Adios

I left Casas Viejas on Sunday. Luckily, Kamille came down from Coban to provide much needed moral support and help me get ready for my imminent departure. Sunday's exit from town was proceeded by three days of despedidas (farewells). There were many house visits, exchanging of gifts, an abundance of food and even a piñata named Pollo Xinca.





It all still seems unreal.

On Saturday Tania, Jasmine and Melissa stopped by to drop off some tamales and say goodbye. At one point Tania pulled out her phone and announced that she had a English song she wanted to play for us. The girls sang along as the tune chimed through the cell speakers. The lyrics were coincidentally very fitting, even though the girls didn't know what they were singing. I'm going to leave you all with a little video from that visit.

Before I sign off, though, I wanted to thank all of you for taking this two year journey with me. I hope you all enjoyed reading this blog as much as I've enjoyed writing it.

Soundtrack to My Service

I’ve found music to be a friend during the pivotal moments of my Peace Corps service. Sometimes it’s an entire song, other times a lyric, a guitar chord or a single beat that has stirred my soul into finding a companion in a melody. A companion that smiles, sighs, loves, greaves and dances with my thoughts.

It’s Tupelo Honey while sitting around a fire at Kamille’s. It’s overhearing Eswin’s phone chime out Total Eclipse of My Heart with Amanda and Trish during Spanish class. It’s Barrett Bumpas channeling Bob Dylan on his guitar. It’s Damien Rice thundering through my veins while rain pounds my tin roof. It’s a classroom full of adolescents dancing to Thriller.

I’ve also realized that my most introspective hours are those spent alone, lost in my own thoughts: on the bus, sweeping my yard, in my room late at night or on a morning run. We all need these solitary moments to process life. During these occasions, I often turn to my iPod for company. Once in a while, my player will shuffle to a song that resonates so perfectly with my state of mind that the melody is forever married to that moment.

Now, as I reflect upon the past two years, I have found it fitting to return to the tunes that have accompanied me through my service to help me make sense of it all. I want you to be able to relive these musical moments with me, so we are going to try a little experiment. Play the below and continue to read. Hopefully, I’ve timed this correctly. And as a tip, if you get to a lyric I’ve written down, try to read it along with the song.

Sorry for those of you with a slow internet connection.



I first want to take you back to the summer of 2005 so as to explain what brought me here in the first place. I was an advertising executive still “green behind the ears”, as Bob Wilson, one of my clients and the owner of Fresno Lincoln Mercury, would say. At the time, I was proud of my work accomplishments and loved the people I worked with, but felt a persistent emptiness. I had an unsettling feeling that my career path was not aligned with my passions or aspirations. Every morning I’d get up, get dressed, drive to work, do the daily grind, drive home, eat, sleep and repeat. One particular afternoon, while stuck in traffic (which was every afternoon), the speakers on my Mercury Mariner sang:

I got no time
That I got to get
To where I don't need to be

Those lyrics grabbed me. I, like Jack Johnson, felt lost in a meaningless hustle. Why was I dedicating my time and energy to selling cars? My discontent stemmed from working towards something that I wasn’t passionate about. It was terribly ironic that I was “moving metal” when I, in fact, felt everyone should be riding public transit.

Soon thereafter, I found a new job on the Lexus account, convinced that the Japanese manufacturer was more environmentally conscious, and therefore, I’d get more satisfaction out of my work. Foolish me. The switch was futile. I needed out of automotive advertising all together.

In 2009 I applied to the Peace Corps and as soon as the acceptance letter arrived, I said good-bye to my working life as I had known it.

The switch was not always easy. Many people questioned (especially my grandfather), “Why on earth would you quit a perfectly good, well paying job to join the Peace Corps?” It didn’t help that we were in the midst of the recession. People were getting laid off and I was quitting?

I had many long conversations with my mom reassuring her that the Peace Corps was not a dead end, but a means to a new beginning. I remember her saying, “I know you’re going to end up fine, I just want you to think critically about this decision. Just make sure this is really what you want to do with your life.”

Her concern was not unfounded. I have a history of dabbling. When I was eight I was the only girl in jazz class shuffle-ball-changing in tennis shoes because I had to participate in an activity for five months before she would purchase any specialized equipment. She was worried that the Peace Corps was just another phase. During this time, I resonated with the lyrics:

I can say I hope it will be worth what I give up
If I could stand up mean for the things that I believe

I eventually convinced my mom that I was making the right decision and she gave me her whole hearted support, as she always has (love you, mom).

In Guatemala, I was content with the change of course my life had taken. Still, progress with work and integrating into my community was slow. I had to take the good with the bad. I had days when I felt alienated and days that I beamed with joy. Through the process I learned a lot, but it took returning to Guatemala from a trip to the U.S. to let my experiences distill.

It was August and after having spent weeks in California, the bus ride back to site was particularly poignant. The difference between my life in The States, my life as it used to be, and the new life I lived was shocking but satisfying. I sat on that bus, listening to music and stared out at the lush green flood planes that make up the landscape en route to Casas Viejas. I reveled in the realization that over the past year I had become more patient, more humble and had a better understanding of what really matters in life. I had undergone a personal growth that I would never have achieved in my prior life in Los Angeles. I knew that not many people would be able to relate to this, but I was OK with that.

I flashed through recent memories. My women’s group loving a salad recipe that didn’t include mayonnaise. School kids filing into my English class saying, “Good morning, teacher.” Adan teaching bookkeeping techniques that I had taught him to a new shopkeeper. A song on my ipod rang true:

Oh, This has got to be the good life.
This has got to be the good life
This could really be the good life.
Good Life.

And, it was. In that moment I knew that I had found the meaning and substance that was lacking in my work before the Peace Corps.

The months continued to roll by and I became more and more involved and immersed in my community. I had time to strengthen the relationships I had made with friends in my town and in the Peace Corps community. I had found my place, realizing:

You're already home where you feel loved

Now that I have found a home in Guatemala and a family in the people of Casas Viejas, the thought of leaving is bitter sweet.

This fall I start graduate studies at Columbia's School of International and Public Affairs. Another two year adventure awaits me. I’ll be graduating with a Masters in Public Administration with a concentration in Urban and Social Policy. I want to focus on the roles energy and the environment play in urban development (especially in transit).

No more selling cars. See, mama, not just a phase.

Truth is, I have mixed feelings about the transition from Guatemala to New York City. I think I am underestimating the emotions I have tied up in this beautiful country that I have called home for the past 24 months. It's hard for me to believe that this is not going to be my life in a few weeks. That it'll never be the same. This realization is making me consciously appreciate the little time I do have left, though. It's hard to balance these emotions with the excitement of my life’s next step.

I won't be moving back to LA and I can't expect things to be the way they were when I left two years ago- everything has changed, myself included. I’m going to have to make myself a new home. Once again find my place in this crazy world. Luckily, my brother, sister and some great friends live in the city and nearby in Philly (that’s you, Jules). I'm looking forward to strengthening those relationships. I was processing all of these thoughts while sweeping the dust from my kitchen floor when Bob Dylan asked me:

How does it feel
How does it feel
To be without a home
Like a complete unknown
Like a rolling stone?

I guess I’m a little scared, but mostly excited. New York holds future friends, more learning and a new type of discovery.

Still, I will forever appreciate the simple, comfortable life I have led here. It may take time to get used to not hearing small Guatemalan children yell my name while walking the streets. I’ll miss Marena’s shucos and Doña Leti’s fresh cheese. Flor will no longer be there to greet me through a chain link fence. The Super Niña bus driver won’t wave to me on my morning runs. I won’t be gifted mangos by the dozen.

I’ll have to get used to the cold and the bustle of city life. But, if I ever need to return to Guatemala, I’ll put on these songs and listen to:

them when (I) forget (what I) left here.

Any Given Sunday

I can’t sleep. I got into bed, watched Airplane, played a few, alright, a dozen hands of vacation solitaire on my Nokia phone, even brought my guitar into bed and strummed away until my fingers began to sting.

For the past few months the Holy Bible has been my cure for the occasional nighttime bout of insomnia. Tonight, I’d rather not pick it up; too much bloodshed, burnt offerings and judgement for this rainy evening. To clarify, I am reading the Old Testament, figured it’s the one I should start with. I’ve found it to be a very depressing read. My heart sinks a little bit every time a city is burned and its inhabitants, men, women and children, are all slaughtered. Where is the love? I want to skip to that chapter. So, this eve, the good book has been kept shut and placed on my lap where it is kindly propping up my computer as I type away.

I really haven’t thought this post through yet, so I guess I’ll just tell you about my day. Woke up, did a little 30-day shred exercise sesh with Jillian Michaels, showered and brought a load of laundry to Mirna’s house. They bought a washing machine in January and have let me do a few loads in exchange for explaining to them how to operate the appliance. Try explaining the “hand wash” cycle to a Guatemalan housewife that bought the apparatus precisely so that she wouldn’t have to hand wash. Not easy. Ever since they got the washer, I’ve been alternating between hand and machine washing. If I have calculated it properly, and don’t have any major stain mishaps, this will have been the last day I will have to do my laundry in Guatemala. Next week, I’ll be home for my brother’s wedding (yay! can’t wait- Yosemite here we come.) When I get back to Guatemala on the 3rd, I’ll have 14 days remaining as a Peace Corps Volunteer. I definitely have enough clothes and undies to keep me fresh for those last two weeks. It may seem strange that I am divulging this information, but you must realize that, aside from the produce section at Whole Foods, the washer and dryer are the material things I miss most about the States. My last wash was a big deal.

It was quarter to 1:00 when I had all my clothes hung up on the line to dry. Time to watch the Women’s World Cup final. I don’t own a TV so I went over to Fernando and Seño Lili’s house to watch the match. The sound of sportscasters calling the game filtered through open doors and windows as I made my way through the dirt streets to their house. I couldn’t help but think, “there are probably more Guatemalans watching this game than Americans.” I hope I was wrong. When I got to the house Mattihus was in the living room, with remote in hand, switching between the USA v. Japan women's game and Brazil v. Paraguay men's match. I took a seat on the couch and started watching but quickly became frustrated by the constant channel changing. Before the first half was over I decided to depart and watch the game at my next door neighbor Flor’s house. It seemed more fitting to watch the Women’s World Cup with a fellow woman, anyway. I made it to her house, invited myself in and plopped down on the end of her bed. "Bed?" you may ask. Yes, Flor, like most Guatemalans, doesn't own a couch. Her TV is in her bedroom so we watch it from her bed. I watched the match while she spent the next 20 minutes putting on make-up. I asked if she was getting ready to pasear (go out), but, she said, “No”. Maybe it is just her daily routine.

I’ll go ahead and fast forward 130 minutes to me, with fly swatter in hand, taking out my frustration with the US’s loss on the mosquitos in my shower stall. After I had killed all the skeeters I could find, I let off more steam by washing dirty dishes. It turned out to be a very productive afternoon.

At 4pm I made my way over to El Rinconcito de Mario, the town restaurant next door to Seño Maritza’s house. There the preschool was celebrating “Dia de la Familia” (Family Day). Maritza had asked me to stop by and play a song on my guitar for the kids and their parents. Before I got my guitar out, though, I was called on stage to participate in a dance competition. Side note: I’ve garnered some local fame for the Shakira dance moves I displayed in a dance competition at Brenda’s baby shower. I won that competition, and today’s as well. Guatemalans love watching a white girl dance. The prize was a red cylindrical plastic container.

Directly following the dance-off, I was called on stage to perform with my guitar. I dar-ed (gave) a few palabras (words) before I played. I thanked all those present for their hospitality over the past two years and for being my Guatemalan family. I got a little choked up, this "saying good-bye" thing isn’t going to get any easier. I also took the opportunity to make it be known that it was the first time I had ever played for a crowd, along with a pre-performance apology for singing in English. It went all-right. I messed up the lyrics a few times but it didn’t matter much because no one knew what I was saying anyway. They were a very forgiving audience. I guess I couldn’t have been all that bad because they did ask for an encore performance.

At 7pm I was back at home, made dinner, dilly-dallied, got into bed, watched Airplane, played a few, alright, a dozen, hands of vacation solitaire on my Nokia phone, even brought my guitar into bed and strummed away until my fingers began to sting...

Damn It

I just got back from a profit margin meeting with the coop members. We were analyzing costs to see how the pollo frito (fried chicken) business is shaping up. It was there that I discovered the Q10,000 loan they took out to invest in the venture was done in the same manor as the loan they took out with Adan. They pay the lender Q500 a month until the loan can be paid off in one lump sum. None of that Q500 is going towards paying off the principal. I was so visibly upset that I think I scared the women. I'm still so upset, I'm ravishing a bag of Trader Joe's trail mix right now.

Damn it. After all of the discussions I had with them regarding Adan's loan, I thought something had stuck. I'm heartbroken... and now, out of trail mix.

Peace Corps Extraordinaire

Last week, Seño Maritza was showing signs of anxiety. The root of her worries stemmed from a trip she had to take to the capital this past Friday. A trip she had to take on a bus all by her lonesome. Well, she’d be accompanied by the bus driver, an ayudante (the guy that takes your fare) and a hoard of other passengers. There in that “hoard” of passengers lies the problem. They are all strangers and strangers can’t be trusted. Each unfamiliar face poses a risk. Anyone of them could be eying her purse or even be armed and prepared to loot the entire bus.

Assaults on buses are not rare here, especially in the capital, so her worries were not unfounded.

While Friday neared, Maritza made multiple mentions in conversation about her forthcoming trip, “¡... y tengo que ir solita, AYE NO, como me da miedo!” (And I have to go all alone, OH NO, how it gives me fright!).

For me, Friday came and went like any other day in site. I didn’t see Maritza until Saturday morning when I dropped by her house to give her photocopies of the salina profit analysis. Her son, Rene, let me in and I walked to the back of the house. It was there that I realized Maritza was showering. To kill some time I checked in on our tomato plants (we’ve got one of Kamille’s hanging plants set up in her yard- it’s flowering!), When Maritza got out of the shower she walked out in her towel, gave her usual salutations and headed into her bedroom, where she proceeded to talk to me through closed door.

I asked her how her trip to the capital went and she delved into a long explanation:

You shoulda seen how afraid I was! I go to the capital, you know, but, never alone! I got up at 2am and was in the capital by 7am. Then I took a cab to meet my sister-in-law. I did it all without any problem! We did errands together but then she left me when I had to fix some papers for work. When I was done I asked a police officer how to get to the inner city bus and he explained to me where to go. Then I took another bus to get back to CENMA. From there made it to Esquintla, where I took a cab to the hospital because Marta Lidia’s daughter is sick and I promised I’d check in on her...

At this point, she reappeared clothed and continued to tell the story while rubbing her hair dry with a towel.

... I was back in Chiqui at 3pm and went to the accountant. I finally made it to Casas Viejas on the Princesita (name of a bus).

One is afraid to do things they don’t know about, but, you know what? Before I left I thought to myself, “Annalisa travels all over without any problem. She just hops on a bus and goes from here to there and everywhere.” I even thought about how you travel to foreign countries and get around. And here I am, in my own country, and I’m afraid to travel a few hours. I thought, “If Annalisa can do it, so can I.” You served as my inspiration.

I puffed out my chest and thought to myself, “Annalisa Liberman, Peace Corps extraordinaire. Empowering women in developing nations. My work here is done... It only took two years.”

p.s. Over 4th of July weekend Kamille and I took a fabulous day trip to Copán, Honduras. If you'd like to read about it, check out Kamille's blog.

Dear Trader Joe's

Quierido Trader Jose,

Allow me to introduce myself, I am Annalisa Brown Liberman, your best Guatemala- based customer, ever. For nearly two years I have been living in rural Guatemala as a Sustainable Agriculture Peace Corps Volunteer. Ever since my arrival on August 12, 2009 my father and friends have faithfully sent me dozens of bulging yellow manilla padded envelopes filled with Trader Joe’s treats. I don’t know how I would have survived these past two years without them.

I want to personally thank you for your toothsome trail mixes and delectable dried fruit. I have tasted and loved them all. I have particularly savored your Macadamia Mix Gingerly with Cranberries and Almond, Sweet & Savory and Tempting trail/trek mixes. However, nothing has tantalized my taste buds more than your Just Mangos dried mangos. I especially enjoy the packages filled with deep marigold colored slices picked ripe from Mexico or Thailand. The Columbian variety, for some reason, are never quite as as sweet and juicy.

Today, I was enjoying a package of Just Mangos in my cinderblock casita while rain outside made rivers of the town’s dirt streets. As I chewed to the pitter-patter of drops on the tin roof, I wondered just how many of Joe’s Just Mangos and trail mixes I have consumed as a Peace Corps Volunteer. I did a rough calculation and came up with over 100 packages.

I currently have two packages of Just Mangos and two trail mixes left in my reserves. These were sent by my father in a package I received June 8th. I have since told him to send no more, for my Peace Corps service ends August 17th and I will soon be able to roam the isles of Trader Joe’s on my own. Free to pick out only the juiciest, most golden Just Mango packages in the store. I can’t wait.

Once again, gracias Trader Jose. You have made my Peace Corps experience quite a treat!

Un fuerte abrazo (a big hug) from your devoted patron,

Annalisa

Ask Dr. Bob

On a large 24”x18” piece of yellow construction paper I made a table seven columns by eight rows. Fifty-six boxes. One for each day of service I have left in the Peace Corps. I labeled the columns with days of the week and grouped the rows into June, July and August. I titled the poster, “Calendario de Proyectos con Annalisa” (Calendar of Projects with Annalisa).

I began to populate the calendar with my remaining projects, trips away from site and daily obligations. Mondays, Tuesdays, Wednesdays, 3:40-4:50 English classes at Basico with Jeny. Completion of Service Medical Appointments in Antigua June 22-24. Women’s group cooking class: Pizza and planting tomato seeds, 3pm Saturday, June 25. Inventory review workshop, 5pm Wednesday, June 29. Pollo Xinca Cost of Production Analysis, Saturday, July 9... the table slowly filled up. When it was done, I taped it to the Coca Cola display fridge in the coop tienda and shared it with the socios at a meeting on Monday.

As I plan my last projects, I also have to figure out how to wrap up my service with a healthy sense of closure. My dad has coached me on this phase of my Peace Corps service. A phase that he refers to, in psychiatrist jargon, as the ‘termination period.’ Over one particularly long phone conversation about a month ago he explained this critical stage of decathecting to me. I was on one end of the line swaying in my hammock while he was on the other end, presumably, sitting in his swiveling office chair. “The termination period is a period of separation between a doctor and patient,” he began. “At the end of a treatment, a physician must work with the patient to show their time together was effective in treating the illness and that the patient is capable of sustaining his recovery even after he is not under the direct care of the physician...” (Did I paraphrase correctly, Papa? “Close enough,” as you might say.)

In any regard, the take away I got was that these last few months of service is a time for me to reflect with the cooperative on all of the work we have done together and the progress we have made. It is also a time to discuss how to sustain these improvements even after my departure. I have taken his advice to heart and have started reflecting on my service with the Coop socios. The presence of my bright yellow calendar stands as a reminder that my days with the coop are limited and has allowed me to ease into ‘termination period’ conversations. Sometimes, however, I contemplate, between myself and the cooperative, who is the doctor and who is the patient. For, I, most certainly, will come out of this experience the most changed.