Beyond Prodigal

30

2010-08-31T08:40:00.002-04:00

Happy Birthday Danny!

2010-08-10T18:47:00.002-04:00

...not everyone could appreciate this photo, Danny, but I think you might. As an added bonus, you might be interested to know that the building in the background was built in the shape of a classical guitar. Woo hoo...one year in which we get to share being in our 30's!

Happy Birthday Matt!

2010-07-26T17:25:00.009-04:00

Cars of Capilla - pick any one you want!

A response to Authority Issues

2010-01-30T22:17:00.005-05:00

This post is written in response to Jacob Houser's blogpost at this link: http://fakingdrunk.blogspot.com/2010/01/authority-issues.html

Jacob Houser: "What I realized is that with most people there is a cognitive distance established between authority figures and their own lives."

I am most certainly guilty as charged:

But then in in reflecting upon your other thought that "it actually upsets their notions of these celebrities/authorities existing in the same plane of reality as us every day folk," I believe that this would not be true for myself, and has not been in my few interactions with celebrities in the past. My own motivation for not speaking to power is something more akin to "when I am ready, then I will contribute."...which of course will never happen. Which is why I am posting this haphazard spontaneous email on my own neglected blog right now.

Marianne Williamson's quote, "Our greatest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure" comes to mind.

...though I've also written to a few famous folks in my time and not received replies, so Jacob, you must be doing something right besides just having the will to communicate.

Jacob Houser: "...elevating certain authorities into places of god-like inaccessibility is incredibly convenient for authorities and incredibly destructive for everyone else."

You are definitely on to something. But notice that you didn't use opposites of "convenient-inconvenient" or "creative-destructive" in characterizing these authority-subservient relationships. While it might, on the surface, be convenient for Chomsky to be on an intellectual pedestal, in the long run his work likely suffers from lack of whole-world rigor. You made him better, and it appears from his willingness to engage you that he understands his own predicament.

Obama didn't invent the presidency, and it certainly doesn't look like he's going to reinvent it. So while it might be true that he has greater access to power, it doesn't appear that he has the "power" to convince us to kick his own ass, which he desperately needs us to do in order to make his presidency worthwhile.

To the youth and young-at heart of Battle Creek:

2009-03-15T09:36:00.006-04:00

I write to you, in hope and pride for our hometown, from Bolivia in South America.

La Paz, Bolivia

With only a passport, backpack, and debit card, I am traveling over land and sea to Asunción, Paraguay, to explore the other American cultures with whom we share these American continents.

On Day of the Dead in Guatemala, I watched families wail to their deceased loved ones and ancestors. At a market in Ecuador, women wearing round bowler caps and pink-patterned shawls bartered over the prices of guinea pigs that they would later grill for dinner. In Potosí, Bolivia, I spoke to silver miners, as young as 13, who chew coca leaves to stay awake for their long shifts beneath the mountain. (Evo Morales, the president of Bolivia, wrote an interesting Op-Ed in the New York Times about coca chewing:

http://www.nytimes.com/2009/03/14/opinion/14morales.html?em )

Miners chewing coca leaves

As a whole, I have found that foreign people and places are generally much more kind, happy, and trustworthy than many of us believe.

There is also much anger, pain, and injustice. A great teacher once taught me that we should ignore neither the beauty nor the suffering of our world, but that often we need an abundance of beauty in order to be able to help bear and alleviate the suffering of others.

Youth in Battle Creek used to tell me quite often me how Battle Creek “sucks,” how there is nothing to do, and how Elsewhere is so much better. Sure, there are thrills out here. The dormitory-style hostel where I stayed a few months ago offered an excursion to climb and “surf” down a nearby volcano. There is a toucan, slightly less colorful than in the Kellogg’s Fruit Loops commercials of yesteryear, bobbing his head in a palm tree next to the hammock in which I am currently typing. Museums, beaches, dance clubs, and tours of the jungle are all just short bus-rides away.

Thrills, however, eventually lose their charm, and most travelers look for good company as the most fulfilling part of their journey.

There is certainly good company to be found in B.C, and much else to enjoy about our home. I miss my friends and family, and the intimacy of our small population and common heritage. I miss the lakes and rivers of Southwest Michigan, and the soft, rolling, grassy (or snowy) hills which are so different from the jungles, deserts and mountains through which I am currently traveling.

A significant number of youth in Battle Creek drink alcohol and smoke marijuana as an escape from regularity; some have psychological or social addictions to these escapes. Adolescents have rebellion in their blood while attempting to both understand and remake our world at the same time. This is normal and healthy for all of us. But too often this rebellion is influenced by forces beyond the ability of young people to understand (and many older people, too, come to think of it.) If I tell you not to drink or smoke, you’ll probably just think I’m uncool. Perhaps you can hear me, however, a distant voice speaking to B.C. from far away, if I implore you to ask yourself, “Where do my desires truly come from?” and “What truly makes something cool or uncool?”

Although I think it is mostly healthy, even traveling is a form of escape. I get to examine and sometimes participate in cultures as an outsider, but I never really have to share their burdens of cutting firewood or selling potatoes at the market all day long for a profit equivalent to a mere 4 dollars. I get to decide my own schedule. And I always have the ability to move on and experience a variety of living that the locals will never know.

My return home will be the most important part of my journey.

Since I walked across the border into Tiajuana, Mexico over five months ago, we have elected and inaugurated a new president, one who might think and even look more like you do than his predecessor. Fine; if you happen to feel this way, enjoy your new relationship with executive power. But also know that President Obama is a symbol of potential change, and not the actual change itself. Often in the past, citizens have needed to push politicians to write into law the changes that we most need. The real change must come from us.

What do you wish for our hometown? What do you wish for yourself? Make it so. If you feel trapped, dig deeper. If there is something you are frustrated with, get to the bottom of it rather than choosing the comfortable escape of apathy.

The economy is tanking, and the joblessness rate is increasing. Many will tuck tail and leave for other places where the numbers are more appealing; they should be neither lamented nor envied, for each must ultimately discover his or her own path.

However, we have intimate knowledge of our home, and that knowledge calls for our responsibility and action right where we live. I personally do not know what to do to help the homeless here in Bolivia who spend their days with palms outstretched begging for a few pesos; their lives are too distant for me, and the causes of their sufferings are too complicated for me to deeply understand. But we do know Battle Creek, and we know some of the things that she needs and can give back to the world.

It should be easy for exotic Elsewheres to maintain their sophisticated appeal for simpler folk. We do not need to escape to them, except perhaps for a roundtrip journey. If we decide our own definitions of “cool,” we are investing in our own reality. If we grow strong at home, we can be an example for other places to follow. Our participation in the growth of Battle Creek, our simple yet beautiful home, is a part of our lives of which we can all be proud.

Joseph Rae Kunitzer is an independent journalist and world traveler who hopes to one day teach social studies at Battle Creek Central. He maintains a blog of his thoughts at beyondprodigal.blogspot.com, and can be contacted at josephkunitzer@gmail.com.

This entry, and comments on it, can also be found at http://www.battlecreekenquirer.com/article/20090315/OPINION02/903150305/1014/OPINION
until March 22.

Modern Guilt

2009-02-02T14:00:00.002-05:00

“don’t know what I’ve done but I feel ashamed.” –Beck

Machu Pichu, February 2009?

“Where did you buy this? This is a good product,” Moses said of the insect repellent that rolled onto my dorm-room bed as I looked for something else. “It’s made it Israel.”
“It is? Nooo” Sure enough, at the bottom of the label his assertion was confirmed. “I shouldn’t have bought it,” I said with a grin, confronting his political heritage and the limits of his humor. Like me, Moses was a backpacker. And like many of his backpacking compatriots, Moses had just finished his three years of service in the regular Israeli Armed Forces

“Why not?” he asked seriously.

“Because I believe I should support financial disinvestment from your country.”

“Why is that?”

“I think you could probably figure that out without me going into too much detail.”

“Ah, but who is starting these troubles”

“Not just yet, my friend. We will have time for that, but right now we should get something to eat.”

Should.
I should get a real job. You should go on a diet. I should enjoy my visit Machu Pichu. You should take care of your loved ones.

This word “should” has almost as many confusing meanings as the words “love” and “freedom.”

I am a moralist. The strongest roots of my character urge me to reconstruct the world into certain eternally desired forms, asked for by God, by nature, and by greater social and material efficiency. I grew up with a strong sense of the difference between a good person and a bad person. I knew who the baddies and the goodies were, and though I knew I had to pretend that I was a goodie, in private I was a mess of self-criticism and self-praise.

When I learned of the historical tendency of Irish families to encourage the youngest son to enter the priesthood, my psychological history made more sense to me…not that they always encouraged me consciously.

For the plank in my eye, I give you the courtesy of self-focus, chancing the criticism of being egotistical:

My dualistic morality broke down when I began to contemplate the varieties of human perception during high school. My grey-bearded God disappeared, and replaced herself with mystery. The parables of Jesus gradually came into focus as being more intentionally blurry than I had originally understood. Especially those about judgment.

People should lessen their anger.
My Uncle Mike and my father should learn how to learn from each other.
Americans should be more aware of the world outside of their borders.
People shouldn’t hate each other.
I should not have so many should; this is the one that finally stumped me.
Therefore,
Turn on the television.
Have another beer.
Leave the country.

I went for a horseback ride into Ecuadorian mountains with two American women and our pony tailed, mestizo-skinned guide. My horse, “Apache,” wanted to do nothing but run, and when I released him during open spaces for a full gallop, I knew nothing but equine urge and repeated momentary flight.

The “should” returned, and since the most recent war on Gaza, it returns with more frequency. But this is absurd. What does Gaza have to do with going horseback riding in Ecuador?

Much, though if I don’t speak of the connections attractively, I’ll lose you, along with my own good humor.

“Joey, you’ve got to clam down, stop questioning everything. If you had kids, you’d give yourself a heart attack,” my bro Matt said to me as I analyzed the Republican National Convention this past September. He and many of my closest friends, however, have learned to be patient with my anti-party nature, what they call Debbie Downer, Cynical Sue, and Sad Sally. (What’s with the misogyny here, guys?”) I think they understand what I’m after, and will often even accompany me into the woods.

In Ecuador’s Bolivar Province, in the central highlands, I toured up to a small village named Solinas to learn about their unique cooperative enterprise system. From there, I wanted to go to Echandia for my research on Lugo. My map showed roads between these two towns, but the locals said they were little more than walking paths until the in-between town of Chazo Juan. “Muuy lejos,” very far to travel on foot. “I think you will like the truck ride the long way around. It is very beautiful,” a local tour guide advised me.

So of course I ignored him and walked uphill for an hour before turning down what looked like could have been the path.

The books on Spanish and Liberation Theology in my backpack screamed their absurdity at me, reasoning that as an academic I turn around and take the more sensible, gasoline enabled route through the mountains. But each time that I came upon locals who asked me where I was going, before responding “oooo, muy lejos!” my masochistic, approval-seeking, adventurous urges drove me further.

The rain was continually variable. I came to a small village after three hours of walking downhill on a decent road of gravel. The locals pointed me in the right direction. “Isn’t it more dangerous heading down this path while its raining?” I asked. “Yes, but its more direct.” The path was a muddy slip-and-slide made more exciting by the effects of the donkeys who had helped create it.

I found two sticks for my hands, in order to assist my historically painful knees. One snapped after an hour of use. I cursed it and threw the remaining bit aside. I found a stiff bamboo pole to compliment the longer and springier deciduous stick I would switch to whichever arm was on the downhill side. But the slope, combined with the behind-center weight of my pack, also demanded that my bottom be of assistance in the decent.

The pain in my knees brought me back to my high school football days; I had earned that pain many years before during cornerback drills with Marc Pessetti. I wonder what J.P. Bauman and Kevin Hirzel are doing these days?

I got a little lost. In a misty high-Andean meadow the trail disappeared amidst a wide grass-stream. I approached a stick-shack-house, but kept my distance when I noticed an old woman inside grab her shotgun posted against the doorframe.
“Forgive me, mam, but I’m a little lost. Could you tell me where the trail is to the next town?” I asked.
“Arriba!” she answered. Up.
“But I want to go to the town down in the valley.”
“Abajo.” Down.
“Muchas Gracias, Señora.”

Eventually I found the trail, winding forever back and forth and downwards, me comparing my height for hours to the impossibly tall waterfall across the valley.
I wasn’t going to make it to Chazo Juan before nightfall.

Two thirds to the bottom, another shack. No one home. Very musty, and contained some interesting putrefying contents which I threw out, but it added a bit more shelter from the rain for my tenting hammock. After changing into dry clothes for the night, I ate a dinner: a can of sardines I had purchased back in Panamá, mixed with a bit of raw oatmeal. You’re probably cringing up in the Great White North at the thought of such a meal, but you have no idea how good that combo nourished and filled me after a full day of trekking.

I woke at dawn, always around 6 a.m. for equatorial dwellers, and pulled my soaked mud-jeans back on. There was a tiny cockroach in my backpack, which I had left open to allow some air drying. I looked deeper, and found that hundreds of them had set up a transport colony at the very bottom, so I went through the eviction process.

After several hours crossing streams and walking through jungle, I met an old farmer man heading in the opposite direction. We chatted for a bit, and before we went our separate ways, he patted me gently on the back, smiling knowingly about my difficult hike down the mountain. I will never know his life, but he told me with his touch that for that instant, we were not much different from the other.

When I finally walked into Chazo Juan, there was a bus about to leave for Echeandia half an hour away. Such a ride was surreal with ease in the state of mind I was in at the time.

I bought three rolls of wheat bread for 30 cents. Sublime taste and texture. Quite a few of the locals were staring at me: old men lounging in storefronts, young girls being dragged to the other side of town by their mothers. I was muddy, though mostly dry, from my slip & slide the day before.

The stares felt good.

My cousin Ben asked for more pictures and more stories, for his own selfish interests, because he gets “mega-enjoyment” from them. I am truly flattered, Ben. But there are many other bloggers out here like me. Descriptions and millions of photographs of their daily lives in South America or Elsewhere are within easy google-reach. So why are you here reading my particular words and looking at my particular photographs? Why does the likely fact that you know me make my words and photos more worthy to consider?

I have my small stage with you here. The exotic draw of a 30,000 mile journey gives me some leverage to ask people to consider my reflections: (The most dramatic difference I have noticed between Peru and Ecuador is the Peruvian use of three-wheeled motorized taxis. They are everywhere, buzzing around the cities like in Mad Max. I’m curious which delivers superior air quality: thousands of tiny two strokes, or hundreds of gigantic diesels?)

So enjoy with me. But also, please join me in an even thicker woods:

As I type this, I should be watching the scenery passing by that I will never pass again. As I watch the scenery, I am missing the chance for a conversation with the young man sitting next to me whom I will never meet again. As I talk to the young man, I should have studied more of my Spanish vocabulary yesterday. As I study my vocab, I should be finishing a blog post. As I finish the blog, I should be watching the scenery passing by which will never pass again.

My older brother Danny asked me a while back, “How do you decide when to move to a new place?” Like the Vatican Catechism, I can’t pin it down, though when it’s sufficiently enjoyable, I will have fun trying to do so.

I apologize for my over-analization, my seriousness, my “present thoughts and future endeavors to clear my name,” in the words of Sage Francis. But not really. You know I’m only trying to impress you. I am only looking out for my own best interests, and as a good friend once rebuked me at one of my more blatant pretenses towards self-sacrifice: “Bogus f---ing altruism. Spare me your Catholic Guilt Trip. At best this is a mutually beneficial situation wherein you get what you desire and it has a proportional corollary effect on me!”

Even this sentence is attempting to rise above, to be better, to be self-deprecating for the purpose of trying to escape ultimate deprecation, and for convincing you that despite my publicly over-introspective nature, I really do have it together and you really should admire me. I am no less biting my own tail than the institutions I implicated several months ago in my writings about co-creation.

Do you see the tail-biting, disguised as other-biting? Do you see the layers of self-awareness and self-declaration, which both deceive and reveal at the same time? Do you see the descending spiral-like form of action-killing rationality? Do you ever see it in yourselves as well as in me? Because that’s what I am really after, as I’m sure you can tell without me even saying so.

Certainly my characterization of double-bind, asshole-if-we-do, lazy-if we-don’t choices and attitudes is at first glance cynical and unsolvable. Many have urged me not to consider such things, or at least to only look to Lincoln’s “better angels,” not to be so rude in publicly speaking about our flirtations with the Dark Side of the Force.

“Where were you stationed?” I began. I was no longer talking to Moses, I was talking to his training.

“In Gaza.”

After their 18th birthday, all Israelis serve in the regular army: two years for females, three for males. Until they are 43 years of age, all Israeli men are reservists, meaning they have regular training and can be called into active duty at any time.

They are trained to defend their country, with weapons and with words.

As some of you already know, I volunteered in the West Bank of Palestine with the International Solidarity Movement back in 2003. I also traveled through Israel proper, particularly in Tel Aviv, Jerusalem, and the Galilee and Golan Heights regions along the borders with Lebanon and Syria. The majority of my volunteer time was spent accompanying Palestinian olive pickers, protecting them with my passport (funny little pack of paper…what does it mean?!?), when their olive groves were in “closed military zones,” or were too proximate to potentially violent illegal settler populations.

The time I spent there has certainly colored, but also sharpened, my understanding of Israeli-Palestinian conflicts.

Moses and I talked for over an hour before getting out of bed that morning…different beds, mind you, of the dorm room we were sharing.

We discussed the definitions of “civilian,” “militant,” and “terrorist,” the number of checkpoints in the West Bank, the attitudes and policies of the Egyptians, the Israel lobby in the U.S., the relative wealth of the Palestinians compared to poorer countries in sub-Saharan Africa, and the use of “human shields” by both Hamas and the IDF, among other things.

I despise the term IDF, “Israeli Defense Force,” the official name of the Israeli military forces, because I view it as an unfair euphemism that hides the true nature of the organization. This is just one example of the limits of my objectivity, and knowing those limits, and given that I cannot precisely quote our conversation, I am not here going to characterize in too much detail Moses’s perceptions.

But I will say that in this particular conversation with the IDF, I found that we kept coming back to the ambiguous trinity of wrong vs. right vs. “interests.”

It is in Israel’s interests to be morally right. As another Israeli tried to persuade me three weeks ago, “It is good that we [soldiers] are brainwashed in humanitarianism.”

But Israel has other interests as well.

How is a person to know when other interests are trumping moral interests, and when the reverse is true? Even more personal, how is a person to know when their own interests are trumping moral interests, and when the reverse is true?

The term “interest” has often been used as a code word for oil, and for wealth, in the game of geopolitics. But there is another translation for “interests” in the game of human relationships that is even more taboo for us Catholics, the one that could get me into the greatest amount of social and psychological trouble.

Interesting that Obi Wan said Darth Vader was “seduced” by the Dark Side.

Hector, holding his young daughter, stopped me on the corner in Echandea last week. We chatted about this and that, and I eventually met his gorgeous wife, whom he later told me he could not marry in the Church because it was too expensive. Hector deposited his daughter into his wife’s arms for the evening, and we strolled the local karaoke bar for a few songs. He and his also-married cousin took me to the disco later that evening, but not before asking me if wanted to go to a place where we could all get blow jobs.

Hector had no trouble finding dancing partners, and using his shirt as a lasso around one young woman’s waist. My friends kept pointing out girls that I should ask to dance, or pushed them in front of me. My body felt rigid compared to their young gyrations. I asked a few, but they wagged their fingers in front of my nose, a non-insulting Latin American way of saying no to which I more often than not feel insulted.

My righteous beard and scraggly hair distanced me, unkempt by corporate razors whose daily use is supposed to dictate the difference between interest and indifference. My genetic/analytically-overheated male-pattern-baldness also helped to keep my image and attitude away from that of young-and-desirable.

From two days before I left the States:
“You two are brothers?”
“Yeah”
“Which one of you is older? Matt is? By seven years?!? Joey, stop fighting it. Let it go, man, just shave it off.”
“Let it go? I’m trying to let it go by not shaving.” I’m bald: my hair grows on the sides, but not the top. Whats wrong with that?”
“I get a complex if I don’t shave my head clean, if it gets even a little bit long. I mean, I know I’m married, but I still want women to find me attractive.”
“I get a complex, too. I’m workin on it. But it definitely changes one’s chances.”

I protect myself from the moral-interest ambiguity of sexual attraction by constructing insurmountable peaks of spiritual and cultural righteousness. Sexual attraction demonstrates the most common, and the most intense human engagement of the ambiguity between morality and interest. I do not often join this conversation. My default attitude in relating to women is on the side of non-provocativeness, always suppressing my desires in case they are more about sexual interest than about what is right and wrong (which they usually are, especially down here with the Latin American comfort of prodigious skin and cleavage exposure). The positive benefit is that no one gets hurt. But always acting holy is a denial of human nature that ends up being even more disrespectful than if I would just learn to dance along.

The world’s celebates, however, are certainly involved with difficult work that should not be ignored simply because it is unappealing to the popular mind. We are the control group to the coupling world’s prodigious sensory social and psychological experimentations, isolating and mitigating the particularly strong variable of sexual attraction that has so often blinded the rest of the world to right and wrong.

The Catholic Church lost its moral authority over war centuries ago when it was supplanted by material “interest” authorities after the industrial revolution. But it still wields great power over our collective sexual consciousness with its network of should. I don’t believe the Church and her religious allies should be dismissed or ridiculed for the conservative pull on the reigns of our mid-brain sexual instincts; we have been quite prosperous with the form of the nuclear family that they have attempted to guard through the ages.

However, I don’t wish my semi-self-imposed celibacy upon anyone. Sure, condoms aren’t “natural,” that foundational concept upon which the Church bases its sexual code of morals. But neither is a Big Mac, nor gasoline, nor the fierce suppression of biological urges for a man my age.

Remember your Newtonian physics: for every action there is an equal and opposite reaction. Sexual rebellion, often marketed for profit, has become the most direct competitor with the Church. Both of these antagonists have moral codes that stretch to the furthest reaches of the globe, battling especially fiercely in the minds and habits of the world’s adolescents.

It is this type of reconciliation of ambiguity that needs the most care and the most patience.

But not a always: The Israeli army has no right to treat the Palestinians the way it does. And given the American involvement in the whole mess, you should try and stop them, even if that means just a change in your understanding.

“What about Hamas?” you might object. “Shouldn’t we tell them to stop, too? The environment is going to shit, and I really ought to get Jonny a birthday present, but I really shouldn’t go into any more debt, and I really ought to live up to my financial obligations and make sure my family is provided for, and those poor kids on the television in Africa! All they need is just 3 cents a day, and I really shouldn’t ignore them but I really ought to take a break from all these should and go for a walk in the park where I should enjoy myself.”

Nice spiral. Don’t take more than you can handle, but don’t be afraid to look deeply when you find the strength. The injustice being done to Palestine is particularly egregious. I have the responsibility to try to convince you that this is so, at this point even if that means risking your negative feelings of a guilt trip. This ambiguity I am ready to face now, even if the others must wait until I return to the States.

-----

The evolutionary spiral of our rationality, our history and politics, our relationships and sexuality, our choices, either descend or ascend depending on perspective. The deepest in hell could make the greatest of contributions to humankind. With a tilt of imagination, downward turns upward if it is offered for the benefit of others.

So what should I do?

Should I go to Machu Pichu for its reputable vista, the surrealism of its international renown, the echo of the ancients (even though the “experts,” i.e. what Lonely Planet says, are unsure of the purpose and age of its construction, saying it was possibly a vacation home for the rich and powerful), the ability to recall with authority its future textbook images and know that “I was there”?

Or should I shun this archeological Disneyland, this overpriced Gringo hangout, which receives 1000s of mostly-foreign visitors each day, for a vane “I’m-wiser-than-you-are” elevation that would get me higher than it’s 3000 meters?

I am not ready to say that I do not get caught up in the downward-spiral should of modern guilt, or its social cousin modern shame; that lie would only thicken the neurotic goo through which I wade. But with this public psycho-scan, this understanding that my own plank is the same thing as your speck, I no longer feel guilty about feeling guilty.
Colorado, July 2008!

You should turn off your computer, now.

Superbowl Sunday 2009 Lima, Peru

2009-02-01T18:24:00.005-05:00

some photos

2009-01-03T14:06:00.005-05:00

...on the bus.

I´ve heard that the better painted X-American school buses in general make more money than the simpler looking ones.

...getting my Machette sharpened in Panamá before heading to check for holes in the Darién Gap. I ended up taking a short flight to a port city, then two shuttle boats to Colombia. The machette ended up being quite useful working with the campesinos in communidad de Paz.

...my first view of Colombia.

...staying somewhat dry in the hills above the Communidad de Paz.

at midnight on December 31, they burn efigies throughout Colombia and Ecuador, some of politicians, but mostly they are supposed to represent bad habits. this one is a ¨burracho,¨drunk, as can be known from the pint of some sort of alcohol stuffed in his collar.

I spent my New Years in a small Colombian village near the pacific, accessible only by homemade rail carts, powered by stick or motorcycle.

horses like school, too!

...from Cuidad de Panamá. I wish he was in Gaza, too.

Colombia

2008-12-23T15:33:00.000-05:00

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!

Papa Kuni’s Stovetop Popcorn©, 2nd Generation Edition

2008-12-23T15:31:00.000-05:00

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.

Nicaragua

2008-12-06T17:52:00.003-05:00

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.

Compounded Interest

2008-12-06T17:45:00.002-05:00

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.

A day in the life

2008-11-20T17:53:00.004-05:00

I woke up wonderfully comfortable this morning. I was lying “Brazilian style,” diagonally, in a hammock in the common area of the rectory of Maria Madre de Los Pabres, the same place I had slept for 9 days. I slipped out of my down sleeping bag, as well as out of my silk bag liner, and stuffed both into their proper sacks. It was 7:30. I finished some internet chores on the office computer before Rosalita and the other staff arrived, then went to prepare my “Mochila,” backpack, for my journey to Comayagua, Honduras.

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

poco a poco

2008-11-09T17:48:00.004-05:00

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!

Co-creation

2008-10-06T16:35:00.010-04:00

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.

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 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.

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!

this summer

2008-09-26T14:34:00.004-04:00

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.

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.

El Primero

2008-09-16T15:59:00.014-04:00

¡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.