.

August 19 - Crafty Dia

I woke up today at my usual hour, which is to say whenever I realize the noises in my dreams, twisted into screams or alarms, are really the roosters and hens on the other side of my wall.

I went out for my coffee. The empleada of the house talked to me about staying to live here for my two years. Of course, living alone is a strange thing here. What I didn’t say to her was that if I lived here, I would essentially have an empleada. While I sipped my coffee, someone else would be sweeping my floor, doing my laundry, taking out my trash.

Now, I can accept that life here isn’t going to be the rustic hut-life I thought it would be, and that’s fine. But I simply cannot live more luxuriously here than I did in the states. Playstations, coffee ready-made when I wake up, tvs and cars? I can’t live like this!

After breakfast I went to the IPA, where they teach Ao Poi, and sat with the ladies there for a while. Then I went to the cooperative and made Ao Poi there.

I lunched at home, tried to siesta but couldn’t, and got up. I listened to my Most Played list on my iTunes while I made a necklace for my friend Sasha’s birthday this weekend.

Then back to the cooperative. More Ao Poi.

By then my tushy was suffering from craft-butt, so I convinced my buddies to go for a walk. We strolled down a lane where the cobblestone gave way to red dirt, and suddenly I felt like I was walking in the top half of a hanging calendar. There were little ponds lined with yellow flowers. A man passed us on his bike, holding a rope that was attached to a horse trotting in front of him. We passed cows coming in from the field, which one of the girls feared after a freak moto vs. cow accident she had a while back.

Their dog trotted along with us as I talked about the ocean in St. Augustine. A man passed herding his cows with his motorcycle.

Then the land just opened up, the path swallowed by the tall grass. It went on until the hills in the distance, and I pictured myself as one of those cows with their legs disappearing into the grass, only for me it will be as I’m jogging along my new found path.

It was getting dark so we returned. We watched the telenovelas, I made Ao Poi and shared a packet of Skittles with them.

A WORD ON EXERCISE

Something has to be done about my health. I’ve got to get something started here. One of the ladies here told me that the women don’t like to exercise, and that’s been confirmed by several sources.

I saw a Wii Fit mat in the store here, which is something you attach to this video game consol and do exercises with (There’s a boxing game!). And I’m tempted to dip into my dollar funds to buy one. But that just seems like the American thing to do, especially with exercise -- throw some money into some technology and think it’s going to change things.

I was hoping to play volleyball here, but only the men play. The only other thing I’ve heard of is this nice guy I met, who practices Kung Fu.

Yes, Kung Fu, and I’m welcome to join in.

The other option I’m considering is starting an aerobics class. That’s what I heard another volunteer did. But how to convince women to come. I thought about having a charla (talk) about the health benefits. But, we in America know all the benefits, but how many of us actually get out there and exercise? If we did Zoomba, it would be really fun, but people have to show up first. And public exercise requires a kind of lack of shame that I’m not sure is common here.

The woman who’s teaching me Ao Poi does walk some days, and I’m going with her tomorrow. We’ll start there.

Some pics of Yataity

Hi all, I wrote a blog on my Mac and now it´s not uploading here. Overall, all is well. I´m learning Ao Poi, learning Guarani, killin it with the Spanish, missing my fam and friends, and hanging out watching telanovelas. That´s about it. For now I´m just looking around seeing where I can be of use.

Oh, and a lot of you have asked what you can send me. I´m really fine, but the only thing I can´t get here are books. If you want to send something on down, there are some computer books on my Amazon wishlist that would help me when I start teaching classes. But really, I have everything I need.

Also, I´m trying to figure out how we´re going to make this online store. If anyone knows anything about that jazz, let me know.

Me speaking at graduation


The house Im living in now

The house I´ll be in for my two years

My friend making a table cloth

All the Ao Poi I´ve done so far!

Detail shot

The graveyard and grazing cattle

Finally in Site and loving it

Hello all,
In the cyber cafe in my site. Today I got my first Ao Poí lesson. I love it. Here are some notes from our training graduation and three days in Asuncion. I´m off to watch the telenovelas and practice crochet.

I´m realizing my dreams of being a crafty old lady...just a bit early.

Also, my address is now:
My full name
Cuerpo de Paz
Box 23
Villarica, Paraguay

August 6

We have Wi-fi internet in our hotel in Asuncion. Que bueno! The hotel we use has a hostel called The Attic, a big room in the top with eight beds in it that rents for 40,000 Gs a night, or $10. There's another one, and between the two we fit our group.

We´re definitely adjusting to the Guarani. The other day we played a game for 13,000 Guaranis we had left over for a fundraiser. In two groups, we got so competitive, fighting over less than four dollars to be split six ways. Later my buddy Tim had a lunch of half a chicken, two pieces of sausage, and a piece of barbeque, blowing 20,000 guaranis. "20,000 Gs!" we said. Then I thought, that's five bucks. While cleaning out my purse, I found a receipt for a 29 dollar meal I had before I left the states. I converted it to Gs in my head and nearly fainted.

The night before last I had a long night of sickness and a 100.8 fever. I missed the morning of classes, but had to go in for the afternoon, where we had our despidida. The trainers had skits making fun of all of us, and we performed the same. Our skit went over really well, and I read a story I wrote as well. I'm glad I dragged out of bed to go.

We got our scores from our oral exit exams, and I got Advanced Low in Spanish. It's awesome, I guess, but I feel like I still have a really hard time understanding people. And so far to go.

Today was our swearing in, and I was voted to make the speech, which was fun. I'm having fun just writing little things here and there, looking for assignments now that I'm not writing for a living. (I'll put the speech at the end of this post. I'm cringing a little now because I didn't have too long to write it and now all I see are edits I would make.)

(My friend just walked in the Attic and, looking around at everyone together, but on their laptops, tapping at their cell phones, said, "Well, we're definitely back in the states.")

PARAGUAYAN JOURNALISM:

I've been wanting to buy a newspaper here to send back to my peeps at the St. Augustine Record to show them the difference in journalism here. For instance, on the tv news, you'll see victims of domestic violence and dead bodies, stuff that would never fly in the U.S.

As for the newspapers, there are several levels. There's Ultima Hora and ABC Color, which are the most respected. Then there's Esto!, which usually have chicks in thongs on the cover. Today's Esto! looked especially naked, so I bought it as an example. Then I opened it, and there were so many bloodied news photos and dead bodies that I just handed it off, grossed out.

ANOTHER NOTE:

We've already had one down on the "Oops I crapped my pants." It wasn't me.

Training Graduation Speech:

(References - *Jason is a mystery guy who was supposed to come but just never showed up. *Also, our director gave us this speech where he said we should think about the movies we had in our head about our service and be our own protagonist.)

To my fellow G-27ers,

Do you ever wonder where Jason is, our mystery 19th volunteer. I wonder if he's working some 9 to 5 somewhere, thinking about that time he almost joined the Peace Corps. We'll never know what actually happened to him, but I wonder if he just wussed out? I wonder if he packed his bags, said his goodbyes. I wonder if he went to the airport. I wonder -- At what point did he turn back?

I almost backed out a million times. I laid in bed, obsessing, needing to know exactly what my life would be like. I made lists of pros and cons, thinking I could quantify the decision. I sought advice from everyone. I even asked my four-year-old nephew if I should join the Peace Corps, and he said, "Sure."

But I still couldn't decide. Then one day I realized, I was afraid to fail. That's when I decided I at least had to try.

There were still plenty of moments of doubt. But, like you, and unlike so many other people, I got through every one of them. I think that's the biggest thing we should really be celebrating today.

Yay for us, that we'll never have to be the people who say, "Peace Corps, huh? I always wanted to do that."

Let's celebrate that we are not of the people who maybe sent out for the packet, but never filled it out. Maybe they filled it out but never found the guts to mail it.

Let's celebrate that we are not of the class of people who have been duped by advertisers into thinking that they should be spending their youths trying to look more youthful, spending thier money to be thinner, using their time to get more things.

Yay for us that we didn't listen to those who said you're going to work your job and go home to your couch and watch your tv and eat your fast food. This is how things are done around here.

We heard another voice, just a whisper, that brought us here. And we did all that paperwork and dismantled our lives and got on the plane.

And we had that movie in our head, the one that Michael Eschleman told us about.

But then we got to our sites, and, for some of us, it felt like we walked into the wrong theater. The set was all wrong. The cast was not following our script. We brought all the wrong props. And we're back to being scared.

This is because we mistook ourselves for the screenwriters. We are just the characters. And the characters never get to choose their challenges, only how they will act in the face of those challenges.

Maybe you saw yourself being Campo Cowboy, with bragging rights that you walk 10 miles to your latrine, uphill both ways, but you ended up chuchi.

Or you were hoping for chuchi, and now will find yourself with a lot of time to think, while squatting, about just how long two years is going to be. And you're wondering again - Can I do this?

When that fear starts to creep in, try to find that voice, that whisper, that you listened to in the months before you stepped on the plane. It's a humble voice, that didn't bring you here for the sweet Facebook photos or the captivating blog material. It's something that tells us that there's more to life that what we've found in our own little fishbowl.

And if we stay to find out how our movie turns out, we'll leave with benefits too numerable to list, the least of which is being able to say, "Peace Corps, huh? I did that once."

August 7 - Last night was my pleasure

Last night we started the celebration of our graduation at a Mexican restaurant. We had wide glasses of peach margaritas and meals out of volcanic rock bowls. Other volunteers came to join in the festivities, as well as our trainers.

From there we walked, through the chuchi part of town, beers in hand. No open container laws here.

We walked past the lit windows of shops that could have been from any shopping district of any American downtown. There were pink and blue baby clothes, mannequins draped in shiny shirts, couches with fluffy pillows for sale.

Then we turned a corner and bam...A mall. Outdoor tables surrounded by couples in club clothes. A bar called Liquid, with a waterfall running down one full wall lit in purple. A sparkling Swarvoski shop. Inside we found an Irish pub.

We bought Brahmas and found seats. A drum set was in place, and we waited for the show.

Then, taking the stage, Indie Show: Paraguay. The lead singer had on one of those khaki baseball caps with the seam around the top and a Led Zepplin T-shirt. The bassist had a long ponytail and a Pink Floyd shirt. The drummer seemed quiet behind his beard. I'd seen this band before, only not.

Then they proceeded to play not only American music, but great American music: Radiohead's "Creep," U2's "One," Pink Floyd's "Wish You Were Here."

We stood in front, air drumming and dancing. Everyone else in the club was just sitting watching, tranquilo. But the band was loving us and we loved them.

When I ran to the bathroom as quickly as I could, so as not to miss anything, all the girls in the bathroom looked cuter than I did. I had on my Birks, khakis, Ao Poi shirt and my hair back. They fixed their lip gloss with their jewelry dangling as they leaned over into the mirror. And I listened to their chit chat in Spanish, nearly the only clue besides the color of skin that told me I was in Paraguay.

August 8 - Asuncion

We've just been hanging out, running a bunch of errands in the Capital. There's pockets of poverty here, in shanty towns near the river where we don't go, but the populations are here.

At stop lights, there are children that clean the windows of drivers shaking their fingers. There are kids doing handsprings. There are people weaving in and out of cars with handfuls of tangerines for sale.

Yesterday two guys boarded our bus with guitars. After saying a few words, they just started playing. On buses where I nearly dislocate my wrists trying to hang on, they just swayed back and forth through the stopping and starting, just trying to play the Guarani polka for a few mil.

Between them and the band last night, I was thinking about the arts. How many super talented musicians have had to spend their lives working in the fields? What if Picasso had been too poor to afford paint? What if Shakespeare had kids to feed?

In America we're afraid to pursue our arts because we're afraid we not going to make enough money. Not too little to live, but too little to live without the shiny things we all think we need to be happy.

In Paragauy, people don't get to choose to sell out or not.

August 10 - First Day in site

I arrived late last night on a bus that was packed with people coming back from working in Asuncion to visit their families on the weekend. I kept trying to tell myself that at least I had a seat, but the people standing were practically smushing me into the left half as they leaned over me.

These buses for longer distances have those head rests that come up on the side. At one point I had my head pressed against one side as the woman next to me stood so closely that her boob kept bouncing into the side of my head. bounce. bounce. I thought, Why doesn't this ever happen to Tim?

I felt kind of sick, which I'm sure had nothing to do with celebrating for three nights in Asuncion. So I laid in bed most of this morning. After that I started my new routine, which I told myself I was going to stick to for a year: one hour of Spanish, one hour of Guarani, every day that I can. Or maybe just weekdays. Or weekdays that I feel like it. No, weekdays for sure.

Day one: Studies subjunctive in Spanish which my cell phone kept beeping. We're all enjoying our texting abilities. (My mass text from yesterday: Foot-long braided side rat tail spotted.)

Afterward I walked to try and find a store that sold notebooks. They were closed so I just bought some yerba to make terere in my new guampa.

I came home and the empleada (housekeeper) who lives on our property was walking her sheep.

I returned for hour two. Starting Guarani feels like starting over. How long ago did I study me, you, he, us, them in Spanish? And all that work that I've put into Spanish, all the work I still have to do, I'm going to do that, again?

This is what I avoid thinking about as I open to the first page of my Guarani notebook.

I'm recognizing the stages, too. First, you start to pick out just a word every now and then out a conversation of jibberish. And you say, "Mbae! I know that. I means "what." Yes!" Then you know a few more and more until it's every once in a while that you don't know something. That's where I'm at with Spanish.

August 12-

Yesterday I went to a meeting of all the volunteers in my area. In Villarica there's a volunteer who lives on a compound with a retired colonel and a parrot. While making assorted empanadas (pizza, thai chicken, breakfast, apple pie) we neglected the outdoor stove and the oil burst into huge flames that looks beautiful again the palms, as soon as we realized they wouldn't burn the house down. The colonel didn't seem to mind, but took over the cooking after that.

Also yesterday the empleada washed my clothes for me. This morning she approached me while I was drinking my morning coffee to show me one lone sock that was missing its partner. Then she told me that she would iron all my clothes this afternoon. Every time a housekeeper tells me she's going to do something, I feel this need to react like it's a friend who's just told me she's going to do me a big favor. "Oh really? Thanks so much." I said this as she stood with the one sock draped over her arm like a waiter with a towel.

This morning I was supposed to get my first Ao Po'i lesson, but last minute my friend here needed me to go with her to buy a computer. In the bus she handed me an advertisement and asked me if it looked like a good computer. I wished I had the number to my computer friend. Now I am the computer friend.

We stopped by a bead store, and I had to make the decision of whether I was going to dive into making jewelry here in Py. Reading, writing, Spanish, Guarani, website making, volleyball, Ao Poi, eventually garden-making and cooking: I've got a lot on my plate. But it's two years, so I dropped nearly 100 Gs on cheap crystals and string and tools.

We arrived in the rain at the computer store, just a small space with a few sparse shelves of electronics, she talked to the guys then looked at me, as if to make the final decision.

We drove home in a taxi with the computer desk strapped to the top, listening to Ryan Adams. The taxi driver had what looked like a good luck deer hoof with a rosary wrapped around it hanging from the review mirror.