Sunday, October 23, 2011
Wednesday, October 12, 2011
How they bordar.
Pajarito
Llort Style embroidery
Girl's dress
Boy's Suit
Men's Shirt Collar
I took a cue from my artisania lady friends and pimped out my old TOMS shoes. I very much dig it.
The best meal ever
You would think that after more than a year and a half of beans, tortillas and fuerte dairy products, one meal of that killer combo would be the same as every other.
I thought so too. So I really can't explain how it came to be that I literally went crazy over my standard dinner the other night.
My host family cooks over wood fire. They grow their own beans, coffee and corn, which they make into frijolitos, cafecito, and hand patted tortillas every day. About a week ago, Nina Rosa made some cuajada, which is like fresh, soft cheese. She also made some crema, which is the salvadoran version of sour cream.
I came into the kitchen and threw my tortillas into the coals, because I like them a little toasted and crunchy. I scooped out some beans, and sliced some cuajada into my plate. Nina Rosa invited me to try some of her crema, which, she said, was thin, but good. I pulled the tortilla from the fire, and started eating. HEAVEN. I can't explain it, maybe it was a question of ratios, or maybe I was really hungry... All I know is that I had to force myself to refrain from a second helping. That's like inviting the gordita comments.
Maybe those "100 mile meal" people are on to something. There is a lot to be said for the custom of eating food grown from down the street with the people who bring it from seeding to the table.
I thought so too. So I really can't explain how it came to be that I literally went crazy over my standard dinner the other night.
My host family cooks over wood fire. They grow their own beans, coffee and corn, which they make into frijolitos, cafecito, and hand patted tortillas every day. About a week ago, Nina Rosa made some cuajada, which is like fresh, soft cheese. She also made some crema, which is the salvadoran version of sour cream.
I came into the kitchen and threw my tortillas into the coals, because I like them a little toasted and crunchy. I scooped out some beans, and sliced some cuajada into my plate. Nina Rosa invited me to try some of her crema, which, she said, was thin, but good. I pulled the tortilla from the fire, and started eating. HEAVEN. I can't explain it, maybe it was a question of ratios, or maybe I was really hungry... All I know is that I had to force myself to refrain from a second helping. That's like inviting the gordita comments.
Maybe those "100 mile meal" people are on to something. There is a lot to be said for the custom of eating food grown from down the street with the people who bring it from seeding to the table.
Sunday, September 25, 2011
Mi Familia
Last Thursday I got a call from my BF Milena, who told me in her most excited voice, that she just got to Ahuachapan to visit her mom, and I needed to come visit her.
I couldn't agree more, so I bumped up my plans to get to a meeting in San Salvador and took of for Ahuachapan at 7 the next morning.
Two micros, 3 busses, and 5 hours later I jumped out of the "short-bus" to El Barro and had a dirty faced 4 year old Brian running up to me. "Yessshhhiiiicaaaaa!!"
Heart warming. I spent the rest of the day and the next morning with my hands-down FAVORITE people in El Salvador, catching up, chatting, and passing along all the good gossip.
Ever since I got to my first home in El Cocalito, Milena has been nothing but a good friend. We've had our minor tiffs (mostly though, I've had them, running imaginary dialogue though my head...) She has the kind of ridiculous sense of humor that I have always "llevar-ed bien" with.
Leaving the next morning, I felt better. I felt like I wasn't just a solitary human in this tiny, yet somehow isolating country.
I do enjoy my new site, but the acclamation is hard, stressful, and can be pretty lonesome. My friendship with the Gallardo family not only brightens my day when we actually get to talk, but reminds me that there are people here who have my back and that friendships like that are possible here... even if the road to get there is long.
Thursday, September 15, 2011
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.
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 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.
Saturday, September 10, 2011
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.
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.
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.
Friday, August 26, 2011
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.
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.
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