December 21, 2008
I write to you from San Jose Comunidad de Paz. There were murders not too long ago in San Jose, the village 8 minutes walk up the dirt road. Massacres. Assassinations and persecutions. FARC, the paramilitaries, and the police all competed in death-persuasion to win the villagers to their cause. So some of them walked down the road to where I am now, and said “No weapons, no sides, no commerce, and no talking with any militants.”
There are a few rows of wood-panel houses surrounding a large grassy center, with a straw-thatched kiosk as their central meeting place. I joined the evangelicals for three hours my first night here for lots of “Aleluia! Gloria a Díos!” to accompany their electric keyboard religious trance music. I went to bed around midnight, and the lady who cooked me breakfast told me they kept going until 5 in the morning.
The chickens, pigs, turkeys, horses, and children all walk or gallop freely throughout the village. A downpour has occurred around noon each of the three days I have been here. It is deafening on the metal roofs, as if I didn’t have enough trouble understanding their explanations in Spanish of their lives and history. They don’t seem to mind my broken questions and responses, and will talk with great passion for hours on end about “la lucha,” the struggle.
The majority of the men are clearly “campesinos,” farmers, as seen by their rubber boats, shirtless and ripped upper bodies, and the leather-sheathed machetes hanging from their belts. I joined them for one hard day of work up in the hills, weeding bean crops and picking ears of corn, all of it organic. The work is much the same as it would be in the U.S., only the near-equatorial sun beats more fiercely and the ants are more industrious and have a harder bite. As write this the day after
I have always known that Latin American kids flock to Gringos, and this place is no exception. I jokingly asked one of the young boys if he spoke English, to which he smiled and said no. I asked if he ever studied English in school, but the answer was no. He finished school last year, and now works up in the hills with the other campesinos. With your dad? I asked. No, he was murdered many years ago. I go with my friends, but not tomorrow because tomorrow is Sunday. How much do you earn in a day? 3000 pesos for eight hours. Worth about $1.50.
One of the girls who has been hanging around my quarters took a liking to my harmonica, and asked for it as a gift with which to remember me by. But she stopped playing it when I wouldn’t give her a clear answer and would do nothing other than ask for it, so I decided it wasn’t a good idea to just hand it over. Maybe I’ll ask her to write to me, and then send it to her in the mail.
San Jose up the street is having a festival before Christmas. The music was rockin last night: live salsa, marimba, and reggeton, horns and lots of complex piano that made me drool for wanting to see it being performed. But after several conversations the past few days I learned that they have almost NO relations with the village, especially with the police there. They said it would be very complicated for them if I went up there, and the police learned that I was here as an international “accompanier,” which is what they call me here in the community. I am reminded very strongly of being in Palestine. I sat outside listening last night, unconsciously trying to figure out a logic that would let me walk up there. (What is peace without music? Without healthy dialogue?) But because I lack clear understanding of this place, I went to bed.
This year, my writing is my gift to you.
Merry Christmas, everybody, y mucho amor!
Tuesday, December 23, 2008
Papa Kuni’s Stovetop Popcorn©, 2nd Generation Edition
A good pot is essential.
Ideally, use a heavy duty cast-iron pot, about 4 liters in size. A broken handle is to be avoided, but if the pot is well used and loved, such features can be overlooked. Try to find a cover that not necessarily fits the pot, but that at least allows projectile oil to drain back into the inside of the pot rather than dripping along the outside of the pot, onto the burner, and down into the netherregions below that. If a non-fitting cover is unavoidable, be sure to wipe up remaining grease while it is still warm to avoid solidification and social dificulties. Occasionally it may be necessary to purchase new silver range-basins at garage sales in repentance for untimely cleanups of afforesaid splattered oil.
Put the pot on the range and turn the range on high. This will save some time, but now you need to do everything else quickly before the pot gets too hot.
I prefer canola oil, because that is what I have prefered in the past. Olive oil can be used, but it burns at a lower temperature, likely increasing the amount of carcinogens in the finished product. A vague mix of different kids of oils might add that special unknown something to your popcorn experience.
Get out two large popcorn bowls and set them close to the range, but not close enough to melt. Have the salt shaker nearby, as well as a pair of hotpads or mittens.
Cover the bottom of the pan with oil. The amount of oil you use will determin how many kernals you add, how oilly your corn will be, and/or your future heart condition. DO NOT leave the kitchen while there is oil heating on the range. But if theres a really good movie on in the other room and you have to leave, make sure to check back on the oil every chance that comes to mind. If you sprint back to the kitchen to find the oil smoking, turn the range off and move the pot to one that is cool. If you find fire, DO NOT attempt to remove the pot. Use the fire extinguisher at arm’s reach, or throw baking soda into the pot, or try to get the lid on to smother the flames. I haven’t tried it, but I’ve heard throwing water on such a fire isn’t pretty. If, despite all these suggestions, you do pick up the pot and attempt to take it outside, be aware that when you open the door a gush of new oxygen will likely strengthen the flames, singeing what little hair you may have left, and you quite possibly could burn your skin off. The staying in the kitchen idea is a better option overall.
Take the popcorn out of the freezer. Everyone knows you’re supposed to keep popcorn in the freezer, and if you didn’t keep it there, you didn’t read ahead in these directions, like your fourth grade teacher taught you to, before commencing this sacred cooking ritual. Later, don’t forget to refill your freezer popcorn jar with kernals from the 50-pound bag in the basement you purchased at Sam’s Club for twelve dollars, despite the fact that Sam’s Club might be representative of economic and social relationships that your conscience tells you is hindering healthy local and international community development. The point is, choose your battles, but also don’t ignore the ones you haven’t yet fought.
Add one kernal to your oil. When it pops, you’re ready to add the rest of the kernals, but make sure to turn the range down if the oil starts to smoke.
Add sufficeint kernals so that none of the oil has a flat surface. Having all the kernals totally submurged means you’ll have greasy popcorn, while having too many kernals not touching the oil at all means you’ll have dry popcorn, burnt popcorn, and/or lots of leftover kernals. You’ll have to find your own happy medium through experience and practice.
Don’t let the kernals pop right away. This might mean turning down your range, or temporarily taking the pot off of the range. If they pop too soon after heating, the result is chewy popcorn with tough husks that like clinging to the back of your throat and making you gag. You want to cook the outside before you cook the inside, and this is part of the reason you keep them in the freezer. Let them simmer for a couple of minutes, adjusting the amount of heat as necessary. When popping commences, your cover will be helpful. Shake the pot in both circular and up and down motions to allow even popping, as well as to settle the unpopped kernals to the bottom of the pan rather than up with the adult popped kernals where they always want to be. Choose a heat that will allow continuous popping, but not too hot so that you can’t manage to teach the baby kernals where to go, and certainly not so hot that they will burn and fail to develop properly.
If you added enough kernals to feed your friends and family, your popcorn is going to overflow the pot. But no worries! Let the popping push the lid up. Just before they are pushed up so high that they would spill onto the range, dump the top half into one of your bowls. The next overflow should mm go in a different bowl, and the following in the first bowl, so that you have even dispersion of greasy corn with the drier corn on the bottom of the pan. Kind of like socialism, except that you know your friends and family and have enjoyed being fair to them in the past. Add salt between layers and toss.
Only after you complete popping and tossing can you know if butter is appropriate. If its already pretty oilly, skip the butter.
If you’re on the road or are truly conservative, save the unpopped kernals for later use.
Ideally, use a heavy duty cast-iron pot, about 4 liters in size. A broken handle is to be avoided, but if the pot is well used and loved, such features can be overlooked. Try to find a cover that not necessarily fits the pot, but that at least allows projectile oil to drain back into the inside of the pot rather than dripping along the outside of the pot, onto the burner, and down into the netherregions below that. If a non-fitting cover is unavoidable, be sure to wipe up remaining grease while it is still warm to avoid solidification and social dificulties. Occasionally it may be necessary to purchase new silver range-basins at garage sales in repentance for untimely cleanups of afforesaid splattered oil.
Put the pot on the range and turn the range on high. This will save some time, but now you need to do everything else quickly before the pot gets too hot.
I prefer canola oil, because that is what I have prefered in the past. Olive oil can be used, but it burns at a lower temperature, likely increasing the amount of carcinogens in the finished product. A vague mix of different kids of oils might add that special unknown something to your popcorn experience.
Get out two large popcorn bowls and set them close to the range, but not close enough to melt. Have the salt shaker nearby, as well as a pair of hotpads or mittens.
Cover the bottom of the pan with oil. The amount of oil you use will determin how many kernals you add, how oilly your corn will be, and/or your future heart condition. DO NOT leave the kitchen while there is oil heating on the range. But if theres a really good movie on in the other room and you have to leave, make sure to check back on the oil every chance that comes to mind. If you sprint back to the kitchen to find the oil smoking, turn the range off and move the pot to one that is cool. If you find fire, DO NOT attempt to remove the pot. Use the fire extinguisher at arm’s reach, or throw baking soda into the pot, or try to get the lid on to smother the flames. I haven’t tried it, but I’ve heard throwing water on such a fire isn’t pretty. If, despite all these suggestions, you do pick up the pot and attempt to take it outside, be aware that when you open the door a gush of new oxygen will likely strengthen the flames, singeing what little hair you may have left, and you quite possibly could burn your skin off. The staying in the kitchen idea is a better option overall.
Take the popcorn out of the freezer. Everyone knows you’re supposed to keep popcorn in the freezer, and if you didn’t keep it there, you didn’t read ahead in these directions, like your fourth grade teacher taught you to, before commencing this sacred cooking ritual. Later, don’t forget to refill your freezer popcorn jar with kernals from the 50-pound bag in the basement you purchased at Sam’s Club for twelve dollars, despite the fact that Sam’s Club might be representative of economic and social relationships that your conscience tells you is hindering healthy local and international community development. The point is, choose your battles, but also don’t ignore the ones you haven’t yet fought.
Add one kernal to your oil. When it pops, you’re ready to add the rest of the kernals, but make sure to turn the range down if the oil starts to smoke.
Add sufficeint kernals so that none of the oil has a flat surface. Having all the kernals totally submurged means you’ll have greasy popcorn, while having too many kernals not touching the oil at all means you’ll have dry popcorn, burnt popcorn, and/or lots of leftover kernals. You’ll have to find your own happy medium through experience and practice.
Don’t let the kernals pop right away. This might mean turning down your range, or temporarily taking the pot off of the range. If they pop too soon after heating, the result is chewy popcorn with tough husks that like clinging to the back of your throat and making you gag. You want to cook the outside before you cook the inside, and this is part of the reason you keep them in the freezer. Let them simmer for a couple of minutes, adjusting the amount of heat as necessary. When popping commences, your cover will be helpful. Shake the pot in both circular and up and down motions to allow even popping, as well as to settle the unpopped kernals to the bottom of the pan rather than up with the adult popped kernals where they always want to be. Choose a heat that will allow continuous popping, but not too hot so that you can’t manage to teach the baby kernals where to go, and certainly not so hot that they will burn and fail to develop properly.
If you added enough kernals to feed your friends and family, your popcorn is going to overflow the pot. But no worries! Let the popping push the lid up. Just before they are pushed up so high that they would spill onto the range, dump the top half into one of your bowls. The next overflow should mm go in a different bowl, and the following in the first bowl, so that you have even dispersion of greasy corn with the drier corn on the bottom of the pan. Kind of like socialism, except that you know your friends and family and have enjoyed being fair to them in the past. Add salt between layers and toss.
Only after you complete popping and tossing can you know if butter is appropriate. If its already pretty oilly, skip the butter.
If you’re on the road or are truly conservative, save the unpopped kernals for later use.
Saturday, December 6, 2008
Nicaragua
I came to Nicaragua, arguably the second poorest country in Latin America (as a result of dictatorship legacies, current government corruption, and of course American government anti-development through the funding of the Contras in the 80’s). Only Haitians are poorer.
Granada is a beautiful colonial town resting along the side of grand Lake Managua, the largest body of freshwater or “agua dulce” in central America. but tourist dollars are changing its character, as well as its property owner. I sat in the city square, the center of social life, people watching, horse-drawn carriage vending, and begging. After talking with an 11-year-old cashew vender for some time about why I wasn’t going to buy any cashews from him, and then letting him type “llllddddddggggggggewsdedsvneijeyvf85jndfk” on my keyboard, I strolled down the main street towards the lake.
Beneath a canopy of Mango trees and only a few other people, I was joined by a young man who spoke impeccably more clear Spanish than his compatriots. He was slightly over-friendly, which sent vender/beggar-alarm-bells off in my mind, but he wasn’t aggressive and our conversation about Nicaragua and life in general was quite interesting. After reaching the shore we sat by the breakwater talking and watching the waves and other tourists.
He told me his work was showing tourists around, teaching them about the history of Nicaragua, and teaching them a bit of Spanish. He told me he had a young son named Kevin. Somewhere in the conversation, he asked me how much I thought a months worth of food would cost for him and his son. I said, what kind of food? He said, only rice and beans, and a little bit of eggs and vegetables. I thought for a moment and did some “new math” in my head before saying “$150.” He laughed, and told me it was around $8.
He asked if we were friends, I told him for right now during this conversations, sure we were friends. I told him it was a little difficult, though, because I figured he wanted money. He said that it shouldn’t matter, and that he wasn’t asking, but that he would surely accept if I did offer. I told him that sometimes it was difficult for us tourists in Nicaragua because of the number of people asking us for money. He told me that begging and bothering tourists for money without giving a service was wrong, but that he had also seen much rude behavior from tourists when they were dismissing the poor. We talked for another hour, him correcting my Spanish after asking permission if he could.
After a while he asked me if I wanted to walk down the beach. Down the path, he said it was because of a man that had sat down next to us that he didn’t trust. He said he knew all the really good and really bad men in town. We walked down to a more isolated part of the coast. He described to me what the river before looked like when it overflowed during the rainy season. I had my keyboard with me, and I was clutching it closely out of distrust, but he just kept talking about what was left of his siblings and his deceased mom and dad. I asked him why he didn’t get a decent job. He said that he did haul big bags of bulk foods for a pittance at the market, but he said he needed a $12 national identification card for the minimum wage jobs, which he could not afford.
We walked back towards town. He pointed out a boy a block ahead, and told me to yell “Kevin,” so I did, and the kid immediately turned around. He introduced himself and shook my hand after we approached, then went back to chatting with his friends. Roberj and I walked a bit further, me continuing to ask questions about his life and his views. His kid yelled to him a couple of times, motioning him to come back. I said just a minute, keep walking with me. He did. I asked him how much was sufficient. He said he couldn’t tell me something like that.
I gave him 5 dollars worth of Cordobas, worth a night’s stay at a hostel on my trip. He said thank you, I’m going to the market to buy food now. I said there was no way for me to know that. He said, “only faith.” I walked away feeling slightly used, but feeling even more wonder.
I’ve turned down hundreds of people asking for money since I left the states: children, wrinkled old ladies, cripples, even telling some of them to “go away” after they were too persistent. I’m sure I have hundreds more to turn down before I return home, though not all of them. I think that giving to beggars can certainly be harmful to them for encouraging non-productiveness and non-sustainability. I don’t know for sure, but this one seemed right. He gave me the service of his friendship and conversation for just a short while, he made my day interesting, he had tremendous patience and even incite into the relationship between him and myself, between the United States and Nicaragua, between rich and poor.
If he really is just going to get drunk with the money I gave him, then I just paid a terrific salesman. But all things considered, I believe it was a fair exchange.
Granada is a beautiful colonial town resting along the side of grand Lake Managua, the largest body of freshwater or “agua dulce” in central America. but tourist dollars are changing its character, as well as its property owner. I sat in the city square, the center of social life, people watching, horse-drawn carriage vending, and begging. After talking with an 11-year-old cashew vender for some time about why I wasn’t going to buy any cashews from him, and then letting him type “llllddddddggggggggewsdedsvneijeyvf85jndfk” on my keyboard, I strolled down the main street towards the lake.
Beneath a canopy of Mango trees and only a few other people, I was joined by a young man who spoke impeccably more clear Spanish than his compatriots. He was slightly over-friendly, which sent vender/beggar-alarm-bells off in my mind, but he wasn’t aggressive and our conversation about Nicaragua and life in general was quite interesting. After reaching the shore we sat by the breakwater talking and watching the waves and other tourists.
He told me his work was showing tourists around, teaching them about the history of Nicaragua, and teaching them a bit of Spanish. He told me he had a young son named Kevin. Somewhere in the conversation, he asked me how much I thought a months worth of food would cost for him and his son. I said, what kind of food? He said, only rice and beans, and a little bit of eggs and vegetables. I thought for a moment and did some “new math” in my head before saying “$150.” He laughed, and told me it was around $8.
He asked if we were friends, I told him for right now during this conversations, sure we were friends. I told him it was a little difficult, though, because I figured he wanted money. He said that it shouldn’t matter, and that he wasn’t asking, but that he would surely accept if I did offer. I told him that sometimes it was difficult for us tourists in Nicaragua because of the number of people asking us for money. He told me that begging and bothering tourists for money without giving a service was wrong, but that he had also seen much rude behavior from tourists when they were dismissing the poor. We talked for another hour, him correcting my Spanish after asking permission if he could.
After a while he asked me if I wanted to walk down the beach. Down the path, he said it was because of a man that had sat down next to us that he didn’t trust. He said he knew all the really good and really bad men in town. We walked down to a more isolated part of the coast. He described to me what the river before looked like when it overflowed during the rainy season. I had my keyboard with me, and I was clutching it closely out of distrust, but he just kept talking about what was left of his siblings and his deceased mom and dad. I asked him why he didn’t get a decent job. He said that he did haul big bags of bulk foods for a pittance at the market, but he said he needed a $12 national identification card for the minimum wage jobs, which he could not afford.
We walked back towards town. He pointed out a boy a block ahead, and told me to yell “Kevin,” so I did, and the kid immediately turned around. He introduced himself and shook my hand after we approached, then went back to chatting with his friends. Roberj and I walked a bit further, me continuing to ask questions about his life and his views. His kid yelled to him a couple of times, motioning him to come back. I said just a minute, keep walking with me. He did. I asked him how much was sufficient. He said he couldn’t tell me something like that.
I gave him 5 dollars worth of Cordobas, worth a night’s stay at a hostel on my trip. He said thank you, I’m going to the market to buy food now. I said there was no way for me to know that. He said, “only faith.” I walked away feeling slightly used, but feeling even more wonder.
I’ve turned down hundreds of people asking for money since I left the states: children, wrinkled old ladies, cripples, even telling some of them to “go away” after they were too persistent. I’m sure I have hundreds more to turn down before I return home, though not all of them. I think that giving to beggars can certainly be harmful to them for encouraging non-productiveness and non-sustainability. I don’t know for sure, but this one seemed right. He gave me the service of his friendship and conversation for just a short while, he made my day interesting, he had tremendous patience and even incite into the relationship between him and myself, between the United States and Nicaragua, between rich and poor.
If he really is just going to get drunk with the money I gave him, then I just paid a terrific salesman. But all things considered, I believe it was a fair exchange.
Compounded Interest
I must be mindful of my writing and of my picture taking. Both my digital camera, and my blog are new to me. When I climb to the top of a mountain and receive the gift of a beautiful view and the exhilaration of vast altitude, I feel the immediate desire to share these feelings with my loved ones.
But that desire to share has much more detail than the simple idea of altruism. Within it are also desires of wanting to be influential and powerful, to have my loved ones think, “wow, look at him! I wish I could be there.” Those thoughts are not helpful for people. They do not teach, and they are more a taking than they are a giving. Even if the receiver who views these things gets pleasure out of what I send, they too should be mindful of the roots of that pleasure.
Also, if I am photographing or thinking about photographing, then I am spending less time in plain site and more time behind a physical or mental LCD screen, which I believe is intended to remind myself or others of what it is like to NOT be behind that LCD screen. So I need to remember that what is right in front of me cannot (and should not?) be fully replicated digitally.
I need to try to be aware of the consequences when I photograph up a mountain, or blog to Paraguay, or eat a television program, or drink a football game, or ego a conversation.
Thursday, November 20, 2008
A day in the life
Breakfast was prepared for myself and the St. Thomas Moore delegation as usual by Maria Madre staff. Strong stovetop coffee, fresh pineapple, sweetbread, pancakes with syrup from Meijer, Nutella (which St. Toms delegate Olena decided was not sweet enough when smothered on her pancake, so she added a second layer of jelly) and peanut butter, milk, and Kellogg’s cornflakes. If you know me, you wouldn’t be too surprised that I felt the need to tell my Salvadoran and Kalamazooan companions that W.K Kellogg’s brother John Harvey originally invented cornflakes as a meat substitute with one specific intent to deter masturbation for a reduction in consumption of testosterone.
The Saint Tom’s delegation had to leave to go see some community projects run by the parish. We did our round of goodbyes and wellwishing, and I told them I’d see them in 6 months to a year in Kalamazoo. Rosalie reminded me what she had told me before, that my mother and they would worry for me so that I wouldn’t have to.
I finished my packing. (Should I leave the wool sweater behind that I picked up in Xela, Guate for only 2 Quetzals?...or should I keep it for nostalgic or safety reasons. I wonder what the weather is like in Peru, even though its close to the equator? Ooo…my map says Bogota is at 3500 meters. Better keep it just in case. The locally-made cotton shirt Padre Luis gave to me will have to stay, however. I have three short-sleeves, which is plenty, and it’s a good excuse to come revisit Maria Madre on my way back.) My pack should be about equal volume and weight since I arrived in El Salvador since I ate the trailmix I made from the market, popped the corn I had brought, but picked up another bag. I did acquire a couple spoonfuls of Nutella in my peanut butter bottle, though.
A new group of Gringos, likely another one of the seven sister parishes from the States, started filing into the rectory. “Hola! Bienvenidos! Hola!” I said about 15 times, stepping into the role of welcoming committee for the parish I was about to leave.
They started a meeting in the common area, but I went and did some pull-ups on a strong crossbar of the laundry lines to which I had grown accustomed, listening to Daniel’s translation of Padre Luis telling this delegation that many of the local evangelical parishes were antithema to social change for the poor.
My water bottles I filled at the cooler in the kitchen, (which contained city water which was pumped through a filter-and-UV-light system originally brought to Maria Madre from St. Tom’s delegate Gerry, who had given me a pamphlet the night before on his Kalamazoo-based non-profit striving to bring clean water to poor communities with the request that I give his contact information to anyone who might be able to connect him to communities in need for my entire trip.) I strapped the liter bottle to my pack, but it fell out while I was walking to the bus station and the blue plastic cap busted, but I kept my eyes on the street for about 10 minutes and found a half-way decent replacement.
(A pretty dark-skinned woman across the aisle from me is breast-feeding as I am writing this…I am remembering our discussion from last night about how boobs are kosher in El Salvador, but showing skin from waist to knee is out-of-bounds, taboo.)
After my four sets of eight pull-ups, I figured I might as well join the group since I wasn’t going to drag Padre Luis away from the group while he was speaking in order to say goodbye. They asked who I was after a few minutes, and I began explaining in Spanish that I was kind-of part of the St. Tom’s delegation, but that I was also a backpacker headed to Paraguay, until my mind caught up that I was speaking to Spanish to people who couldn’t understand it.
Padre answered a cell phone call and left the circle, incidentally during a translation between what appeared to be a nun and a Salvadoran nurse about the health clinic’s relationship to abortion and birth control in light of its relationship to Catholicism.
I excused myself and found Padre Luis, asking him if he could buy a local newspaper for me so that the St. Tom’s delegation could take it back to some friends of mine in Kalamazoo: “Puede comprarme noticias papel para algunes amigos in Los Estados Unidos?” But I don’t think I got through, so I’ll just have to find an internet café in Tegus (pronounced the-GOOS, short for Tegucigalpa, capital of Honduras) or Comayagua and email Mary Ellen before they leave on Friday.
“You are leaving now?” Luis asked?
“Si. Siempre estas tiempos vienen,” I said. He sounded a bits ad, as he did when I told him I was leaving the day befote and he convinced me to stay for another, so I told him that these times always come.
“You are in my heart,” he said, as he had many times in the past few days as my departure approached. He put his two arms on my shoulders, and said many rapid words to me in Spanish, and I received his blessing for my journey. I hiked my bag up first onto my right knee, then to my back. I hugged Daniel and Rosa, waved goodbye to the folks from Ohio, one of them snapped a photo of me, and I walked away from Maria Madre.
I walked through Chakra among the Salvadorans, saying “Buenos Dias” to several groups as I passed, crossed the single lane bridge over the heavily polluted, stinky, and foaming river, stopped by a friend’s house to say goodbye, walked uphill dodging traffic across the main thoroughfare, ignored several “bus-callers” trying to get me onto their buses bound for other cities, found my correct bus, separated my pack into bigger and smaller sections and watched the main part be heaved into the lower compartment, then boarded and found a good seat with a clear window on the right-hand said so I could get a good view of the trip. A boy came onto the bus selling huge bags of strawberries for a dollar, so I bought one. The bus took off, and I began typing this paper.
But as so often happens on trips such as these, my seat-partner and I began a good conversation. His name was Victor, an studious looking Latino a few years younger than myself, and he had come to San Salvador for his “tramitas,” which I eventually discerned had something to do with bank processing. I wrote that word down in my word list in the little black book that I always keep in my back pocket, as well as several others that he taught me through the conversation. I shared my strawberries. We spoke somewhat in “Spanglish.” I spoke much more Spanish than his English, but we taught each other quite a few words and phrases…both “maestros,” and both “estudiantes.” I told him of my visit to San Salvador, of visiting families with Padre Luis, of the street-art, candle-light procession of thousands people, and outdoor evening mass celebrated in honor of the 6 Jesuit priests assassinated 19 years because of their outspokenness against violence.
When the topic of conversation turned to music, I got out my ipod from my small pack. I gave him the right earbud, and put the left one into my own ear. I showed him the list of Spanish-language cumbia, duragense, and reggeton songs I had acquired from the computer of Escuela Hispanomaya in Todos Santos. We listened to several of those, and then I played a Spanish “conscious” hiphop song by Immortal Technique, and he told me in had a lot of bad words in it. Next was Eminem, because Victor said he liked him. I translated “Skeletons in my Closet” as best I could for him.
The ride to the nearest big city close to the border was three and a half hours. Every stop inside a village to drop off or pick up passengers also turned the bus into a temporary market as vendors crowded onto the bus yelling “Pollo! Pollo!” or “Gaseos, Agua Pura, Gaseos!” Other vendible items might include bags of coconuts, peanuts, fried fish, homemade breads and cookies, super glue, chocolate, Pupusas (a super-cheesy tortilla wrap, the national Salvadoran meal), apocalyptic literature…all available from my seat at each stop for a dollar or less. Somewhere an hour before my stop Victor woke me from my head-rattling-against-the-window-slumber to say goodbye at his stop, another friend-from-the-world whose physical presence I will likely never again enjoy joy, though in other ways our brief encounter is everlasting.
When they dropped me off in San Miguel, I grabbed my bag from below as a man from a “micro,” a van just ahead, shouted “Frontera, frontera!” (border) at me and tried to take my bag. But I told him “later” and headed toward El Centro to find a bank. I had a hundred dollar American bill in my pocket that had been damaged and somewhat discoloured from having gotten wet in the bottom of my shoe two weeks earlier when I stepped into a mud puddle on a hike in the mountains on the way to a hot springs outside of Xela (pronounced “shay-la”) in Guatemala. I wanted the security of having American cash on me, in good normal condition, which can be exchanged anywhere in Latin America. This town just before the border was my last chance for a bank in American-currency-using El Salvador.
I stood in line for 10 minutes at a bank. The clerk took the bill to her manager, who told me it was too disfigured for her to accept, but that I could exchange it at the Central Bank in San Salvador. Not helpful. Before I left, I exchanged a one dollar bill for the hardly-used Salvadoran currency, the Colon, for a gift back in the States. I tried another bank as well, same story, before heading back to the highway and my micro. I did stop at a coconut-shucking stall on the way back, so the side trip was not entirely in vain. I’ll have to wait ‘til Ecuador, the only South American country to use dollars as their primary currency, to exchange my crappy 100.
The micro to the border was only 15 minutes. The baggage-handler harassed a young attractive Latino girl for the entire trip, even after the trip ended and she was walking for her shuttle for the final leg. She climbed into a three-wheeled two-stroke powered cart designed for short trips, but I always prefer enjoy my final minutes in a country with a nice reminiscing walk.
“Cambio! Cambio! Limpiras!” shouted the moneychangers as I approached the border, wanting to exchange my dollars for the Honduran Limpira currency. I thought of the last moneychangers at the Guatemalan-Salvadoran border, wondering what kind of rate they would give me. I told them I didn’t need to exchange money. I had already gotten some Limpiras from a hosteller in Xela, but I told the changers I didn’t need to exchange because I was a magician and could change my money with my magic.
At customs, the office said “Tres dollars,” as she stamped my passport. I only had four left. I was lucky.
The river I crossed separating El Salvador from Honduras was soothing…a good time for transition, an easy reminder of the tranquillity possible in any type of journey.
It was getting dusky. I knew I wouldn’t make it to Comayagua that night, 2 hours past Tegus. On the other side of the river, a bus-caller said a name to me repeatedly that I didn’t recognize. I said, “No, Tegus.” He thought for a moment, and then told me there were no buses to Tegus. I figured he was scamming me, so I said no thanks and headed further into Honduras. But after walking 15 minutes and not seeing any other buses or micros, I turned around and headed back to the border. I checked my map to find the closest big city on the way to Tegus, and the next bus I came to was headed there. When I tried to ask someone in Spanish where I should ask to get off, a young woman sitting in the seat in front of me asked if I speak English. So I met Laura, a Peace Corp volunteer frustrated with her lack of progress as a water engineer in the area. Trail magic: I gave her the contact info for the St. Tom’s parishner who wanted me to research needs for clean water.
After getting off at my stop, I bought a piece of chicken and some tortillas while waiting for a new bus to Tegus. A mama dog plopped down in front of me while I finished my meal, so I tossed her my bones, which she quickly devoured, in order to contribute rampant K-9 reproduction.
I wrote the majority of this piece on the final bus to Tegus. The bus dropped me off in what my guidebook said was a shady part of town, so I negotiated a good price for a taxi to take me to Hotel Iberia. It was 8:30 at night. The streets of Tegucigalpa were practically vacant. We drove up to a checkpoint, but the police waved us through. “Corrupt,” my driver told me. When we pulled up to my hotel, two police on motorcycles surrounded my taxi. While I got out and got my pack, they were sequestering my driver’s info. “Gracias, Señor, and Buena suerte,” I said as I walked into my hotel.
The man at the counter was staring into a television two feet away from his eyes. He didn’t look up as I asked for a bed, but said “200 Limpira,” which was the price for a double room. I told him I wanted a single room, which was 80 Limpira cheaper. He said they were full. I told him I wanted to pay less because I only wanted one bed. He said no. I considered the vacant streets outside. I paid the 200L, and he finally looked away from his television and took me to my room.
I ate some crackers and peanut butter and Nutella, watched a bit of Terminator III in Spanish on the boob tube in the common room, then went to bed.
EPILOGUE:
That was Monday, November 17. It was a travel day, similar to what most of my days will be like between Honduras and Paraguay, with the exception of the amount of Nutella I ate. Its Thursday, and I am now at Mission Honduras, a place I was sent 11 years ago by Father Jim O’Leary who came into my high school Spanish class, pointed only at me, and said, “YOU should go to Honduras this summer.” He must’ve known, because I wouldn’t be here now, or likely on this trip at all, if he hadn’t sent me then. For the next week, I am painting walls, fixing plumbing, and playing with orphans, until I leave again for lands further South.
p.s. no pictures in this post for at least a week because the local internet cafe's computer won't connect to my camera, but check back later if you're super-interested in a few photos from around that day
Sunday, November 9, 2008
poco a poco
I almost got ripped off at the Guatemala – El Salvador border. After seeing 197 divided by 8 equal 12 on a moneychanger’s calculator, I handed over my Quetzales. But a Mayan mother figure standing nearby knew what was going on, scolded the men who had surrounded me as soon as I exited my bus, and then after getting my proper exchange she took my arm and gently scolded me to be more aware of my surroundings.
I felt sick to my stomach, physical pangs of anxiety for my own gullibility, in my next bus across the border, even though it was only 10 dollars I would have lost. Deep breaths, don’t let the accountants in my head scold or laugh at me too much, and move on to San Salvador. With risk necessarily comes loss, but also great possibility. Though I am not about to just hand over what I have at least partially earned, I must accept loss, even lies, theft, or violence, as a worthy tax for my grand privilege.
I want to tell you about the wars in Guatemala and El Salvador, and the rest of the South. I want to tell you about the atrocities that were committed by both the army and the gorillas, and about how much worse was the rape, torcher, and murder of the regular armies, and of U.S. culpability in supporting dictatorships in Latin America with arms and monies, or through direct CIA overthrow of democratically elected presidents, what Reagan called “limiting external aggression in Guatemala,”…of how ages of colonial legacy and “free market” policies (keep-things-as-they-are-policies) has produced a vastly stratified society of ladino and indigenous, lowland and highland, rich and poor, landowner and land worker, and how nicely these stratifications have benefited U.S. wealth.
But I am bitter towards many of you for not wanting to know, and the others don’t need to know any more. The facts I could supply are useless you wish not to know, or have a strong “American always has goodness in her motivations” information filter. Please forgive me for my negativity. I beg you to do your own research on the history of the United State’s relationship with Latin America, what the Monroe Doctrine first patronizingly suggested was “our backyard.” We affect them explicitly while they affect us only implicitly, being faceless and nameless to us, except to bear some of the pyramid at which we are near the top. For evidence of this pyramid, consider the price you pay for bananas vs. the labor that went into their collection, or consider the names of the countries in small letters on your relatively free T-shirts.
Reagan, however, was at least half right in his implications when he said that “a rising tide lifts all boats.”
I last posted here about a month ago. I went up into the hills of Guatemala to study Spanish, away from other tourists and English speakers. I lived in a village named “Todos Santos,” which in English means “All Saints.” The people here all wear the same clothing: red and white stripped pants and a straw hat for the men, and woven blue and purple blouses for the women. I think they like identifying themselves as Todos Santoas in order to distinguish themselves from the more modernized mixed-race Ladinos, and even from other Mayan villages.
And they have wonderful markets every Wednesday and Saturday…truly free markets, not what you were taught is a free market from the Chicago school of economics.
I am studying Spanish. It is much harder, but I am learning much faster then when I was in high school. I had a personal tutor in Todos Santos for three weeks, and I lived with a woman named “Rosa” and her three children. I lived across the road from her in her sister’s vacant house and I was awakened each morning by roosters. Rosa’s daughter “Grisalda” let the turkeys and chickens out each day, and when I eft my house in the morning the chicks all scattered around my feet. I joined Rosa’s family in a small house with walls and floor made out of mud for meals three times a day. We ate a lot of corn tortillas as well as eggs, beans, rice, and sometimes some strange Guatemalan vegetables that I had never heard of before. She spoke to me in Spanish quite a bit. I only understood about half of what she said, but I understood none of what she says to her children because they speak to one another in their indigenous language, which is called, “Mam.”
Rosa is missing her two front teeth, which makes her look 10 years older than her 37 years. Her two former husbands both left her for the same persuasive woman named “America.” The machismo of highland culture says that its not their responsibility to raise their children, but I had the privilege of learning in my three weeks with them that their former fathers are jilting themselves of their beautiful children.
America beckoned them, and they went, leaving all else behind. Even if they never cross the border, All Todos Santoans have been visited by her. Many send money back: Todos Santos has been transformed by American remissions. The houses are larger than they were 20 years ago, and general health and wellbeing has also likely been raised, if not only for the lack of war. Rosa’s family recently received a television as a gift, she put up an antennae, and they now watch the Simpsons in Spanish broadcast from down the valley in Mexico while they eat their meals. I warned Rosa’s oldest son Eric as best I could in Spanish before I left that while television can teach and entertain, it can also steal. The Coyotes of Todos Santos are well known; they have the best vehicles, because they make loads of money, because they know the routes and the contacts to the states, because there are always people who want to go. Most people here believe it is their right to try to cross into the states illegally if they so desire, because borders are only for the rich and powerful.
I am in San Salvador, El Salvador now, at the sister parish of St. Thomas Moore. I’ve been making house calls with Padre Luis in this barrio of San Salvador, a former garbage-dump turned neighborhood. Paintings of Oscar Romera, a liberation theologist and Catholic bishop who was assassinated in 1980, are everywhere.
I'm having a grand time, though home is often on my mind:
Thanks for reading!
I felt sick to my stomach, physical pangs of anxiety for my own gullibility, in my next bus across the border, even though it was only 10 dollars I would have lost. Deep breaths, don’t let the accountants in my head scold or laugh at me too much, and move on to San Salvador. With risk necessarily comes loss, but also great possibility. Though I am not about to just hand over what I have at least partially earned, I must accept loss, even lies, theft, or violence, as a worthy tax for my grand privilege.
I want to tell you about the wars in Guatemala and El Salvador, and the rest of the South. I want to tell you about the atrocities that were committed by both the army and the gorillas, and about how much worse was the rape, torcher, and murder of the regular armies, and of U.S. culpability in supporting dictatorships in Latin America with arms and monies, or through direct CIA overthrow of democratically elected presidents, what Reagan called “limiting external aggression in Guatemala,”…of how ages of colonial legacy and “free market” policies (keep-things-as-they-are-policies) has produced a vastly stratified society of ladino and indigenous, lowland and highland, rich and poor, landowner and land worker, and how nicely these stratifications have benefited U.S. wealth.
But I am bitter towards many of you for not wanting to know, and the others don’t need to know any more. The facts I could supply are useless you wish not to know, or have a strong “American always has goodness in her motivations” information filter. Please forgive me for my negativity. I beg you to do your own research on the history of the United State’s relationship with Latin America, what the Monroe Doctrine first patronizingly suggested was “our backyard.” We affect them explicitly while they affect us only implicitly, being faceless and nameless to us, except to bear some of the pyramid at which we are near the top. For evidence of this pyramid, consider the price you pay for bananas vs. the labor that went into their collection, or consider the names of the countries in small letters on your relatively free T-shirts.
Reagan, however, was at least half right in his implications when he said that “a rising tide lifts all boats.”
I last posted here about a month ago. I went up into the hills of Guatemala to study Spanish, away from other tourists and English speakers. I lived in a village named “Todos Santos,” which in English means “All Saints.” The people here all wear the same clothing: red and white stripped pants and a straw hat for the men, and woven blue and purple blouses for the women. I think they like identifying themselves as Todos Santoas in order to distinguish themselves from the more modernized mixed-race Ladinos, and even from other Mayan villages.
And they have wonderful markets every Wednesday and Saturday…truly free markets, not what you were taught is a free market from the Chicago school of economics.
I am studying Spanish. It is much harder, but I am learning much faster then when I was in high school. I had a personal tutor in Todos Santos for three weeks, and I lived with a woman named “Rosa” and her three children. I lived across the road from her in her sister’s vacant house and I was awakened each morning by roosters. Rosa’s daughter “Grisalda” let the turkeys and chickens out each day, and when I eft my house in the morning the chicks all scattered around my feet. I joined Rosa’s family in a small house with walls and floor made out of mud for meals three times a day. We ate a lot of corn tortillas as well as eggs, beans, rice, and sometimes some strange Guatemalan vegetables that I had never heard of before. She spoke to me in Spanish quite a bit. I only understood about half of what she said, but I understood none of what she says to her children because they speak to one another in their indigenous language, which is called, “Mam.”
Rosa is missing her two front teeth, which makes her look 10 years older than her 37 years. Her two former husbands both left her for the same persuasive woman named “America.” The machismo of highland culture says that its not their responsibility to raise their children, but I had the privilege of learning in my three weeks with them that their former fathers are jilting themselves of their beautiful children.
America beckoned them, and they went, leaving all else behind. Even if they never cross the border, All Todos Santoans have been visited by her. Many send money back: Todos Santos has been transformed by American remissions. The houses are larger than they were 20 years ago, and general health and wellbeing has also likely been raised, if not only for the lack of war. Rosa’s family recently received a television as a gift, she put up an antennae, and they now watch the Simpsons in Spanish broadcast from down the valley in Mexico while they eat their meals. I warned Rosa’s oldest son Eric as best I could in Spanish before I left that while television can teach and entertain, it can also steal. The Coyotes of Todos Santos are well known; they have the best vehicles, because they make loads of money, because they know the routes and the contacts to the states, because there are always people who want to go. Most people here believe it is their right to try to cross into the states illegally if they so desire, because borders are only for the rich and powerful.
I am in San Salvador, El Salvador now, at the sister parish of St. Thomas Moore. I’ve been making house calls with Padre Luis in this barrio of San Salvador, a former garbage-dump turned neighborhood. Paintings of Oscar Romera, a liberation theologist and Catholic bishop who was assassinated in 1980, are everywhere.
I'm having a grand time, though home is often on my mind:
Thanks for reading!
Monday, October 6, 2008
Co-creation
This trip has its roots in tragedy.
During the spring of 2006, my mother and I drove to the Mississippi coast to help with the refurbishing of people’s homes that had been flooded by the hurricane. It was a moving experience for me. My own personal needs dissipated and all that remained was action for the benefit of a community. But there was something odd for me about all of us Americans who painted walls and pulled down ruined drywall and raked leaves that week for middle class strangers in the south. The last time I had gone on a mission such as that one was in Honduras in ’98. The people were so poor that I did not even understand them, or myself among them. They were overjoyed at toothbrushes, and accepted a pittance for beautiful giant handmade wicker baskets and were grateful as we pulled their rotten teeth out and gave them acetaminophen for their headaches. In Biloxi, Mississippi, I was reminded of the struggles of the South.
Here’s the surface list of goals I have for this trip for those in a rush:
1) I want to become comfortable speaking Spanish.
2) I want to travel among the peoples of Central and South America via bus and boat rather than over them in an airplane.
3) I want to report on the under reported political events taking place currently in Paraguay.
So why Paraguay and why not just hop on an airplane and what is the purpose of all this? Am I not just avoiding my true responsibilities and dreams back home, or am I just a spoiled kid who doesn’t know how to properly take care of himself, or am I just on a massive messianic ego trip as I think that this travelling has any real purpose other than self-pleasure? These are considerations that I cannot refute outright, as I believe they do play parts, albeit negatively, in creating my image and identity.
During the spring of 2006, my mother and I drove to the Mississippi coast to help with the refurbishing of people’s homes that had been flooded by the hurricane. It was a moving experience for me. My own personal needs dissipated and all that remained was action for the benefit of a community. But there was something odd for me about all of us Americans who painted walls and pulled down ruined drywall and raked leaves that week for middle class strangers in the south. The last time I had gone on a mission such as that one was in Honduras in ’98. The people were so poor that I did not even understand them, or myself among them. They were overjoyed at toothbrushes, and accepted a pittance for beautiful giant handmade wicker baskets and were grateful as we pulled their rotten teeth out and gave them acetaminophen for their headaches. In Biloxi, Mississippi, I was reminded of the struggles of the South.
Here’s the surface list of goals I have for this trip for those in a rush:
1) I want to become comfortable speaking Spanish.
2) I want to travel among the peoples of Central and South America via bus and boat rather than over them in an airplane.
3) I want to report on the under reported political events taking place currently in Paraguay.
So why Paraguay and why not just hop on an airplane and what is the purpose of all this? Am I not just avoiding my true responsibilities and dreams back home, or am I just a spoiled kid who doesn’t know how to properly take care of himself, or am I just on a massive messianic ego trip as I think that this travelling has any real purpose other than self-pleasure? These are considerations that I cannot refute outright, as I believe they do play parts, albeit negatively, in creating my image and identity.
I want to have a good home in my home of Michigan, and a good companion, and children if God is kind enough to bless me with them. I want to help build a healthy community that is fully aware of itself and its place in the world. I want to contribute to that community by doing or making something that is valuable, and is something that I enjoy. These desires are not so strange.
But sometimes drastic times, and drastic tragedy, call for drastic measures.
“I’ve put this off for far too long,” said Bilbo under his breath to Gandolf.
“I’ve put this off for far too long,” said Bilbo under his breath to Gandolf.
I have habits that I need to confront, quite personal ones, but I also wish to challenge my loved ones and my nation to confront habits of their own.
What does traveling to Paraguay have to do with habituation?
Habits are not substantially different from addictions in that they are both actions performed repeatedly without awareness. By awareness, I am not just referring to our ability to analytically describe a sequence of events, but rather total-human-awareness, of our relationship to our loved ones, our global family and environment, our ancestors, and also our children. In this understanding, habit/addiction could be anything from tapping one’s foot all the time, or driving in a car every day, or shooting heroine.
I think that as a society we have isolated addiction to include only specific behaviors that we find detestable and particularly difficult to deal with. Perhaps this isolation has occurred so as to limit our collective responsibility for each other: there’s us, the non-addicted, and there’s you, the addicted. Psychologists and pharmaceutical companies would certainly find this isolation in their best monetary interests. But a broader, interdependent-based understanding of addiction could teach us to come to terms with all types of character and community flaws.
Psychologists say that people have to want to change in order to change. My mother once told me that no one can force a person to become angry. The Vatican “Magisterium,” the collective ideological government of the Catholic Faith, is famous for maintaining that individual repentance and a personal relationship with Jesus, and certainly not political movements, are the only forces available for worldwide transcendence and salvation. In America, rugged individualistic willpower is the ideal force that we are encouraged to find in ourselves and that we are encouraged to grow in others.
None of these ideas are honest with themselves. They are philosophical snakes that swallow their own tail while believing that that tail belongs to someone else.
Why do psychologists explore people’s personal histories if personal motivation is the primary influence on behavior? Why does the Vatican distribute a dogmatic catechism to its billion plus member collective if individual repentance is the only path to salvation? My response to my Mother’s “You are solely responsible for your own anger” was to strike her mockingly on the back of the head, to which she replied with a slightly angry voice, “Ow, what’d you do that for?!?” Who was more responsible for her anger? Why do companies pay so much money for advertisements if everyone says they don’t pay attention to them? And why do we attempt to persuade others if we truly believe that free will always trumps outside influence?
Each of us is a negotiation between our own willpower and the outside forces that influence us. We’re co-creators of each other...not entirely responsible for the other's behavior, but not completely off the hook, either.
We have free choice and we also have things that we cannot control, even within our own minds, and sometimes even when we believe we are acting freely. This is not a new or radical idea, and on the surface, it is even a boring idea because it is so obvious. In the sine wave of life, freedom and influence play a game of catch with each other. How does it help us if we take sides over which action is more important, the catch or the throw? 
But we are heavily invested in so many different varieties of our identities, our perceptions of who we are and how the world works. Out attachments to the specifics of which parts of our minds and our world are free, and which parts are not free, our habits of perception if you will…they are not so boring, and they are quite often tragic. I am a good or bad or happy or sad person, this is a free or an oppressed nation, I am an addict or a non-addict, etc. Perhaps the Judeo-Christian encouragement that we are fallen creatures is not intended to convince us that we are bad creatures, but that only through climbing can we become fully aware of who we are.
But we are heavily invested in so many different varieties of our identities, our perceptions of who we are and how the world works. Out attachments to the specifics of which parts of our minds and our world are free, and which parts are not free, our habits of perception if you will…they are not so boring, and they are quite often tragic. I am a good or bad or happy or sad person, this is a free or an oppressed nation, I am an addict or a non-addict, etc. Perhaps the Judeo-Christian encouragement that we are fallen creatures is not intended to convince us that we are bad creatures, but that only through climbing can we become fully aware of who we are.
In this context, I travel overland to Asúncion, Paraguay.
My primary goal is to confront my personal, community, and national co-created habits. Specifically, intoxication, inattention, and non-confidence are the habits which most negatively affect my individual character, while convenience, avoidance, anger, and isolation are the negative habits I see in both me and the communities in which I live.
Travel is the exercise that can help me transform flabby muscles of habit into strong muscles of awareness. Like physical exercise, the discomfort of travel should shock me, and hopefully us, into growth.
I will be participating in cultures as much as possible between Michigan and my final destination in ways that are profoundly different than if I were to fly above them. The underclasses of the South are authentic in many ways that we are not. They live closer to death, because they choose to, but also because we encourage them to. I hear that the elites of Nicaragua eat at Kentucky Friend Chicken in order to distinguish themselves from the poor. But they also have true markets where the negotiation between buyer and seller is not divided by algorithms, marketing campaigns, and stock brokers.
My overland travel is also a form of status-quo disobedience, a protest against and communication about the negative social and environmental consequences of elite forms of consumption. When we separate ourselves from others in our daily lives from specific segments of our human family because we find them uncomfortable, we are setting up boundaries of non-awareness and distrust that inevitably lead to non-understanding, anger, and pain. When we refuse to even consider environmental consequences of particular actions because we cannot even fathom living without a particular convenience, then it becomes time for radical action to shed some light on our lack of awareness.
Learning Spanish is a personal goal I have for this trip because of how it will help me practically to communicate with others, but also because I believe it is a discipline that can help me confront my cat-like attention span can help transform my ability to listen. It is so hard for me, and it is so different from other forms of learning I am used to. My entire self, not just my intellect, must become concentration when I listen to others in a language which is not yet my own.
Paraguay became my final geographical destination after Fernando Lugo was elected President of that country last Spring. He was inaugurated on August 15 of this year. The political party he brings with him replaces the Colorado Party who was in control of Paraguay for 61 years, formerly the longest single active party consolidation of power on the planet. It was also the first democratic transition of party power in the history of that country.
Lugo is a former Catholic Bishop, nicknamed “The Bishop of the Poor,” who is has studied and promotes Liberation Theology. This is a viewpoint of Catholicism that originated in Latin America which supports collective and political action, in addition to personal individual faith, to more fully realize the teachings of Jesus Christ. Liberation Theology has a particular focus on Latin American poor, and recognizes the social and economic structures, even within Christianity itself, that have historically lead to oppression of their physical, social, and spiritual health. Pope John Paul II and his top-advisor-now-Pope Benedict were in the past been ardent discouragers of this form of theology, but there are some indications that the current Vatican Magisterium is willing to find at least some common ground with those who support it.
My intuition tells me that Lugo’s election is a unique opportunity for his country and for the rest of the world as well. I hope to observe and learn about his new government, and to present those observations to the rest of the world for their consideration.
How far should one go in the attempt to change one’s self and to influence others? Learning and teaching are both gambles: it is possible that effort given will have no affect, or could even backfire and have opposite affects. I am taking a gamble with this trip. I am risking my money, my time, my reputation, and perhaps even my life in order to learn, and in order to teach.
I challenge you to take part in this gamble with me. I challenge you to see the ambiguity in your lives and be comfortable with it. You are beautiful, and you are ugly, you are intelligent, and you are an idiot, so get used to it! I challenge you to become honestly aware of all that motivates you, both small and great, and envelop that awareness with the understanding that most people are probably trying to do the best they can, just like you are. I challenge you to listen closely to those who are your ideological enemies, and to hold the anger that you may find in that listening like a mother holds her wailing baby in her arms.
My teacher Thich Nhat Hanh says that the smelliest compost produces the most beautiful roses. I think then that our strongest habits, our greatest tragedies, once transformed, could become our greatest strengths both for ourselves and for others.
One last thing. I think that perhaps one single addiction, one thing that we do repeatedly that is beyond our awareness, is okay, healthy, and even essential. Descarte’s addiction was “I think, therefore I am.” He put it in writing, put lots of wordy defenses around it, and his understanding was transformed from awareness into faith. But that’s just too analytical for me and is unable to grip my entire being. Many the world over recognize a supreme being, often referred to as “he” in ancient texts. Some, like the Buddhists, have faith in ancient methods rather than personified icons, some to a humanist “we should be good to each other,” and others to a refutation of one or all of these. My personal faith that I will never give up, that I will never lose, is “love can grow.” Call me a blasphemist Catholic, but this is my understanding of God. Feel free to share it!
Friday, September 26, 2008
this summer
June 1st was my initial departure date from Battle Creek, MI. I had been planning on hitching with my Dog Brady, but while I was packing I decided to try and simultaneously make stove-top popcorn. My first mistake was being scatterbrained and trying to rush. My second mistake was leaving the kitchen and letting the oil catch on fire. My third mistake was not using the extinguisher that was right next to it, trying to take the pan outside, and spilling 500 degree oil onto the back of my right index finger and hand. Sounds painful, right? It wasn't, because I boiled the nerves endings away, hence no pain, but some grisly looking skin.
So I had to take the Jetta after a week of burn clinic and doctor office visits and finally deciding that I probably didn't need to get a skin graft. I worked at Keystone Science School in Summit County, Colorado this summer. Wonderful place, wonderful kids, wonderful staff...it renewed my faith in camp. Ask me about it if you are interested.
I left Colorado on August the 10th. Salt Lake City was my first stop, where I toured Mormonism and tasted the first discomforts of freedom of life on the road by sleeping in my car. The missionary I spoke to the next day told me that they believe in God’s creation, although God’s words are not our words, and God’s time is not our time.
About an hour outside Boise I picked up Tim. Tim lost his license to drive about a year ago for multiple drunk driving charges. He had always been a drinker. But he said that something clicked for him when they finally took his license away. He knew that something was up. He began attending AA, and hated every minute of it, but knew he had to go because it was healthy for him. He’d been sober for 6 months. When he left, he handed me his three-month sobriety coin, I think because he knew I needed it more than him.
In Boise, Abby and I danced around the affection of old and new friendship, and floated down the river in laughter. Hitchhiking is definitely easier with a woman.
Seattle was a return to Michigan. Blake and Paddy and Jenny and I played video games, and reminisced about our old high school days not by talking about them, but by recreating them for just a few short days.
I met Big Happy Chris with Blake down in Corvalis, Oregon, and had dinner with Leanne in Portland.
About an hour outside Boise I picked up Tim. Tim lost his license to drive about a year ago for multiple drunk driving charges. He had always been a drinker. But he said that something clicked for him when they finally took his license away. He knew that something was up. He began attending AA, and hated every minute of it, but knew he had to go because it was healthy for him. He’d been sober for 6 months. When he left, he handed me his three-month sobriety coin, I think because he knew I needed it more than him.
In Boise, Abby and I danced around the affection of old and new friendship, and floated down the river in laughter. Hitchhiking is definitely easier with a woman.
Seattle was a return to Michigan. Blake and Paddy and Jenny and I played video games, and reminisced about our old high school days not by talking about them, but by recreating them for just a few short days.
I met Big Happy Chris with Blake down in Corvalis, Oregon, and had dinner with Leanne in Portland.
I dropped by K-9 companion of four years, Brady Boy, off on an organic farm in Northern California. I had been preparing to take him with me south of the border and tough through the red tape, but the pavement and the dangers he would have gone through convinced me that the woods and the vineyards and his new temporary master fit him too well for me to pass up. Thanks Jack and Jono.
In San Francisco, I met Jake's friend Gail for breakfast and a good chat about Big Mind meditation, among other things. Istayed with Jonny Wheeler, whom I had not seen in a few years. We climbed a mountain overlooking the entire bay, got paranoid about shadow-mountain lions, and on the way down the mountain, because he asked, I told him the biblical story of the Jews and the Arabs from Abraham to Moses. He was right, too, when he corrected me about Ishmael being born before Issac.
There were no tickets to be had for the Radiohead concert in Santa Barbara, despite two hours of waiting with likeminded lastminute ticketwishers.
My Korean, Khazakstanian, Russian-Speaking, Newly Married, Twins-on-the-way-and-how-the-hell-can-he-prepare-for-that, former high school exchange student, and good friend invited me to stay at his very nice condo north of L.A. Yuri, thanks for the good conversations.
I kicked my niece out of her own bed for a week in Oceanside before moving into my tenting hammock. During the first beer I drank with my bro Matthew in three years, I told him I was giving him my diesel-powered Jetta for a year, and asked him if he could drop me off at the Mexican border in a few weeks. I think he was a bit astounded, but he agreed.
I got to know his two beautiful and well-raised children, Reese Shelby, and Matthew Henrick, and I learned how to be comfortable both loving and provoking my sister-in-law at the same time. Thank you, Kalifornia Kunitzers, for welcoming me into your nucleus for a short while. I know you yearn for snowy mountains and traffickless roads to plow, but I hope you can find the contentedness and the possibilities right around you, even if they don’t know how to drive, and even if they do put bedrooms in their garages.
Matt, Lisa, Reese, and Matthew dropped me off at the Tiajuana border on September 14, and I walked South with my pack on my back through the unguarded, lineless, one way turnstile into Latin America.
More soon.
Tuesday, September 16, 2008
El Primero
¡Hola! Hoy está la día de la indepencia de la pais de México. My Spanish, is terrible, lo siento, pero thats partly why I am here.
Today is Independence Day for Mexico and all of Central America. How did I chance to arrive in Guadalajara on this day?
The parade I saw with thousands this morning was a grand display of military, police, and civil power, complete with ammunitions, riot control squads, and youth indoctrination brigades. The civil protectors, such as the ¨bombaderos¨ firefighters and the ¨cruz rojo¨ medical services were also present, and these received the largest applauds from the crowds.
But the firetrucks never whooped and the man upon horseback at the end of the procession who was likely the mayor of Guadalajara never even waved to the crowd. The parade audience was also subdued, sometimes looking as stern as the hardened faces marching past them. Though I saw few smiles, even from the children, the attention of all present on the procession never waivered.
All of us witnessed a great a specticle, and I personally was greatly entertained. But why did the audience have such reverence for those who use physical force to uphold the security interests of the State? Is it because they are thankful for the protection? Or perhaps they are showing their support and admiration for the men and women who choose to serve? What about negative emotions such as fear and deference to such great ability to use violence...were those attitudes present, perhaps subconsciously
All of the above, I think. But as a citizen of a foreign country and culture, I was likely one of a tiny minority who was confused at how to feel about what we saw before us.
...more to come, including some who what why where when and how.
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