Coop in Crisis

“Estamos en crisis” “We are in a crisis” is a common phrase fluttering around the coop these days. I consider it a valid statement seeing as I have just learned my Coop’s financials are in complete shambles. And by shambles I mean we’re straight up broke. The sad thing is no one really knows exactly where the money went. I don’t assume fowl-play, just poor planning and management by the Coop Directors. Oh, and it doesn’t help that our treasurer doesn’t read or write (but its totally ok because he says, “its all up here” with a point to the noggin).

I’m going to try to explain what has happened as best as I understand it. I think this will be a good lesson for you all on third world money management. Ok so, lets back-up a bit to November when I arrived in Casas Viejas. From what I can recall, the Coop had a healthy balance in their bank account, maybe about Q16,000. At that venture, the coop was managing their tienda, had just decided to invest in the salinas for a third year, and voted to open up the minibank. To give some perspective, the Tienda maybe rakes in Q500 in profit on a good month and the minibank about Q100. I did a cost of production with my Treasurer for the salinas in February and found that at the end of the season (December- April) they will have invested about Q55,000 in the salt production. How would we pay for this you may ask? Ideally we'd be getting funds by selling our salt- yet we weren't selling ANY (whole 'nother blog post). Luckily though, in February we received another source of income. We were contracted by the local schools to source the ingredients for their daily refracciones (snacks)- they would deposit money into our bank account and we’d purchase and deliver the food. In March they deposited Q48,000 for the next three months worth of snacks. Are you still with me? Lets recap. Started off with Q16,000, the tienda and minibank = no real income generation to speak of, the salina needs Q55,000 to operate, and the schools have given us Q48,000 to buy snacks to last through April. Two weeks ago, when shit hit the fan (sorry mom, its the best descriptor i’ve got) we hadn’t sold ANY salt. So where are we getting the Q55,000 to pay for the saltworks to continue operating you may ask? Classic case of robbing peter to pay paul. The president was using the only money we had in the bank- money from the schools- to pay the saltworks expenses. No one was keeping tabs on the money so it was just being tossed around willy nilly (mom is that better?). Unfortunately, half way through April the funds ran out. Not only did we not have money to pay for the salinas but we didn’t have money for the schools. Yeah, sorry kiddies, no snacks for you for the next month. Seno Maritza explains it as thus, “the Coop had a fiesta with the money and now we are feeling a pain in the head”. Yep. all gone. My coop is completely broke, actually they aren’t just broke their financials are in the red- a deep negative maroonish red.

So here we are en crisis, up to our eyebrows in debt- can’t pay the salina, tienda or minibank employees. Jokingly our treasurer asked the employees if they’d like their salary in salt (funny because the word originates from when Roman soldiers were paid in salt- nerd fact - don’t judge). Today though things started looking up, we got our first salt sale of the season. A guy from the capital bought Q8,500 worth of it. Unfortunately, I think we are still going to be digging ourselves out of debt for quite a long time to come. On the bright side, Its giving me a lot of work- first task to tackle- teaching the treasurer financial book keeping by dictation.

Dos Gotitas De Agua

Today I was at the Cooperative store when an old man hobbled up the stoop in his shabby work pants held up by a worn out belt with rust on the buckle. I’d never seen him before but immediately Eslin turned to me and said, “Here come your mangos.” The man was carrying a pink bucket and as he made it into the store he heaved the load onto the counter. “My mangos?” I asked a bit confused, I didn’t remember putting an order in with this little old fella. The old man asked for a plastic bag and began unloading the mangos. I just stood there still unsure of what exactly was going on. “These are my mangos? Who told him I like mangos?” I asked. Eslin replied, “Maybe Seno Maritza or Seno Lili.” When the old man was almost to the bottom of the bucket he turned to Eslin and Selvin and said, “Here are yours” and handed both of them a handful of the fruit. Then he turned to me and said, “Your sister already left?” “Yes,” I said, “she left last Thursday.” “Uh hu” he replied, then took his empty bucket and hobbled out the door and back to where ever it was that he came from.

I gladly took the mangos he left for me. I was still confused as to how he knew I like mangos but I wasn’t surprised that he had asked about my sister. Ever since I returned back to Casas Viejas after Danica hopped on her flight back to the states everyone asks me, “Y tu hermana pue?” “And your sister?” I sadly have to reply, “Ya se fue” “She already left.” My tortilla lady, my next door neighbors, the woman who is always outside setting up her tienda when I head off on my morning run, kids I teach english to, an old man with mangos, they all have asked me where my sister is. Danica obviously made quite the impression on the people of my town.

Before Danica arrived I tried to prepare everyone by warning them that my sister and I look alike. I figured they’d think we were twins since everyone who met my friend Kamille thought we were sisters (Kamille and I don’t look at all a like- we are just both white). The Kamille comment wasn’t surprising since people also asked me if i am related to my soccer teammate Ericka (Ericka and I REALLY don’t look at all alike- we just both have light eyes). I was convinced that when my sister came no one would be able to tell us apart. This was not exactly the case. The day Danica arrived we were walking to my house when we passed my neighbor Milbia and the first thing she said was, “De veras, ustedes son como dos gotitas de agua, solo una es un poco mas gordita.” Translation, “You guys are like two little drops of water, just one is a little fatter.” I started cracking up- I’m used to everyone talking freely about my weight here. However, my sister was not amused.

While Danica was here we spent some time at the beach, ate a delicious seafood soup prepared by Fernando, helped in Jenny’s English class and baked mango banana bread with my women’s group. It was so wonderful to have family back in my town. I loved showing her how I live in Casas Viejas- there is only so much i can share over the phone and through email and my blog. Sadly, Danica’s stay was all too brief and now I’m reminded daily that she isn’t here by the endless questioning of the townspeople. I wonder how many weeks are going to have to pass before I no longer hear, “Y tu hermana pue?”

Sueña con los Angelitos

I was riding the bus the other day and had a seat all to myself when the bus started to fill up with people. I’m used to riding packed buses- so packed that i’m only afforded seat real estate for one buttock. So, knowing that the empty spaces around me would soon be occupied I stopped reading my book and began to check out the oncoming passengers. Y’all might be familiar with this game. I like to play it on airplanes when I’m sitting in the aisle seat and the middle seat next to me is empty. I size-up every man woman and child passing down that aisle trying to discern who I'm going to share my personal space with for the next four hours. “Well, hello there really hot guy in the Princeton tee, come sit here. No, no, where are you going? Don’t keep walking... oh god, please don’t let it be Mr. Canadian Tuxedo with the runny nose, I saw you use your sleeve...” and so the mental conversation goes. I play the same game here, only we are on a bus and the guys t-shirt reads “World’s Best Mom” or “Give me candy or I’ll steel your boyfriend” (no joke- i’ve seen both being worn by Guatemalan men). So, there I was entire row to myself as the passengers started filing in. I spotted a happy family; mother, daughter and son squeezing down the aisle and thought, please let it be, three of them plus one of me makes four across, everyone wins. I gave the mom a warm no-teeth smile trying to coax her into electing my aisle for her family. Sure enough it worked and the family of three took their seats in my row. The mom and sister on the opposite bench and the little boy climbed up and sat next to me. This little boy was as adorable as could be- the type of kid you can’t help but want to hug. His legs were dangling over the edge of the seat and he had these sweet curious eyes and a cute little button nose. The first 20 minutes on the bus he sat gingerly peering out the window or observing the other passengers. He was awfully well behaved. About 30 minutes into the ride he began to get a little sleepy, doing the head-bob until his sister reached over and shook him up straight. By minute 45 he was in full sleep mode, slowly sliding down the pleather school bus seat-back until his little head rested gently on my left arm. I tried not to move, I didn’t want to wake him. It was such a nice change to have this little angel resting on me instead of the tired and overworked laborers or sour and over-served drunks for whom I'm used to serving as a human pillow. I sat there, as still as I could be on the bumpy road, actually relishing this innocent invasion of my personal space. And as I sat there I realized that i’d forgotten how comforting it feels to be a shoulder for someone to lean on. It was a short moment of bliss for as soon as his older sister looked over and noticed his head resting on my arm, she swept him up and put him on her lap. And then, just like that, I had the seat to myself again.

p.s. the picture above has nothing to do with the bus incident. Its a picture of my neighbors Leslie, Benicio and one of their older cousins I took from my yard looking into theirs.. I just thought this story needed some cute kids.

My Moveable Feast

Today, Easter Sunday, marks the end of Holy week, or Semana Santa as it is called here. For me the festivities began last Monday. School is out for the week and I was invited by Jenny, Seño Lili and Seño Maritza, to join them on their “Summer Day.” Seño Maritza is the director of the pre-premaria (pre-school) in town and all her students and their families were invited to celebrate their “Summer Day” at El Sitio (The Site), a park with swimming pools about a 45 minute drive from my town. It was a day full of carne asada, mangos and pool games. I challenged the kids to a swimming competition and went undefeated. In fact, now that I think about it, I may have been the only one to actually finish. I guess knowing freestyle put me at an unfair advantage. There were no complaints though and the kids begged me to race more. I also was the time keeper in the “how long can you hold your breath underwater” competition. The kids insisted that I count only in English. And so the day went on, everyone enjoying the pool party until about 4PM when it was time to leave and we loaded back up into pick-ups and headed home.

Wednesday, after finishing inventory at the Coop store I headed into Antigua to meet Kamille’s mom. Toribio’s (my counterpart) mother-in-law- Vilma was driving into Antigua to visit her sister so I managed to snake a ride in her beat-up blue pick-up. Driving direct to Antigua cut my travel time in half. I miss having a car.

Antigua is probably the best place to spend Semana Santa. There are processions, special events and the streets are decorated with festive flare, none of which I had the pleasure of experiencing. My stay lasted a short 18 hours- just a quick trip to spend the evening with Kamille and her mother. It was all worth it though, we shared a wonderful conversation over a lovely Italian dinner and bottle of wine. Then after a relaxing nights sleep at Meson Panza Verde, I was on the camioneta headed back to my site. The bus ride lasted 4 hours and I managed to start and finish “A Moveable Feast” while on the trip. I feel I can relate my Guatemalan experience a good deal to Hemingway’s years in Paris. I, like the author, am relatively poor, embracing a foreign culture and inspired daily by the people who surround me. The only thing my moveable feast lacks is all the good wine and F. Scott Fitzgerald (minor nuances, if you ask me). And, if you must know, in honor of Hemingway’s chapter “Hunger is good discipline” I am writing this blog on an empty stomach (while thinking of those mangos in my fridge).

Getting back to Holy Week. The reason I had to rush to my site on Thursday was because I had plans on Friday and Saturday. Faviola, my soccer coach, had called me out of the blue last Friday and asked if I like turkey. I said, “yes” and she said, “My mother would like to invite you to lunch next Friday, she is preparing turkey.” Then Brenda, Faviola’s sister that owns the beauty salon across the street from my Coop tienda, invited me to their brother Carlos’s house on Saturday for lunch and a pool party. I couldn’t believe my luck- racking up quite a social schedule.

I was very excited to be invited to lunch on Friday, mostly because I love spending time getting to know the families in town but also because I have been dying to see the Escobar’s house. Faviola’s family is the wealthiest family in town and lays claim to most of the land in the area. They live a life of privilege unfathomable to most of the inhabitants in my town. They have armed guards standing watch out front of their house and the only thing visible from the street is a satellite dish and antennae poking over their huge brick wall. The amount of protection they employ would be fit for a Brangelina estate and thus I’ve imagined that the house inside must be equivalent to a Beverly Hills mansion. The Escobars are kind of a big deal here in Casas Viejas.

When Friday came I walked over to Faviola’s house with my neighbor Oscar Ruben, whose mom, Julieta, is Faviola’s mom’s sister. Oscar Ruben and I have become good friends since I moved into my little casita. He is 24 and runs his own salina, teaches at the high school and goes to the University on Saturdays. I often ask him to help me with things around the house like hanging my hammocks or helping instal a light switch. He’s pretty handy to have around. Oscar and I walked about five minutes to Faviola’s and when we got to the gate the guards let us in. As soon as we stepped inside those tall brick walls I felt transplanted out of Casas Viejas and into a little slice of paradise. The gate opened to an expansive well manicured lawn that stretched 100 meters to the car port where their five shiny cars were kept in a row. I looked to my right and there sat the house, freshly painted and surrounded by tiny palm trees. I was surprised, however, to notice the house was no mansion at all (well, no mansion by Beverly Hills standards). It was, of course, much nicer than any other home in my town, about the size of a standard tract home in the states. Between the house and the carport a large circular rancha (thatched roof gazebo) was being prepped for lunch. There were about 18 guests total. Faviola’s parents, Brenda, Brenda’s daughter Pamela, Brenda’s boyfriend, Brenda’s brother Hilo (I think thats his name), Doña Julieta, Oscar Ruben, Oscar Ruben’s sister Graciela, Doña Julieta’s mother, and then Faviola’s Dad’s Brother and his wife and three sons, one of which is autistic. Faviola wasn’t present as she is spending Semana Santa in New Jersey with a friend.

When lunch was served I was given the first plate of soup. I felt like the guest of honor as Doña Leti, Faviola’s mother, went around the table showing me where everything was, “Here is the salt, and limes, and cheese- the kind of cheese you like. Here are the tortillas. Take some while they are hot...” She was very concerned with making sure I felt comfortable and kept returning to me throughout the meal. “Do you want some fish? Here take a torta and put cheese and creme on it like this.” Then Doña Julieta, Oscar Ruben’s mom, joined in on the questioning, “Have you had any turkey? Would you like more soup?” It lasted until desert, “Have you ever tried such-n-such desert? Or would you prefer such-n-such?” I didn’t really know what either was so I said I wasn’t sure. This was a big mistake because then they served me both, “just to try.”

After the meal all the boys went to dar una vuelta (cruise) the beach, which has been packed all week with vacationing Guatemalans from the capital. When I say packed- I mean sardines packed. Throngs of people as far as the eye can see. The festivities are sponsored by Gallo (the Guatemalan Budweiser) so the mass is full of bolos (drunks) being sloppy all over the place, taking their pants off and starting brawls- its a cornucopia of general debauchery. I have opted to steer clear of the beach this week as my blonde hair is a bolo magnet and an open invitation for inebriated men to speak slurred, incomprehensible “English” to me. So, while the boys “cruised” I stayed under the circular rancha and chatted with the grown-ups. Well, I mostly chatted with Faviola’s uncle who is an economist. He preached about how Casas Viejas is the capital of the world. “Anything you want you can get here.” He said, “And in two years you’ll find a husband and never have to leave, what’s your favorite type of food?” I replied Indian and Thai, “Oh, well, no worries you can hire a chef that can prepare you and your family (he means my future Chapin husband and little Guatemalan children) Thai food. After two years you’re never going to want to leave.” I kept thinking to myself, “I wonder what my dad would think of this conversation?” We talked about Obama, Iran (he did most of the talking on these subjects since we aren’t supposed to engage in much politicking) my work with the cooperative and a slew of other things. What I found most profound were the three things he likes about the United States. He stated quite firmly, “There are only three things I like about the States and nothing more. First, they take good care of their children, I mean really good care of their children.” I think this makes his list because he has an autistic child who lacks adequate care in Guatemala. “Second,” he continued, “everything they do up there is done logically, everything is thought through. And third, the U.S. has learned how to be the economic capital of the world” (he is an economist after all). “So” I replied jokingly, “does that mean you don’t like hamburgers?”

The Saturday pool party came and went and now its Easter Sunday. It doesn’t really feel like Easter without the brunch and my parent’s sponsored easter candy hunt. I guess it just feels like the end of Semana Santa.

But the winding down of Holy Week brings with it the promise of a new adventure. Friday Danica comes to visit. I just hope she can handle the heat. Its so hot here I’m beginning to think those silly hats with their tiny built-in fans are a genius invention.

Danica, you have been forewarned.

p.s. Nate, this is a pic of marañones- the fruit of a cashew tree I was telling you about. So delicious.

Dulce Damas

About three weeks ago a woman from Holland arrived in Casas Viejas. Carolina Verhoeven was her name and she came for one week to teach the women of my town how to make jam from local fruit. Carolina is a Senior Expert in a Dutch organization called PUM. She was solicited by a Maria, a well-to-do native Guatemalan who now lives in Canada but migrates back to Guatemala during the northern winter months. From what I could gather, Maria and her husband are philanthropists during their Guatemalan “summer break”, traveling the country doing good deeds in hospitals, in schools and with women’s groups.

Maria told me that this project is her little brain child. She has a house in Casas Viejas and over the years has noticed an abundance of fruit going to waste in the area. Mangos rotting on the ground (what a shame), morros falling from trees only to be eaten by hungry pigs and mariñones, the fruit from cashew trees, being completely overlooked by the local population. She wanted to find a way to use these resources and boost the local economy and thus decided to teach women how to make jams from the fruit.

About a month before, I had heard of this woman from Don Edgar, “There is a foreign lady coming that only speaks English and wants to package fruit, here is her email and phone number, you should contact her.” I followed his directions, emailed the contact (who happened to be Maria not Carolina) but got no response. I forgot about the whole thing until three Wednesdays ago when Loyda, one of the female socios in my Cooperative, came by the tienda and invited me to go with her to meet the Holandesa (Dutch woman).

I walked with a group of women ushering their children while toting sun umbrellas to the outskirts of town. During the trip I received three comments on how fast I walk, “Annalisa likes to exercise, don’t you Annalisa?” We ended up at a house off a beaten path about 15 minutes from the town center. The house, belonging to Maria and her husband, was surrounded by bouganvilleas. I love bouganvilleas. The house itself was quaint with high ceilings allowing for cool airflow (airflow is a luxury here). The decor (for the few of you that care) was uniquely Guatemalan with a touch of the finer things, flowers in vases, stained shutters, cool ceramic floors, a tiled chair rail, etc. I was in heaven.

It was here that I met Maria and Carolina. Carolina didn’t speak a lick of Spanish so I was a comforting presence for her. Maria managed the ladies and served as translator. The previous day they had spent making jam, pineapple, noni with mariñon, mango, coconut, morro, orange. All the colorful jars filled with the fruit concoctions were lined up on the kitchen table. I quickly learned, to my delight, that I had arrived on taste test day. The group surrounded the table, Carolina, Maria, about thirteen local women and me. One by one we tasted the jams to see which recipes turned out the best and which needed adjusting. I, of course, liked the mango the best.

I had to leave early to work on inventory at the tienda but I promised the women I would accompany them on Saturday when they were going to learn how to make pastries.

Saturday at 2PM five of the women led by Loyda arrived unexpectedly at my house. I invited them into my courtyard where they gathered around me in my hammocks and plastic chairs. I had no idea what they wanted from me. Then Loyda started shooting off questions, “We were wondering if you could explain how the Holandesa came here, did Maria have to pay for her plane ticket? Where is she getting the €2,500 she said she could use to buy us equipment? Could you ask her to use the money to get us a stove? Can you work with us during your two years here? You are one of us now right?” I explained to them the nature of Carolina’s work, “She is with a foreign foundation that has funds for projects like the one here in Casas Viejas. No, Maria hasn’t paid to get Carolina here, but she did work on the solicitation. Yes, I will find out if Carolina can use some of the funds to purchase a stove for the group. And it would be my pleasure to work with this group during my two years here.” After I finished answering all their questions it was time to go make pastries. I began locking up my house, closed and bolted the back door and was locking the front door when Doña Mari (the wife of Don Simon the Coop’s treasurer) came up to me all schemey-like and pulled me aside, “Will you ask Carolina if I can have her computer?”

“What computer?”, I asked, a bit startled.

“She said she was leaving all of her equipment and I saw she has a nice computer. Can you ask her if I can have her computer for my kids? But don’t tell anyone else that you are asking.” She urged while peering past me into my house (I assume she was checking out my goods too.)

I think I may have turned red with embarrassment for her. Carolina had come on her free time to teach the women how to make jam, she was bringing knowledge and start-up funds to get the project off the ground and now Mari wanted her personal computer? Was she going to ask for the shirt off her back too? How greedy. “I’ve gotta keep my eye on this one”, I thought to myself. Luckily, the other women in the group don’t have the same mentality. I told Mari I would ask about the computer but never did.

Aside from this small uncomfortable incident I left my house with the women overwhelmed with excitement for this new endeavor. What gave me the most pleasure was the fact that this group of women had just come to me to ask “secret” questions about Carolina. It showed me that they would rather come to me to clarify their doubts instead of asking Maria. They trusted me more because they saw me as one of them and this was a huge accomplishment for me as a Peace Corps volunteer.

Fast forward two weeks to yesterday. I met with the group for the first time since we made pastries. Six of the original thirteen had decided to move forward with the venture. We convened at Loyda’s house to make our first batch of jam without Carolina. The idea was to make product to sell locally during the Semana Santa holiday when the area is flush with tourists and Guatemalans from the city. Coconut jam, pineapple jam, mango jam, noni and marinon jam, orange jelly and tamarindo jam. We started at 2PM. The steps are as follows: cut up and blend the fruit, add the sugar and pectin, boil the mixture, fill sanitized jars and repeat. The women worked swiftly in their aprons and hair nets (Carolina taught them some sanitary practices too). By 5:30PM we had 72 jars of jam. During the process I had worked with them to get costs down- how much the fruit, sugar, pectin cost, how much each jar cost, how much wood and gas was used, how many hours of labor etc. After doing all the calculations each jar of jam cost about Q8.50 (approx. $1) to produce. They agreed to sell them each jar for Q13.

After clean-up the women decided to make their group official by voting in the directors. They first asked if i’d be president. Flattering yes, but I gladly declined, saying that I couldn’t be on the board but that I will be their “volunteer”. They chose Loyda as president. There were five of them left and they still needed to appoint vice president, secretary and treasurer. No one else wanted a position. They had to draw titles out of a hat to fill the remaining seats. I cautioned them that they should elect someone who understands math to be the treasurer and someone that can write to be the secretary. Some titles were traded and the board was finalized. As their volunteer, I have been tasked with making the labels before their first sales route on Saturday. So I taught myself how to use indesign and whipped up the above label last night (notice the bouganvilleas- little personal touch).

As I was leaving Loyda’s house I told the women that I wanted to buy a jar of mango, one of tamarindo and another of coconut jam. I explained with a smile, “ Not only will I be your volunteer but I’ll also be your best customer.”

Pollitos, Gripe and Bananas

I have ever increasingly begun to feel at home in Casas Viejas. It started with the little things. Walking alone to Eslin’s wedding and having a group of my soccer teammates run up and invite me to sit with them at the ceremony, the woman I buy cheese from asking me why I haven’t gone running recently, Tawnya’s daughter Melissa giving me a big hug every time she passes the tienda or my friend Erika wanting to “hacer un vuelta” (walk around) with me at the town ferria. Now that I have my own house, my own private space, I feel even more like i’ve grown roots here. The daily interactions I have with my neighbors solidify this feeling. Let me give you a few examples.

My next door neighbors are being terrorized by a cat. Over the last two weeks the cat has been sneaking into their yard in the darkness of night and stealing away with their pollitos (baby chickens). The chicks are an easy meal for the cat. Chickens, like all other animals in Casas Viejas, roam free all over town. Mama pigs leading her baby piglets through the street and chickens scurrying along dirt paths is just the backdrop to my everyday life. I didn’t realize how desensitized I had become to random animal meandering until my parents came to my site (my first visitors from the states- love you mom and dad!). My mom was so fascinated by the pigs in the street that she had to take pictures. And at my soccer practice, when a pig roamed on the field she smiled and yelled out to me, “looks like you have a new friend that wants to play.” To most people coming from the states, the abundance of roaming farm animals would seem peculiar and maybe even surreal, but to me, a soccer practice without the interruption of pigs or chickens would seem strange.

Back to the stolen pollitos. Last night at 10:30 p.m. I was seemingly the only one in my neighborhood still awake. The culto preacher had finished his last sermon on the loudspeaker an hour earlier and everyone had retired to their respective cinderblock houses leaving the neighborhood completely still. I stood brushing my teeth under the lone lightbulb above my pila. It was so quite that I was extra careful not to scrape my plastic guaquil against the cement pila as I scooped water to rinse my toothbrush. I finished brushing and as I was knocking the access water from my toothbrush the night silence was pierced by a sudden and frantic “Turn the lights on, turn the lights on”. The voice cut through the cinderblock wall that separates my backyard from my neighbors house/tienda. Two seconds later Dona Mirna appears at my back chain link fence with a flashlight sweeping light through her yard and mine. “Where is that damn animal? Annalisa, did you see a cat?”

“No, I haven’t seen anything” I replied.

She continued, shining the light in all directions, “Oh where did that cat go, I heard it jump from our roof.” More unsuccessful searching with the flashlight and then she turns to me, “Can I come over and check your backyard?”

“Of course, come on over.”

Two seconds later she is at my front gate in her white nightgown with flashlight in hand.

“Pasa adelante.” Come in, I say.

As she scours my yard and outdoor kitchen she tells me in her quick, punchy voice, “This cat has been eating my pollitos, Two weeks ago we had 15 pollitos and now we only have three. Yesterday we had four and this morning we woke up and there was only three. The cat is eating them whole, can you believe that?” Fifteen and now only three. I swear I heard it on the roof, are you sure you didn’t see it here?”

“No I haven’t seen the cat since this afternoon. So, wait, that cat isn’t your cat?”

“No, saber (who knows) whose cat it is but it keeps eating my pollitos. Have you seen any pollito feathers?”

“Not today but come to think of it, I have seen feathers in my yard before. That cat ate tortillas I left out overnight in a plastic bag a week ago.” (At first I thought it may have been rats but my Mom reassured me that my Aunt Colleen’s cats eat through plastic bags filled with food left out on her counter too.)

“See that damn animal is eating everything. Ok well I don’t see it here.” She began walking back to my front gate murmuring to herself “That animal is giving me a headache... Fifteen pollitos and now only three.”

“What a shame.” I said to her as she was showing herself out the gate.

“Yes it is a shame.” She said goodnight and closed my gate behind her as she walked back to her house.

I love that my neighbor feels comfortable coming over to my house in the middle of the night in her nightgown to hunt a mischievous cat. But there is more.

This past week I have been sick, coughing uncontrollably. Wednesday in hopes of beating the gripe (flu), I spent most of the afternoon resting in my hammock and watching episodes of Glee (thanks mom) on my laptop. My constant coughing fits must have worried Mirna because she sent Milbia over with the three kids. Milbia didn’t even ask permission to come into my yard, all of the sudden she just appeared with the kids.

She began, “Did you shower today?”

The kids scurried off, quickly making my backyard their new playground as she stood above my hammock with an earnest look on her face. Strange question you may think but I was prepared for this. In Guatemala people don’t shower when they are sick. It supposedly prolongs the sickness.

“Yes, I showered today.” I replied from my cocoon position in the hammock.

She continued, “My mom told me you shouldn’t shower and you can’t use your fan. The fan will make your cough worse.”

I started laughing. It is so hot here the only escapes I have from the scorching sun are cold showers and my fan. I couldn’t imagine my life here without them. Being sick was bad enough but now I was supposed to be sick and uncomfortably hot and sweaty? That wasn’t going to fly.

“Why are you laughing?” She asked.

“I’ll try not to shower” I said through giggles, “but its so hot and I have to work and I don’t want to walk around all sweaty and smelly.”

My response was not well received. She had come over for an intervention and I wasn’t cooperating. After she insisted I change my habits a few more times she herded up the kids and left. I didn’t know what to do about her suggestions. I knew that she was genuinely concerned with my health and I didn’t want to disrespect her advice and beliefs. I couldn’t lie to them and tell them that I’m not showering or using my fan because they can HEAR for themselves if I do either. (yes, we live that close- they know EVERYTHING that goes on my side of the fence).

That night miraculously it rained. We are in the dry season- it hasn’t rained since December and it isn’t supposed to rain until May but that night it rained. The precipitation cooled the night and I was able to sleep comfortably without my fan on. The next day I told Milbia through the fence that I listened to her and didn’t sleep with my fan on and I felt better. Which was actually true. Although I’m no longer feeling sick I still have been coughing and I know they hear it. It hasn’t kept me from showering though.

When I say you can hear everything through the walls I mean everything. Constantly I hear Mirna yell, “Milbia” and Milbia’s response, “Que manda?” What do you want?. I hear the kids laughing and crying and Milbia yelling, “ Te voy a pegar” “I’m going to hit you.” Which mostly is just a common empty threat used by all Guatemalan parents. But the thing I hear most through that cinderblock wall is blaring banda music. It starts about 10 am and runs through to 6 pm. Its the boys of the house that put the music on loud. I know this because Mirna has confessed to me that she doesn’t like the “noise”. I’ve learned to accept it and even enjoy it a bit. When my parents were here my Dad asked. “Do they always play music that loud? Doesn’t it bother you?” I guess its another thing I have become desensitized to.

During my parents stay in Casas Viejas I brought them over to meet Dona Mirna and her daughter Milbia and the three grandkids. We sat in their courtyard on plastic chairs as the kids swung in hammocks and ran around dragging an alarm clock by its plug. The kids are always running around with their faces and clothes streaked with dust Benicio, the youngest, normally without bottoms. I could tell Mirna and Milbia were so excited to meet my parents. Their presence reassured my neighbors that I, in fact am not an outcast or orphan and that I do have parents in the states that love me. They told my parents how, as neighbors, we watch out for each other and how when I leave the kids miss me and say, “Lisa isn’t at home mom, Lisa still isn’t there.” Milbia asked my parents how many kids they have and how old their youngest is. This was a common question my parents got on their visit. I also took them to one of the Basico (High School) English classes that I help Jenny with. There my parent’s successfully performed a dialogue in English. At first, my dad was so enthusiastic about performing he began improvising or “enhancing” the script. The script that the kids in class were following line by line. This of course caused for some confusion and forced my dad to put on his glasses so he could properly read the dialogue. After the performance Jenny allowed the kids to ask my parents questions. What countries have you visited? Do kids in the states have tattoos and wear jewelry to school?, How many kids do you have? What are your names? What do you do for a living? Do you like Guatemala? How old are you? My parents thoroughly enjoyed the kids curiosity.

Everyone in town wanted to meet my parents. I had random women vendors come into my backyard asking if I’d like to buy shrimp so she could get a peak at my parents. My parents met my soccer team, my coop socios, my counterpart, Eslin and Selvin and Brenda at the tienda, my post man, my tortilla lady... But my two worlds really came together when Don Fernando prepared a special seafood soup and my host parents shared lunch and a conversation with my real parents.

Hospitality pulses through the veins of the townspeople of Casas Viejas. Everywhere I took my parents they were offered little candies or cold beverages and even Milbia passed us six bananas through the chain link fence that divides our properties. I enjoyed showing my parents off to everyone in town. I reassured them, “My parents like Guatemala so much that they are coming back for Christmas, oh and just wait till you meet my sister in April, she can speak Spanish.”

Sadly, my parent’s visit did have to come to an end. On the bus ride back to my site after my parents spoiled me with a weekend in Antigua at a nice hotel and big delicious dinners with my Peace Corps friends I was worried that I would have family withdrawals. To my delight, my post parents visit depression worries were washed away when, as I was waiting on the side of the road for the last leg of my bus trip, a familiar family from Casas Viejas stopped their pick-up truck and offered me a ride back to my house. I swung my backpack into the bed and hopped in after it. As we bumped down the road toward home the daughter of the couple was leaning out the window and yelling “Annalisa, Annalisa...”.

As I walked home I passed Renato, (he is my “primo” that jokingly says “I love you” in accented english every time he passes by my window at night) and he said, “I haven’t seen you in a few days.” When I was unlocking my door my neighbor Julietta, Oscar Ruben’s mom, said, “You just getting back from Antigua? Welcome home.” That evening Milbia passed me bananas through the fence. I did feel at home.

Human Washing Machine

Today I did a monstrous load of laundry. For the past two weeks I had successfully ignored the increase in empty hangers in my “closet” but when my laundry basket began to overflow last night I decided today i’d roll up my sleeves and get it over with. Laundry is an internal struggle for me. Every time I’m thirty minutes in to washing my clothes, when my arms start to ache and I look up to see only half of my clothes hanging to dry, half still wet in a huge bucket with detergent, I think to myself, “next time I’m gonna pay someone to do this for me.” Then comes the next week and I once again decide to save the Q20 ($2.50) and do laundry on my own.

The worst part of it all is that I do an awful job at washing my own clothes. Ever since my first load when I ruined a shirt, a pair of slacks and damaged my jeans I decided hand washing clothes in a pila is not something I’m good at. I do slightly blame my Alotenango host mother for not being the best at explaining the proper technique. We started out standing at the pila. First we selected an item of clothing and placed it in the left pila basin (the side with little cement ripples). Then she began to dampen the clothes by taking water from the center well with a little plastic pan/bucket and dumping the water onto the clothes. Then lathered up the clothes with a bar of soap and began to drag the clothes over the cement basin to get the dirt out. During this “dragging” step my host mom, Dona Paula, clasped the clothing tightly and thrust the clothes back and forth, back and forth. To me it looked like she was harshly rubbing the clothes against the cement pila basin but it turns out she barely would nick the cement. When it was my turn to wash clothes my misinterpretation of her thrusts lead to numerous holes in my clothing. This was especially traumatic because I had come to Guatemala with so few clothes it wiped out about 1/6 of my stock. To this day I am a little upset that Peace Corps didn’t give us life skills training on how to hand wash clothes in the pila. Even a little cliffs notes explanation would have saved me some of my precious clothing.

Maybe at some point in my service i’ll cave and pay someone with a little more experience in pila practices to do my laundry. Until then, I maintain that it is un-Peace-Corps-like to not partake in a daily routine that all other females in my town have to do. But, I’ll be honest and say, I can’t wait for the day that i’ll once again be able to shove a load in the washer and come back 30 minutes later to clean clothes.