Life After Capacitación: To San Sebastián...

 

Our only emotions after swear-in and before moving to our respective sites. In a word: terror.

 

An aerial view of San Sensebatián (San Se), as seen running up the mountain through a nearby aldea community.

 

My host-home for the first three months in site - a view of the big garden behind the pila, where I brush my teeth, wash my clothes and do my dishes. Second to the family, the garden was a selling point when I was choosing a place to live once I arrived in site at the end of March.

Juramentación - Swear-in Day, March 27, 2009: The First Day of the Next Two Years

 

Our Training Director speaking at the Ambassador's residence in Guatemala City, moments before we took the oath and committed to our service in Peace Corps Guatemala.

 

My Parramos host-mom Doña Berta and me on the Ambassador's grounds.

 

The families and other PCTs with whom I lived in Parramos for my first three months of training.

 

The "Healthy Schools" half of my training group and Peace Corps Guatemala Country Director.

Peace Corps Training: My First Three Months in Country

 

Parramos host-mom Doña Berta - always ready with a joke on hand.

 

The Catholic Church in Parramos where my host-family attended.

 

College friend Ben and me, catching up in Antigua, while living in the same country and working in different programs. Small world. Necessary travel buddy.

 

The outside view of my host-home in Parramos.

The Life of Profe Marcos

In the U.S., the name "professor" is an esteemed title to describe a scholar who teaches at the collegiate-level and has completed years of education and various benchmarks on the faculty-ladder. Here, if you’re a teacher, you automatically get the title of "profesor" or "profesora". And though undergoing four years of college and obtaining an undergraduate degree in the U.S. is important to enter into any sort of professional career, when considering the number of people in the U.S. who have post-graduate degrees, an undergraduate degree doesn’t usually deem the initials "B.A." after someone's name. Here, I may be referred to as "licenciado". And despite having a college degree, as a minimum requirement for a Peace Corps Volunteer, I more-than-likely communicate at the level of a first grader.

I’ve completed two months, working in three rural schools. My job as "school health facilitator" seems like it is beginning to evolve as I continue to work and live here. These past two months I’ve been giving health lessons to 26 classes per week among my three schools. More and more, I’m learning: what will work and conversely what will not work, what classes will participate and conversely look at me like I’m speaking a foreign language (sometimes Spanish is foreign, as all the schools are bilingual Mam speaking as well), and which activities are too childish for sixth graders and conversely beyond the capabilities of the completely Mam speaking kindergartners.

Each day lasts from 7:30AM – 12:30PM—piece of cake compared to U.S. school schedules. Nevertheless, my farthest school is an hour-and-a-half away from my site. The alarm goes off at 5:00AM, I revert to my college behaviors and hit the snooze button multiple times and I’m on the road, starting at 5:45AM or 6:00AM. From my site I take a "camioneta" (or converted U.S. school bus) and hop on a "microbus" or "camion" (a flatbed truck that tightly packs many people). The dirt road is bumpy and standing often feels better than absorbing the shock with my shoulders, as I smash into the bars onto which I hold, with every teeter across the rough terrain. We hit some construction on the way and wait for 30 minutes until the road opens back up. The short five hours of school becomes a nine hour day, from wake-up time to the time I return home.

One school, however, is an easy bus ride away, with about five minutes of careful walking, as an attempt not to tumble down rocky hillsides. It’s often a welcome relief to sleep-in a bit and to know that just transporting myself won’t be the hardest part of the day.

Commonly sung songs during my lessons include "Canción de los Piojos" set to the tune of "La Cucaracha," singing about such an eloquent topic as lice, as well as the song, "Con un cepillo, me cepillo yo…," which becomes a sort of jig, using your whole body, demonstrating just how many "toothbrushes" you might use to brush your teeth (two arms, two legs, butt, head, and your whole body). I’m starting to lack taste in real music.

Everyday classes of students range from half-asleep to receptive and participatory, and my confidence fluctuates from that of despair to feeling successful. Such is Peace Corps—you never know what will happen next!

And so it was...Easter

It's been awhile since I had a chance to update; however, I had full intentions of doing so Easter weekend. The following is a little gem I decided had to be typed up soon after the event (now almost a month ago). A must read - enjoy. This is my life.

This past Saturday, ready to get back to San Se after a Semana Santa diversion in Xela and another Volunteer’s house, I left early in the morning to catch a bus. Transportation was limited during Holy Week and the country virtually shut down, so leaving early was the only hope of making it back at all.

I set out on the street that I thought led me to the highway, but it made an unnoticeable turn, so before I knew it I was going up a mountain and into a nearby aldea. I stopped to ask for directions and despite my wrong turn, I could still access the highway and could even hear cars driving past somewhere in my general vicinity if I continued walking up.

I checked-in one last time with a woman who was standing on the dirt road, just to make sure my early morning quad workout wasn’t completely worthless. The woman ensured me that I was headed in the right direction, but it became clear that she was standing on the road in search of a passer-by. She asked if I would be able to help her lift something. Seemingly harmless, I said I could help out. I assumed she had to move a table, as many street vendors (before I thought about the fact that this was not the place for a typical street-vendor-setup).

I entered the house compound area and entered the kitchen, including a table, a man standing next to the table and a woman brewing a large pot in the corner, over an open-fire-stove. More family members entered the room and looked surprised of the stranger their mother had picked up along the dirt road. I still thought we were lifting the table until I stepped around the table, where I encountered pig—feet and snout, both tied with a long rope.

I started laughing. I’m not sure if the family thought it was, even in the slightest, a strange proposition to ask a stranger to help lift a pig onto the butcher block in its last moments of life, but all I could do was laugh and say, “Lo siento. Este es muy comico.”

Backup arrived on the scene and two more people entered the room. I’d never lifted a live pig onto a butcher block before. I wanted a tutorial. Do I get gloves? Do I have to bear hug the mid-section, or can I just pull on the rope? Why can’t this just be done from the floor? But there was no time to ask logistics or even logic. I was about to offer all my strength and lift this animal onto the table. This was rather personal…we had just met.

On "tres," we lifted. Uno-dos-tres…and here I am, holding the mid-section of a bound-pig, suspended by a rope. Squirming in the hands of the other helpers and flailing from my rope, I hoped that we didn’t drop it. I wouldn’t have been nice to leave, but I really wasn’t experienced in this area of raising livestock. And on the table it laid.

The woman who recruited me offered me a couple Quetzales. I had to refuse the tip, but instead, asked if I could take a picture.

And there I had evidence to back up my adventure. One wrong turn and I was nearly a butcher. One wrong turn and I made a story, all before 8AM.

Integrating

I’m now experiencing my second week in site. This week is Semana Santa, so life in Guatemala has taken a hiatus while observing Holy Week. Despite the fact that the majority of San Sebastián residents are taking a break for the week, which presents some challenge in carrying out everyday-tasks, this week is giving me a good chance to meet people and integrate into the town I will know well during the next two years.

I’ve done my share of blending-in with crowds (blending-in meaning that I’m making attempts to look like a Guatemalan who speaks perfect Spanish and/or Mam, but in actuality, stand out as if I’m dressed for Halloween). I consider my life as a set of mini-experiments, intersecting the lives of others at various instances throughout my days, inevitably walking away, while they think to themselves, “He’s crazy,” and I think to myself, “Am I even a person?”

Experiment #1: Market Day Strut

My first chance to become widely known as the new Gringo in town was to take on the streets during market day. With good intention that I would meet some vendors and pick up my needed produce, I first stopped at a tarp where a woman was selling avocados.

Marcos (me):¡Buenos días! Quisiera cuatro aguacates, por favor.
-Rational thought: I only need four avocados.

Vendor: Lo siento, no tengo cambio para diez Quetzales.
-Rational thought #2: No change? I could leave...

Marcos: “Esta bien. Entonces quisiera cinco Quetzales de aguacates.”
-Irrational Solution: Throw in some more avocados to make up the difference.

My first day at the market ended with me carrying home 10 avocados, a pound of tomatoes, and a pound of onions. I didn’t have the foresight to know what I would actually make with this cornucopia, but when given the opportunity to act like a local with smooth Spanish and a cookbook in the back of your head, seize the day.

Experiment #2: Keep the Conversation Flowing

Even having used four years of high school, three semesters of college and three months of Peace Corps training, as attempts to become proficient in Spanish, I don’t notice a marked improvement until I have long conversations and go hours or days without speaking any English. Usually, responding with, “Sí,” is relatively harmless, whether understanding the actual question or not. Still, observing such factors as the setting, the communicator, and his or her body language are usually good indicators of the person’s intentions and whether or not, “Sí,” will actually prove harmless.

I may have found a way around all of the obscure questions that I don’t exactly understand. And while it’s important to perhaps review the questions and store unknown words in my memory to study at a later time, keeping the conversation going and perhaps entertaining the other person is the best tactic.

Marcos, quire _____?
-Rationalization: I might want to go, it could be fun…or did he ask me to do his laundry? Give you all my money? You’re offering me dinner? What is going on?!

So for those ambiguous questions I throw in words such as: “Por supesto!” (Of course!), “Pan comido!” (Piece of cake!), “Puchica!” (Wow!), or “Saber?” (Who knows?).

Knowing laughs always follow, the interrogator might know that I in fact have no idea what he or she asked, but at least I’ve picked up some locale jargon to give a pithy response. And adding a little signature to each word makes it more memorable: “Pan comido!” and snap, or “Saber?” spoken in a guttural, confused voice.

Experiment #3: Asking and Remembering Names

Even in English, whenever I meet someone new, 75 percent of the time I will not remember his or her name. I usually get caught up in presenting myself. Do I start out with a joke? Is it better to just listen? Nevertheless, lasting impressions are not nearly as lasting if you can’t remember someone’s name the next time you meet.

Initial greeting—calm, cool and collected:
Hola! Me llamo Marcos. Voy a vivir aquí en San Sebastián por dos anos. Como se llama?

Next day:
Buenas…
END SCENE.
-And we meet again…Doña María…or Doña Esperanza…um…Don Mario?!

Goal: record people’s names immediately after meeting them.


I’m only skimming the surface of this tale.

Anticipation...again

I have completely renounced all my principles as a historian and have failed to give an accurate outline of my daily routines for the last month or so. Someday I will give a better overview.

Today is moving day. We were sworn-in as Volunteers this past Friday, during a ceremony at the Ambassador's house. We took the same oath as the Vice President and committed the next 24 months to faithfully executing our duties as the newest Peace Corps Volunteers.

It feels a little like I just graduated from Peace Corps training, a little like I'm leaving home again, and a little like I'm not prepared, but in actuality, have no choice. I've merely skimmed the surface of this adventure. Over the next few weeks I'll make attempts to figure out how to "do life" in Huehuetenango. I'll set up a room with a new host-family (with whom I'll live for the next three months), while I try to figure out all the steps in Spanish. It sounds like an easy task, but scares me a bit.

This past week we talked as a training group and expressed our commitment to service. When I can't figure out how to get from point A to point B, or I can't figure out how to cook a meal when I can only find Tortrix and water in the town, I'll have no choice but to go with the adventure and chalk-up the stories I will have when I'm 90-years-old.

Commitment to Peace Corps Service
24 March 2009

I like to think of my commitment to serve in Peace Corps as a linear progression of both paperwork and emotion. Whether my commitment began with the first few hours spent working on my application, during my extensive interview, once I was nominated, after I was invited, or finally upon leaving the U.S. and becoming a trainee, in a few days my service will actually begin. I’ll swear-in as a Volunteer, I’ll move to Huehuetenango and I’ll start all over, making more new friends and attempting to integrate as the newest resident of San Sebastián.

As I undertake this somewhat vague task of teaching others and creating a sustainable system, I will learn equally, as I work with what Peace Corps promotes as “a spirit of cooperation, and mutual learning and respect.” And though it’s likely that two years will bring enchantment, countered by disenchantment, joy, countered by frustration, and accomplishment, countered by defeat, I will do my best to remember why I first committed to become a Peace Corps Volunteer: to know more thoroughly another culture, as I do my best to act as an ambassador for my own culture.

I hope the next two years will be filled with challenges to make me stronger and goals to keep me moving forward.

-Mark Forsberg

The bus rides are beginning. The move is starting. The adventure is underway.