El 15 de Septiembre, El Zarzal

Cutie Pies

Literally the best breakfast pupusas I've had, maybe ever.

How we roll in my hood.

Cachiporristas in sleeves and pants!

Danza Folklorica. And THRILLED about it.

I think we were on the same page.

Choque de Bichos

Some super dinamic kiddos.

 BTW, The former PCV in El Zarzal did this map. Fine work!

Well, I've lived though another 15th of September in a Latino nation. Wheew. Long gone is Morelia '08.

That's the good news.  

The bad news is that I've hit the 6 months left slump, and with so little service ahead of me, I feel like I'll be here for eternity.

I've been really REALLY good though. I've kept my butt in site, I've pasear'ed, I've done a small census, I've been going to sewing classes and calling NGOs like a boss...  But as truly nice as everyone is and as sano as my community is, I'm just feeling a little "meh."

I really miss La Familia Gallardo. My besties from El Cocalito. I've talked with them, but nothing beats a 5 pm coffee and bread on the front porch.

I also miss my family family. I even tried scheming to get back for a Thanksgiving visit, but stupid AAirlines was not in the mood to indulge a broke, creditless PCV. I never cared much for you either, Citi.

The plus side (and despite my grumbles, it'a a pretty substantial level of "plus") is that there are 20 women learning sewing basics in my site. I have 2 hours a week to teach art at CE El Zarzal, I've learned how to embroider by hand and run a sewing machine, the COED camp is going to be great, the women who make artisan clothing in my site will be selling at a feria in San Salvador, and might be selling in an upscale mall also in San Salvador, and we might be getting more electricity hook-ups. 

So, I  guess I should let go of the ant infestations, the fact that some people still only call me either "Elena" or "Muchacha" and just keep on loving this site, for 6 more months.

To live, you must die

We had to cut sewing class short this week due to a death in the community. My counterpart's 94 year old grandfather and host father's father passed away, and the people of El Zarzal, as they do, dropped everything and came together to arrange two nights of vela coffee and refreshments, a mass, and a funeral procession.

This was one of my first experiences going to all the parts of a death ceremony in El Salvador. While there were plenty of wakes and burials in El Cocalito, most of them were not deaths by natural cause, and frankly, I am never in a rush to stay up all night, drinking sweet coffee and eating tamales with chicken feet inside. Especially for manosos y ladrones.

As luck would have it, my host family isn't terribly keen on staying up all night either. So the next morning around 10 we walked down to the wake and had our coffee and bread. They looked into the casket, and I did not. Then we just sat there for awhile. It was only women at the time since the men tend to stay up all night, playing cards and having some nips from a bottle of guaro. The conversation centered around a few topics, death, Christ, and then the bonus of going to a vela in the morning, you have an excuse to leave the chores of the house to wait for a few hours, at least. There are tortillas to make, floors to sweep, and clothes to wash, so while reflecting on Dios el Poderoso and the fragility of life, you might as well take a load off, let someone bring you some sweet bread and have a good gab session with the other ladies while you're at it.

The next day was mass. Afterwards we left the church, crammed into a bunch of truckbeds and moved at a snail's pace behind the body along the curving highway to the cemetary of La Palma. We spent an hour getting there, 35 minutes by the gravesite, another 1.5 hours in disorden buying popcicles, chips and suckers and getting everyone back to the trucks and 30 minutes getting back to El Zarzal. 

When we arrived back home, there was a small smudgy fire of pine boughs on the patio. You have to stand in the smoke and let it blow all over you, to remove any dead spirits that might have hitched a ride back on you from the cemetery.

 I have to say though, if I were buried in that cemetary, I would've taken off ASAP, too, even if it meant clinging to a mourner passing by.

 When I die, I want to go into the ground. I don't want to be put into a metal box, which is then slid into a cement box which is then blocked up by bricks and mortar. That's like putting banana peels and apple cores into a plastic garbage bag. It never gets back to where it should, which is the earth. I told my host brother this over our beans that night, and he said, yeah, but that's kind of a dumb idea. "Imaginese. If I were buried in the ground and woke up, how would I have the strenth to get out from under all that dirt? I couldn't. At least in one of those tombs, I could move around some, make some buya."

While passing all these cement graves, you notice little quirks. I remember in Mexico my study abroad teacher pointing out the remesa houses that had rebar still sticking up from the roof. For when there is enough money to build a second floor, he said. Here, the same applies for houses and graves.  Many of these cement graves were prepped for upward constuction. I can only imagine a widower thinking, as he gives directions for the construction of his wife's grave: leave me 4 inch pegs, we're in a quake zone, and I want this to be bien hechito.

Living the Northern Life

I've been in my new site for two weeks.

The contrast is astounding, in every way. I've moved on up. Up from the flatlands of coastal Ahuachapan up into the mountains near La Palma, Chalatenango, from the heat to the cool, from the closed to the open. My toilet has moved from outside to inside, and my bucketbaths have turned into cold, high pressure showers in my own, private bathroom.

The people are kind, friendly, and respectful. They have las ganas to work, to better their community, and to do it through the sweat of their own brow.

And the women, oh the women. The Salvadoran woman is a thing indeed, but the women involved with the community association are kick ass mujeres. They raise chickens, they sew and embroider tipico/Llort style clothing, they lead bible studies, organize school events or cleaning campaigns, and they find time to run their homes, raise their children and make the cheekiest jokes.

Unfortunately, I haven't taken any photos... yet. When I do, you'll get a look at my pad, "La Casa Mision," the great view the community has of the sometimes misty mountains and coffee trees and the really charming embroidered clothes, as well as the equally charming women who stitch them.

The next 5 (though some say six) months will be a whirlwind, but I feel like they will be happy, fruitful, and fast.

Teen Spirit

Do you speak spanish? If you do, you'll know what it means when I say: tejido adiposo, glandulas sebaceas y foliculos pilosos.

If you don't know what that means, think enclosed blob of armpit. Fatty tissue, sweat glands, hair.

So now we know.

Depending on how much umph I can muster, I might try to make it out the Miraflores locks to see the canal tomorrow. Can't go to Panama without seeing the canal, they say.

In other news, here are some belated photos from
my jaunt out to Parque Metropolitano in Panama city.

Leaf cutters in every Country! My Favorite.

Beware.

A quiet, solo, two hour hike,
and all I saw were trees and lots of ants.

Panama

Mystery Solved

Last week I packed up the entire contents of my house in El Cocalito, and despite my pleading that the news of my departure be kept under wraps, everyone knew.

I had more visitors in the days before my move than I had in the last month.... Some people came over, crying, and I had to half feign the same level of emotional distress. Other people came by to pretend they'll miss me, but mostly just ask what I am leaving behind... "Va a llevar todas las cosas, Yessi? No me puede regalar alquel boladito?

Irritating, but not surprising.

When I went in for my last day of art class (world map crash course/brain melting insanity) I was rewarded with a surprise goodbye party. They led me in to the classroom blindfolded and popped a confetti balloon over my head. The kids thew in money to buy a cake from Anthony's pasteleria, plus soda. They had the classroom all decorated with balloons and wrote messages all over the whiteboard wishing me well and hoping that god blesses me.

Despite how often I complained about these kids, and how often so many of them would drive me insane, this was the first time I had tears that I couldn't suppress. I felt some of the weight of my time in El Cocalito/El Rosario coming clear, and felt good.

Now I know. In between El Salvador's real dead bodies, and fake dead bodies, and abuse and frustration and roadblocks, I guess, there are relationships and events you need to let in and those are the things that will make you cry, but from happiness.

Casco Viejo

Saturday in Panama. I decided to do some touristy things. I followed all the guides that pointed to Casco Viejo and Old Panama. The literature said it was one of the best attractions for Panama, after the canal, of course.

It was a 1.50 cab ride (though, strangely enough, 3 to get back to the hotel... curious.) I arrived tipo 10 in the morning to do a couple hours of wandering before grabbing lunch.

The neighborhood is slowly going through repairs as it becomes a trendy place to buy property, so there was a lot of construction along the streets.

I made a covert purchase of a Panama hat and hid it in my backpack. (I'll BUY one, sure, but I'll wait to get back to El Salvador to actually WEAR it. - Oh, and also while alone in my hotel room while writing this. heh.) After ages of looking for just such a hat, I'm pretty happy with the purchase, even though Panama hats are actually NOT from Panama, originally.

Well, long story short, Casco Viejo was kinda cool. I planned on hitting the Metropolitan Nature Park in the afternoon, but it started raining, so I abandoned ship mid taxi-ride. Tomorrow.

Things in Panama are fine, though I have to say the allure of traveling alone has worn off. Places aren't as fun when you don't get to share them, first hand, with anyone. My surgery is slated for Monday, at the Hospital Punta Pacifica. I'll probably be there a few days, then back to the hotel.

Cathedral

Municipal Workers, haciendo la limpieza.

Saint Peter

The Panama City skyline from Casco Viejo, and fishing boats.

Rock on, Senor.

Wagner and Shakespeare

My 2 dollar Ceviche Combinado from the Fish Market.

Octopus, shrimp, scallops, and such with repollo, lime and tastiness.

For sale. The neighborhood is still in a HUGE transition.

Poverty and wrecked buildings next to luxury second homes and vacation properties

Another quiet plaza

Photooos

The twins and Saul, at Parque Imposible

Las Ninas

Ricardito. Endlessly Photogenic.

Milena, Making Pipianes for dinner.

The Kiddos. Still under the impression that cooties exist.

Pretty Bird

Museum

Look Out

Modeling

My Godson

Also Modeling

Real Life Peep

In Two Assorted Flavors

World Map Part Deux