Buena vida, ok palabras.

With five months left on the isthmus it has been a busy last thirty days or so and, shockingly, it didn't go exactly as planned. La vida.
It all started out with a quick trip to the city, I figured, a night, two max, to get my lovely and by that point regionally famous ingrown toenail taken care of. I packed light for two nights, and headed straight from new town to the office where I met with the always lovely Peace Corps med staff who confirmed that, with the infection I painstakingly built up now gone, I was dealing with a pretty impressively confused toenail. I assumed the appointment with the orthopedist had been made and I could swing on over, cortar, sacar, and get a beer. I was wrong, they said they would call and make the appointment that day, and I'd get in to see the doctor by the end of the week, it was Wednesday, I'd packed light. The next morning I was called and informed that Dr. Edwards was on vacation and would return Monday... I had packed light. I spent the weekend writing letters and cooking complex things and when monday morning rolled around Doc Eddy confirmed what was already confirmed and scheduled surgery for the following morning. Washing my clothes in the sink that evening, I thought, what's one more night? The surgery went flawless, at least I think it did. I tried to live tweet it, but I was told I really shouldn't be using my phone during the operation. The nurse did not wear gloves, cringed everytime she looked at my foot, and wheeled me out in a wheelchair afterward. I then hobbled on a completely numb foot to the bus stop, armed with antibiotics to combat and infection I didnt have and painkillers I didn't use. I called the office, told them what a swell time I had getting my toe cut opened and how chevre my bandage was and asked if I could go home the following day after a lot of asking if I was sure, they said yes. Six minutes they called back to say they remembered where I lived and I couldn't go back, because I'd undoubtedly get the bandage wet. I spent the next ten or so days occasionally poking my mummy toe, researching community colleges, making complex foods, and a lot of Facebook stalking. Also at one point I went on a pilgrimage with my foot in a plastic grocery bag to celebrate Jesus Christo Negro (planned before the great toe fiasco of 2015). And then the stitches came out and I was free to move about the country again, so naturally I went to an all inclusive resort to celebrate (planned before the great toe fiasco of 2015).
And now a blurb about the aforementioned pilgrimage. Colon is on the Caribbean coast of Panama and lies host to a large population of Afro-Caribbean gente. And every 21st of October a great fiesta of sorts is held in honor of Jesus Christo Negro in the coastal town of Portabelo. There in a church is a statue of a black jesus that is the focus of many legends and from miles and miles people walk to see it and many for the last mile crawl, go on their knees, or do a strange armless crabwalk style move. I skipped the variation at the end and just walked there enjoying  coast, rain and a bottle of seco and orange juice. Two things I want to get across about this event, the first being that I was really touched by the people along the road giving out food and water to the pilgrims, me included, and secondly the energy that I felt and saw when people carried the statue from church was enough for me to momentarily forget about the chafing I had from pilgramaging in the rain. Im not Catholic or even religous and I can't speak for the logic of repent followed by heavy drinking, but it was one event I will never forget.
I'm not going to comment on my trip to the all inclusive resort, except to say, that shit was awesome.
And now that brings me to fiestas patrias a time for celebration here in Panama, with no celebration bigger than Tres de Noviembre, the separation of Panamá from Colombia. I ate too much arroz con pollo, won a colander in a handless hanging honey covered apple eating contest, and was honored to no only MC part of the event in still broken Spanish, but also lead mi gente in the singing of their own national anthem. I'm proud to announce the event was a success in New Town and the mound of styrofoam dinnerware left behind serves as a monument to the independence and sovereignty of the great nation of Panamá.
And now on our trip through time we've come to El aniversario de la Comerca Sambu. If you're wondering why I got tattoos from my nose to my toes, this was why. After about a three hour bus ride further East from my entrada followed by a couple more hours in a boat, I arrived in a place that I can't adequately describe in words. It was a place of people living very traditional lives, hunting for meat in the jungle and catching fish from rivers, streams, and the ocean while on other days treating themselves to a fresh baked pizza or icecream cone. People wore loinclothes one day and NBA jerseys the next. Thatched roofs and satelite TVs. The first evening we grabbed dinner at a restaurant that I am assured Anthony Bourdain once ate at, ran by the sweetest maybe slightly senial lady. Although technically not in the comerca the food was stellar. A quick dip in the river and it was time to strip down and get painted with a paint made from grating and boiling a jungle fruit called jugua and then sacaring the black liquid. What do you say to an indigenous women while she is painting your nipples? I just asked about the weather. The next day started with jungle meat and a dip in the river and ended with dancing tipico with a bunch of gringos while the gente sat and watched. There was also frisbee, fermented corn juice, and more jungle meat. The following day started again with jungle meat and a river, but included a parade, a spontaneous head shave, basketball, tug of war, dance competitions, and many other shenagins, like too much fermented corn juice. From the sounds of music still blaring as we boarded our six am boat to head back to Puerto Quimba the foundation of the comerca was fully celebrated. Time and time again I have been floored by the generosity and charisma of the Embera people, they're hands down my favorite group in Panamá and the people of Puerto Indio did nothing but reaffirm my love for them. If you visit Panama and do not interact with these people, you're missing out. Although, they make sub par pizza and it turns out jugua will burn your balls.
In Puerto Quimba I entrusted my beloved backpack to a man strapping bags to the top of the chiva and when we arrived in Metati my backpack did not, it had fallen from the roof, luckily after a trip back to the port to search the sides of the road a food smaritain had beat us to it and brought the bag to the terminal. Another thing to cross off the bucket list.
If you're reading this blog you're probably sipping a cold craft beer, shoving your face alternatively with sharp cheddar cheese and dark chocolate (how I imagine USA) while thinking, "wow, finally free of philosophical rambling." Sorry to disappoint, pero ya viene. If you don't speak Spanish, you've missed the warning. I'll be brief.
It is such a sought after trait to be well traveled, wanting to see the world and experience cultures is a common dream of millennials, and people who haven't left The States are more or less uncultured heathens. The one with the most countries wins. This has never been a thought that I shared, for numerous reasons and as a result of spending almost two years living abroad I've only found more reasons to disagree.
Panama is a country around the size of South Carolina, but it in no way feels that small. I have experienced so many diverse cultures, climates, people, languages, and costums in Panama that at times I find myself thinking I am in a completely different country.
Panama is a country the size of a small state and The United States is made up of fifty states, many of which are significantly larger than Panamá. I have talked to people whove been on multiple continents that didn't even know that the US is  host to a rainforest. I've been to close to twenty states and I know that I am just barely scratching the surface of the diversity of my own country. And when I say diversity, I mean culture, language, costums, food, music, climate, I mean diversity in every sense of the word. It is a tragedy how little people in the US travel within the US, when it is so easy. By all means see the world, but please take the time to see your country. And when you do go off into the world take the time to truly see and learn about a country, in the end the one with the most countries or states doesn't win, nobody wins, it's no game, but truly experiencing a culture is something more than hopping around Europe or Central America spending a night in each country. I would choose truly experiencing a culture in just one place, over blasting through places so fast I forget which is which.
Also if you're wondering about my incinerator project it was postponed due to the great toe fiasco of 2015 but is now my number one priority, vamos a ver.
And as always thank you all for humoring me and your continued support, but it'd be great if I could get a few more likes on my profile picture, my self esteem is plummeting, what are there? like tweleve? The caption is clever. Don't you think I'm fucking clever!? Like my shit, I'm funny! I'm hip!

Deja que sea.

Studying the overwhelming large array of deodorant at target, one lasts 24 hours, another 36, a different one promises bursts of fragrance every 6 hours, and another will release more odor fighting chemicals every time your arm moves further than 20 degrees, I find myself questioning the deodorant I've trusted for so long. Outside the snow forms blanket after blanket on the frozen earth temporarily making Flint, Michigan appear a little less dirty and a little more hazardous for Target's late night shoppers on their drive home, I try to imagine what Panamá will be like and in turn how it will affect my deodorant preference, but I can't, probably because I didn't read more than one lousy Wikipedia article on the subject and to be honest I just skimmed it while studying important articles on Buzzfeed about cats falling off of things or cats pushing things off of other things.
When I joined Peace Corps, I had a feeling it was going to be something that changed my life and deoderant preferences, but I couldn't begin to fathom how. I eventually elected to go with the deodorant I've trusted for so long, maybe it was sentimental, maybe it was defeat, more than likely I was finally overcome by a sense of urgency, a realization that my flight was in eight hours, the roads were nearly impassable, and my bags weren't packed. In a manner typical to my life philosophy, I had chosen to put off packing for the next 27 months of my life until the last possible moment. They told me to have no expectations, I succeeded.
The next morning, my dad drove me to the airport. I left my bed in a state of just slept in, clothes on the floor, and I probably left the toilet running, like I always do (according to pops) because I didn't jiggle the handle, you think that as a plumber he would have a toilet that functioned imaculately. Leaving for twenty seven months was just as casual for me as leaving for work, but I had more stuff to carry, and I could not bike there.
They said that Peace Corps service can be and for a lot of volunteers is a pivotal moment in a persons life, it changes you. They are right, whoever they are. Maybe I didn't realize when I got on that plane in Detroit just how pivotal it would be for me, but these last 21 months have been truly life changing, defining really.
I recently got a tattoo in the lobby of a hostel in Panama City. I decided to get it and drew the tattoo maybe a week before I got it. It was impulsive, maybe, but when am I not? The tattoo is a simple three letter Spanish word, sea (Say-uh), it is a form of the word ser a verb meaning to be. When it is conjugated as sea it can be a command, "Sea un adulto!" which would translate to "Be an adult!" It can also signify uncertainty. The power of this word really struck me (In English and Spanish). I got because I had felt in the moment and for a while before and a little bit still that I had and have no control of my life. At the time, I was also feeling a lot of pressure from myslef to figure out who I am, how to be a good volunteer, friend, sister, daughter, person, and who I want to be. And also what seemed like pressure from every other direction that I was unable to rise to. I couldn't deal with it. So the tattoo serves a reminder that above all else what is most important is just to be sin pensar. Sea, pues. A reminder to accept the chaos and stay true to myself, to not to obsess so much over the future, that I forget to live the present. Que sera, sera pero, ya seas tu mismo (feel free to critique my campo Spanish).
When I look back at what I've gone through and how I have changed since the day I awkwardly hugged my dad in the airport, not knowing how to say #seeyouin2 elequently, and I set off to accomplish what I always said I would, I can hardly believe it. Ive been through some shit. I left the United States twenty one months ago straight (although dating a girl), with very low Spanish, and absolutely no idea what to do with my life, off to save the world. Panama would change all of that and more.
While in Panamá I found the confidence I needed and maybe also the perfect distraction or ideal way to dodge awkward questions to come (mostly) out as pansexual. Does anybody know if my dad knows, cause I sure havent mentioned it yet. And after having what I realize was the most healthy and equitable relationship (long distance even) I had ever had in my entire life with a truly wonderful girl, my ideals on the importance and value of commited relationships have been dramatically altered. And my understanding of love, completely redefined. It is not even just that I discovered or have accepted my personal sexuality. I can honestly say that I feel pride in myself and in the whole lgbtq community. Sea queer.
Y también es que ya hablo Español mucho mas mejor que antes. Bueno, no es perfecto pero es algo. My whole fucking life I have been extremely proud of my Latino roots. I wore and wear the last name Chavez like a badge of honor. But the pride I have now that I speak my language is overwhelming. While Panamá is no México it is still Latin America and being here makes me feel closer to my heritage then ever before. And I've wanted to speak Spanish my entire life and after casi two years its finally something I can do, a language opens up the understanding of culture like nothing else. Sea Bilingual. Sea Latina.
And maybe the most significant change or just the most recent is that I feel that I have finally decided what I want to do with my life at least for the foreseeable future. It's something I have thought of in the past but have never been a hundred percent set on and although I could never be a hundred percent on anything, the only way I can describe how I feel when I think about myself working this job is estatic, not happy, not very happy. I feel estatic, in a state of ecstasy. After COS I plan on starting a law enforcement class in August to obtain a NPS/FLETC SLETP certification (How's this for suspense eh?). I need that smattering of accronyms to be able to get a job with The National Park Service as a backcountry ranger. A job where I can be where I feel the most sane, the woods, mountains, wilderness, and work to protect them. Sea a park ranger.
I have definitly experienced other changes both small and large en mi vida since starting Peace Corps, changes in my values, beliefs, my confidence, deoderant preference. There is no way that I am the same person that showed up to staging 21 months ago unaware that Peace Corps was a governement agency. And Maybe I do not have total control of my life yet, it still seems like one thing goes wrong after the other sometimes, but when things go right its the same, and maybe I have yet to figure out how to be an amazing person, PCV, girlfriend, daughter, or friend, but, hey, I seem to be doing somethings right. And what I'm learning is most important is just to be. Who the office expects me to be is different from what my community expects, what people in the states expect, what cab drivers expect, what friends expect, what my cat expects and my own expectations are different still, but in verdad, even if I live up to some of those expectations, none of those things are who I AM. And who I am is something I can probably never fully understand ir describe without sounding like the end of The Breakfast Club. We are all so many things smushed together and for some reason it works, we spend so much time obessesing over it that sometimes we let it overwhelm us. It's good to be aware of the roles you play, we even teach that to kids in Panama during Elige tu Vida workshops, but it is not ideal to obsess over them to the point that you quit filling some or all of them. Sea pues.

I know this blog has been largely philosophical and abstract lately under the ruse of being about Panama, but writing about events, to me, is tedious and it is hard to motivate myself to do it, it just is not my jam. Like, I did a thing it happened and I prolly posted pics on Instagram or Facebook, so like, dale pa' allá pues.

And finally shout out to the literal overwhelming amount of support I have felt from the states, the letters, packages, and facebook messages are amazing. And the visits! I am floored by all the people who treked down here and let me drag them around Panama with little regard to their saftey, you guys are all stars. It is easy to let yourself feel alone in the world until you get a bundle of six letters, five pounds of Almonds, countless kind words, or a hug from a long missed friend. The next six months are going to fly for me, i've got a lot planned both in and out of site, I even got a grant to burn some trash ya'll, maybe I'll  write about it! Maybe.
#seeyouin6 (April)

Saber

Every wednesday I teach English to third through sixth grade in my small, mixed grade school. We have two classrooms one of which is used largely as an exhibit for the thousands of dollars misued by the ministry of education. It is filled with perfectly good, relatively new desks, filing cabinets, books, and chairs.
The other classroom hosts pre K through sixth grade, slightly shy of twenty students and one meastra/director. I teach eleven of those students English one hour, once a week.
Yesterday we had a presentation a very small dialog. All grades had to do it memorized. The dialog was:

1: What time is it?
2: It is (whatever time)

2: What time is it?
1: It is (LITERALLY WHATEVER TIME)
Third grade only had to do it once.

We had been practicing for four weeks. When it came to the day of, I gave them more time to practice, corrected pronunciation, and revised their written dialogs. The scoring was out of twenty points, five (FREE) points for the written dialog, five (basically free) points for enthusiasm, five points for preparation, and five points for pronunciation. I was ready to grade their presentations and leave comments on slight pronunciation mistakes, knowing the biggest would be "et es" instead of "it is" in the question. I had heard every group practice and was confident the scores would be pretty good more or less.
Then the meastra began to undermine me. First she told third grade they didn't have to write the dialog they had already written out once before, causing all of them to lose five free points. And then she announced for the kids to take their notebooks to her before presenting, I told her I would feel more comfortable grading the dialog (considering I speak English). She just said okay and ignored me. The third graders presented first, it was bad, they're always not very good, they do not study because their older siblings do all their homework. She asked me how they did, outloud. I was standing on the other side of the classroom, still sweating from running around the oven of a classroom, answering questions, revising spelling, and tweaking pronunciation. The ceiling fans that we could not use, because turning them on would depleate the energy in solar panel battery in five minutes, another testament to the money management of MEDUCA hung motionless as I tried to think of a way to reapond to that question without completely embarrassing the students that just presented.
"En verdad, no fue muy bien."
Laughter, I had not succeed.
Two sixth graders followed, using the trick known worldwide of waiting to volunteer to present until right after somebody butchers it. They presented, one did notably better on pronunciation and enthusiasm then the other, they both had clearly practiced. The meastra asked again how it had gone.
My reflection mocked me in the large unused flat screen TV in the corner that on the sunniest of days could only be turned on for half an hour, unfortunately it had to be too sunny to see the screen well. I searched my mind, I said, "I don't feel comfortable discussing the grades of students outloud."
"Ah, okay."
"But Maki did better."
The presentations continued, she continued to grade them, no longer asking my opinion. I know she gave them all high grades probably in proportion to how they perform in other subjects. I stood there, and I suddenly felt like some huge joke, that small kid playing doctor being humored by it's parents, "WOW SUZY I FEEL MUCH BETTER!"
I stood trying to hold back tears of frustration and embarrassment as soon as the last group left, I hurriedly forced out, "Me voy," and rushed away before I could heat any sort of protest.
This had never happened before, I always co taught any sort of science activity without grading it, but I always took over for English and gave the grades.
The truth is that the meastra looks better if her students are receiving high grades, so she gives them high ane often arbitrary grades. Last year the entire school was on the Panamanian equivalent of honor roll. I go to the tienda and it takes twenty minutes for whoever is working there to add up $.35, $.60, and $1.10.
The meastra doesn't understand that high grades do not mean that students are learning nor guarantee any future success. She doesn't understand or she doesn't care.
Education is one of the most powerful tools we have, to better not only our own lives and the lives of others, but legitimately the world.
I hate those stupid pictures people post of Facebook all the time with (completely un) groundbreaking (usually not) facts, but I saw one the other day that said, "What if the cure to cancer is locked inside the mind of somebody without access to an education?" While that is highly unlikely and kind of an extremely simple way to think of research science, the more educated people we have in the world, the more likely we are to advance science on all fronts, from infectious disease prevention to climate.
By denying education to somebody not only do we deny that person the ability to improve their life and socioeconomic status, we deny the world a shot at a new perspective or approach to our problems. Education doesn't mean westernization, I am talking about literacy, problem solving, mathematics, abstract thought, and critical thinking skills. Education should focus primarily on teaching students how to learn, not on teaching them how to get high grades.
We need to advocate for better education worldwide. Just because there's a school, even a well funded school, does not mean that there is a chance to get an education.

Now I just have to figure out how to discuss what happened with my meastra.

Fuerza

Resistance and resilience are two words that I probably learned in high school, maybe even before, but I specifically remember understanding the meaning of these two words for the first time during undergrad in a wildlife management class. We were discussing stands of forest and how they react to a disaster, a forest fire for example. A stand of forest that is highly resistant will remain more or less undisturbed; the fire will roar through, burn out the underbrush, leave the bark on the trees charred and blackened, maybe kill a couple squirrels or a nest full of baby birds, but it will keep on growing, almost like it never happened. The crowns of the trees will not burn, large numbers of animals will not die. That forest will remain for lack of a vaguer word, unchanged. A stand of forest that is highly resilient might be all but leveled by the fire, maybe just one or two small trees will surive, animals will flee and find nothing to return too. But if that forest is resilient it will bounce back, the forest will grow again, animals will return, and maybe it will be a little different but it will still be. With time time that forest will be again. I am working on a metaphor.
Strength to me is something I've always defined as resistance. A strong person is resistant. A strong person avoids tragedies or walks away from them unscathed. A strong person, stand fights and wins. A strong person runs and doesn't get caught. A strong person never finds them self in a struggle. This is wrong. A strong person is resilient.
I truly came to learn the meaning of the words resistant and resilience in Panama.
I've always been proud of the strength and independence that I posses. I've prided myself on not letting the words "help me," pass through my lips often. I built this illusion of myself and my strength in my head. I pictured myself as a tall proud redwood, fire unable to penetrate my bark. I was unaffected by hardship, tragedy, or bad luck, fire proof. I realized in college that I was short, but contnued to prolong the illusion of a redwood a bit more abstractly.
Repeated droughts, fires, and invasive species can leave a stand of tallest, proudest, and strongest redwood trees weak. Repeated disturbance and bad luck can mean the difference between a resistant forest and a clump of tall proud kindling and then all it takes is one disaster, natural or man made. A couple years of drought and a discarded cigarette butt can blacken a hill side.
Avoiding disaster, escaping nicked and worn over and over again was not enough. I was strong, too strong for help. I just bottled it up and let it keep tearing me to pieces. Hardship after hardship, I told myself that I could handle it, "I'm strong, I'm resistant."
I was resistant, I was strong. But it turns out that resistance is not enough, I learned that my definition of strength was not enough.
Life can break a person down until they aren't capable to resist tragedy anymore. Until something comes along and shatters them.
I wasn't letting myself accept the fact that bad shit happened,  I wasn't letting myself bounce back. I was burning over and over again. I was one of those trees that's root system had been smoldering for years and years out of sight until the fire found the break it needed to consume it.
It turns out I am resilient and I'm starting to feel better than I have in a long time, stronger, more independent. Admitting my problems, misfortunes, and for lack of a better word, catastrophes to myself has made me feel stronger than I had ever felt in my life.
Shit happens to everyone, sometimes it's our fault, a lot of the time its not and I'm only just realizing it.
There is strength in Resilience. There is strength in a come back. There is strength in asking for help.

PSA

Maybe the vaguest blog post to date.
I have gone my entire life unable to ask for help. I have never needed to ask for help in school because it came so easily to me. With sports I knew that perfect practice would make perfect, or at least better. I have been trying to psychoanalyze myself since I was aware that “myself,” existed and then I would fix whatever problem I decided I had. It is like I am physically unable to ask for help. I’ll ask your opinion on what to do in a relationship, borrow fifty dollars, and bum a ride to work while my life burns to the ground around me. I am a strong independent woman who would rather fall to her death than admit I need a parachute.
This is hard for me. I feel as though my soul has been shattered to a million tiny pieces and then half of those pieces fell through a crack in the floor. Even as I am picking up the pieces more keep falling. This is only remotely related to my actual service here in Panama with Peace Corps and hugely related to a couple unfortunate events.
Unfortunately even though I am trying my hardest to be less proud, I am too proud to admit to what I am going through to almost anybody. So what even is the point of this blog?
Firstly, I want to say that I am sorry. I have been on edge, short tempered, and at times almost completely disconnected with reality lately. I am sorry if this has affected any interaction we have had in a negative way.
Secondly, I want to thank those people who forgive me for above mentioned transgressions and ask for your continued patience with me. Please call me out if I act like an asshole.
Lastly, I want to assure everyone that I have sought the help I realized I needed and am working on feeling like myself again. Please do not concern yourself with me, I’m doing fine. It’s like I blew a tire and kept driving on it until recently. I just realized it’s safer and more effective to stop and repair the tire rather than to continue driving like nothing happened.
I am truly lucky to have the friends and family that I do, and I would not trade any of you for anybody else, unless of course anybody on the USWNT is seeking new friends. Thanks so much and I promise a fun blog post soon. Life is beautiful even though maybe some parts are a little fucked up. I’ll spare you all the metaphor of life and a river, because I’m sure you’ve heard it from me before.
And I’ll leave you all with a great moment in my service here in New Town. I recently shaved part of my head in celebration or support or excitement for the huge human rights victory in the USA, nice work SCOTUS, and my ten year old neighbor asked me about it. I explained the fight for equality in marriage and how people are sometimes dehumanized because of who they love. I asked her if she would love her nephew less if she found out he loved a boy. We talked for a long time. I was very nervous because my town is extremely evangelical, but after about an hour of playing “trio pair” and discussing human rights, she told me that people should marry whoever they want, but maybe they shouldn’t get such silly haircuts.

Que va

In the first couple of weeks that I was in Panamá I remember being in the house of another volunteer, and I remember looking around and I saw a corner of their mosquito net was held up by headphones. And I distinctly remember thinking that they should’ve just went and bought some string. A couple of months ago I needed to tie the PCV pipe that leads to my shower to a big stick that I had jammed into the ground. I had string in my house, but I grabbed a pair of old headphones instead. I don’t know what this means, but if I seem uncharacteristically trashy next time you see me in The United States, maybe it has to do with Peace Corps or maybe we should all think to repurpose instead of discard. Is it more trashy to use an ice cream tub to store coffee or throw that container into a dump?

I think I am going to go to grad school, as a wise friend put it, being a student is just really easy and I’ve forgotten most of what I learned in undergrad. Any pointers on the GRE?

Today I came back from showering and I saw a tarantula in the middle of my room, I hate killing tarantulas because they crunch. I instead summoned my cat and put her on top of the tarantula, she chased it around a bit and then ate it leg by leg, without ever killing it. There is something terribly wrong with my cat.

I have eaten nothing but cow and rice for the last two days. That’s the definition of Mantanza.

I finally had my waste management meeting today, if you follow me on Instagram or Facebook, I mean or twitter honestly, you will have known it was a long time coming. As all things in Panama the best plan A is just to plan on going with Plan D or F. But anyway, I scheduled my meeting for ten so we started right on time at 11:30. The idea of the meeting was to empower the people in my community to write a grant in order to secure funding to make incinerators that I would after translate into English and turn in for consideration. Here are some translated highlights of the grant we came up with. () indicate facilitation.

Mission: To make incinerators (but why?) to burn trash (because?) so it’s not on the ground (but why?) so are community is clean. (okay…)
Process: Buy barrels. Angie makes incinerators (that’s not right). We make incinerators. Burn trash. Have a clean community.
Results and sustainability: Incinerators (AND!?). A clean community that burns trash in incinerators instead of putting it on the ground. (How is it sustainable?) Because, yes (Can you clarify, say more?) We always will have trash (Bueno…).

I think it’s safe to say that I may need to translate the application a little more liberally and fill in just a couple blanks before submitting it. Parentheses and punctuation was clearly never a forte of mine.

I went on a really great trip, I am going to omit a lot of details for unimportant reasons. But at one point on this trip, I found myself with a couple other volunteers and an amazing, intelligent, welcoming local woman who had been our guide and a niece of hers sitting in the sand watching movement in a body of water and just chatting about whatever, and I realized something. As much as some people travel, see the world, I doubt a lot of them will ever make connections with people the way I have as a volunteer in Panama. And tambien no matter how many incinerators I make in new town, sitting in the sand after goofing around in an undisclosed body of water, sharing genuine laughs with people, sharing culture, and sharing memories are what Peace Corps is about. I am here to help, but I am here to experience, I am here to share. My incinerators might not save the world, but maybe they’ll save this community that I live in from filling with trash and maybe they won’t, maybe they’ll only be in use until I leave, but that’s better than nothing.

Sometimes I really stress about being successful and then I realize, I still haven’t figured out what that is.

If anybody is feeling particularly generous feel free to mail me a package of s’more flavored Oreos and a jar of tiger balm, extra strength, I am turning twenty four after all and that’s the oldest I’ve ever been.

Asi, es

Some things you will learn in Panama if you stay a long time, depending of course on your overall experience include a roof and a ceiling can be and are essentially the same thing, you CAN fry that, the bus is never full, and ahora essentially means, maybe eventually.

There is an art to living in Panama, maybe it’s not taking yourself too seriously or maybe it’s taking yourself extremely seriously. It’s either realizing that people are going to make you wait, or making other people wait. Are you worth the wait or are they? As a Peace Corps Volunteer, I’ve realized that I am not the one worth the wait, I am always the one doing the waiting.

The first time I asked about getting my roof/ceiling two-in-one combination fixed was about this time last year, before I moved into my house. I noticed how the rain seemed  to pass without much struggle from the outside to the inside of my house. Originally impressed with how much nature my home allowed to pass seamlessly through it’s barriers, this was less than impressive. The second time I asked was maybe a week after I had settled in and paid my first monthly payment of twenty dollars to live in my cozy little shack, surly I thought, this first payment of rent is sure to motivate the necessary repairs. I asked again as I realized the rainy season was coming to an end, possible after all that repairs would have been too risky if a downpour came from nowhere, better to have an extremely leaky roof than none at all. I started asking very frequently towards the end of the dry season, being assured that the repairs would be no problem, I began to imagine a hole-free roof above my head. Asking turned to dropping hints about how everything I owned was getting soaked as the rains had started again with quite a vigor. Now I sit with my feet in a puddle and the complex symphony of raindrops hitting my roof and my floor blending together seeming to sing out, “Ahora.”

My understanding of the Spanish language has recently plateaued.

“Hey Jude”
“eh Jew”
“don’t make it bad”
“don may ih ba”
“Take a sad song”
“Tay a saa esong”
“and make it better”
“an may ih bedda”
“remember to let her”
“rreremer tu le hur”
“into your heart”
“in tu jore are”
“and then you can start”
“an den jou can estar”
“to make it better.”
Tu may ih bedda.”
Juntos, “Amen.”
I finally taught the actual lord’s prayer in English after googling the words and memorizing it so I can avoid the what might have been blasphemy of teaching Beatles lyrics in prayer form.

It’s raining but it’s still hot.

I really miss going hiking all the time, luckily I recently got to go hiking with two pretty great volunteers. I am more of a tree enthusiast than a bird enthusiast, so even though I didn’t see any Quetzales (what even are those in English?) I was impressed yet again with the beauty and diversity in Panama, making a tiny country once again feel gigantic.

I’ve recently been walking around saying, “the mountains are calling and I must go,” both out loud and in my head. So I'm not sure what that means for my sanity.

I think we are our own hardest critics, but I’ve felt pretty slumpish lately both personally and as a volunteer. Luckily I also feel that I am on the upswing again and what is the fun in a life that always goes as planned. I spent most of the day yesterday in a tree watching grown men chase and wrestle cows to the ground in a muddy 20 by 20 square to give them shots and I thought to myself, there is almost certainly an easier way, but what’s the fun in that?

That’s enough metaphors for one day.

Madre Tierra

The world doesn’t belong to us, we belong to it. Always have, always will. We belong to the world. We belong to the community of life on this planet—it doesn’t belong to us. We got confused about that, now it’s time to set the record straight. – Daniel Quinn

Happy Earth Day, Feliz Día de la Tierra.

I read somewhere once, that trying to conserve and protect our natural resources is like bailing water out of a boat with a hole in it, hopelessly filling with water. The end result in both cases, drowning. I don’t like drowning and I liked the metaphor even less, which was particularly odd considering my unending love for metaphors. In a weird coincidence I constantly find myself bailing out boats now a days, but it’s never been hopeless, or even bleak. The truth is bailing isn’t a permanent solution in either case, we bail in hopes of returning to shore to make a necessary repair. We conserve and protect in hopes of replanting forests, repopulating the ocean, repurposing our waste, resetting our mindset. The boat like the earth keeps us alive, except if we lose the earth, we don’t have a life raft.
Some of the people who understand the challenges we face as stewards of the Earth the best are tragically some of the most negative people about the future of our planet, I get that we fucked up, I see it every day. I get that what we have before us is bigger than reusable bags and turning off the water when we brush our teeth. I’ve learned about peak oil, climate change, microbeads in our oceans, endangered and extinct species. I’ve seen forests chopped and burned, marshes paved, beaches with more Styrofoam then shells. There’s droughts, flooding, severe weather, hot summers, cold winters, shrinking ice caps, growing landfills. It’s really fucking hard to talk about, it’s stressful, and scary. It’s downright depressing, enough to make a person hopeless. Enough to make a person motivated. Downright ready to fight.
In a world of flight or fight, technology is supporting the latter and the generation to which I belong is the most educated yet. And we are willing to fight, we’ve fought and we continue to fight for equality, a higher standard of living, healthcare, immigration reform. We can see things that are broken and together we can fix them. And on the issue of our beautiful mother earth, the home we as humanity have so unfortunately taken for granted. We treated our home as a resource, when we should have known better. We pulled up the planks from our boat to make a table. We have realized it, we are going green, we are starting to change, starting to think differently, we are doing a little. It’s time to start doing a lot, and I believe that I am not the only one who realizes it, in fact I know I am not.
Maybe our boat is sinking and maybe we never thought it could, but we’ve realized it. I think we can save it, but we need to start making some real improvements. We need to act on climate and we need to do it before we start swimming.
And maybe making a poster in an eighteen student school and having an open discussion in rural Panama isn’t the most effective way to attack this issue, but behavior change needs to start somewhere and my students have found pride in the beauty of nature and most have a desire to keep it beautiful and that’s more than some gente from the states can say. And if I can change their minds, there is hope. We can save ourselves, we can save the earth.

If the world is saved, it will not be saved by old minds with new programs but by new minds with no programs at all. - Daniel Quinn (The man knows his shit, I highly recommend you read Ishmael, and then every other book he’s written).

Also, Panama is great, its hot and sweaty, lots of adventures, challenges and successes, and challenges, lots of challenges. Blah blah. Send Tums and money.

Thank you all for all of your support, seriously I am so humbled to know so many care so much about me. Must of done something right.

sea el cambio

Is it tacky to start every blog I write with, it’s been a while, as though everybody had been waiting around for a new blog post? Should I switch to starting posts with, “greetings from Panama?” Maybe the blog itself is the tacky thing. I am not too sure what the word tacky means, I’ve chosen to treat English more like Spanish now, just use words I don’t know and see if anybody calls me out on them, they never do.
It’s been a while, greetings from Panama.
I read the blogs of other PCVs on occasion, they have an ability to inform people that I lack, if I were to pursue writing it is safe to say I should probably not try for journalism.
For as long as I can remember I have been cursed with a disorder that manifests solely as a desire to save the world. The first time I remember this problem affecting me was while witnessing an act of senseless clear cutting. I cannot say for certain how old I was, but it must have been anywhere from 6 to 8 years old. I can say with certainty that it was the summer. It was an event I had witnessed many times before, but my disorder must have been dormant or even caused by this event. I was in the backyard adoring the beauty of the dandelions a field of yellow, I loved them, and my dad hated them. Why I asked, they were after all and still are much prettier than grass and when they go to seed, wow, its magic, talk about an effective form of dispersion. My dad grumbled something about weeds and neighbors and then he went to get the lawnmower, he was preparing to mutilate my sea of yellow. And why!? For food? For building materials? For cattle? No! Just because, “grumble weeds grumble grass grumble grumble neighbors.” I was in panic, I had to save the beauty of nature, if not me who else? Thoughts raced through my head, I could build a fence, but I already heard the familiar sound of the first of seven or so usual failed attempts to start the lawnmower, there was no time. I could lay in front of the lawnmower, he would just go around me surely, he would have no respect for my peaceful protest. Suddenly at that moment two things happened the lawnmower sprung to life and I sprinted to the area of the lawn most densely populated with my beloved dandelions and I began picking them as fast as I could, running to make a pile on the deck, I would save them all, it was the only answer. I would have to pick them and preserve their beauty in plastic pop bottles, pickle jars, plastic cups, anything that could hold water would need to also host dandelion refugees displaced by habitat destruction. This was the solution, and I had to do it. I cried at the dandelions we lost to the lawnmower, but I knew I had to keep working so their deaths would not be in vain, after the grass clippings had settled and, my dad had retired to the deck with iced tea, I realized all the dandelions I had saved were frying in the sun, they were dead too, and my dad said, “Just throw that over the fence when you’re done goofing around.”
Fifteen or so years later, I teach a group of Panamanian students the consequences of throwing garbage onto the ground, I teach about how trash contaminates water, about the long and sometimes infinite amount of time trash needs to decompose, and I give them garbage bags, I tell them we are going to clean up our community. The teacher lines them up and we leave to go start at the river. A young student while walking to pick up garbage, trash bag in hand, throws his lollipop on the ground. Later, the teacher asked me if we could maybe just burn all the trash we had collected on the bank of the river instead of separating it and burning it in the incinerator.
They say the disorder is chronic, there are still no known treatments, luckily the symptoms are manageable: a wave of discouragement from a lack of success is rapidly replaced again by the overwhelming desire to change the world. Behavior change is sort of like saving dandelions from a lawn mower, but I’m not sure who the dandelions represent, or the lawnmower.

Que será, será.

It has been awhile.
This ones a little jumpy.
Today I hate Peace Corps service, a few days ago I loved it. Yesterday I hated Panama, today I appreciated it's beauty. Being in the Peace Corps here in Panama is at times something I regret, at other times something I am very proud of.
This morning I watched a small barefooted indigenous boy approach a police officer, in a Kevlar vest with an assault riffle in the middle of the road, to give him a piece of candy maybe as a kind gesture, but more likely as a distraction and ploy to get him to bend over just long enough for a slightly taller boy, who had been waiting out of site, to dump half an old dirty two liter's worth of Lago Bayano on his intimidating sunglassed and capped head. He laughed, feigned anger, and then chased them off, he smiled and ate the candy. Now there was a wet well armed police officer with a lollipop, stopping passing cars searching for smugglers of cocaine. I laughed, this is how the eastern side of Panama celebrates Carnivales.
I think I am waiting around for a defining moment of my peace corps service, the defining moment, that moment when my life changes and I see not only the impact I have made on my community, but the impact they have made on me. In a couple of days I will have been in Panama for a year. I haven't had that defining moment yet, I haven't even done what somebody would call a project in my site. I have been here a year and I am not sure what I have accomplished or what I will accomplish.
My girlfriend came to visit me at the end of December, she came on the last day of 2014, we started 2015 together. We spent a couple nights in Panama city before taking an overnight bus to David, six or so hours from the city, followed by an early morning four hour bus ride to Changinola, the capital of Bocas del Toro, we had plans to leave the next day for Costa Rica. I was nervous, really nervous about her visiting, I had been excited, but after over a year of not seeing her, I was nervous. As her arrival grew closer I remember running through horrible worst case scenarios, her showing up and not being able to stand each other in real life anymore. Anyway it was there in Changinola that I realized, I couldn't go to Costa Rica because I left my passport on the other side of the Panama Canal approximately sixteen hours away, on a good day. She didn't even get a little upset and we spent the rest of her visit making similar mistakes and falling in love all over again.
She brought me a package from my dad, who is the most wonderful, generous, and supportive person in my life. He goes above and beyond the call of fatherhood, if it calls, constantly. I regret that I haven't told him enough how much I appreciate him or how I owe almost everything I have accomplished in some sense to him. I guess thats a common realization of growing up though.
I think a big challenge of my service, I actually hate calling it that, service, but it's honestly the best word for it, has been overcoming the expectations set by and stepping out of the shadow of the volunteer who was here before me and to be honest, i still haven't done it yet. Its hard to compete with somebody who made such a huge impact and is so well liked, especially when they are still in the country. I think when I learn how to deal with that, I will find something else to be the biggest challenge of my service, like the evangelical church, for example.
One thing that I can take away from 2014 and my first year of Peace Corps service, other than a paycheck, that allows me to not need to file taxes, is an affirmation of my values and passions in life. Priorities is the actual word I was going for. I recently spent a week working at GAD camp which is a youth development, goal setting, and sexual health workshop that GAD puts on in Panama. In simple terms it is summer camp, with a bit more homework. I loved it, it has been the most fufilling thing I have done so far in Panama. I hate to be that person who talks about summer camp all the time, but I think I really will become a professional camp counselor. The camp reminded me not only the importance of building up, inspiring, and opening doors for the youth, but how rewarding it is. I want to spend the rest of my life doing this, this but with outdoor stwardship and adventure. Thank you Peace Corps for showing me you can't grow out of summer camp, no matter how hard you try.
Tomorrow would be, is my mom's birthday, I don't know the correct way to say it. Something about being in Panama makes her absence in my life seem raw and fresh again. I think the new situation I have found myself in has left me searching again for her support in a new way that I never new I would need. Anyway, i wrote her this poem, or me this poem about her last year and still all I cling to of her is the way she smelled . So as I think of her tonight in the smoke of patcholi and sandalwood I feel it is only right to end this blog post with the poem. Happy birthday mom.

Monday, January 6, 2014
My mothers hair smelled of patchouli and cigarettes.
It only existed braided, or wildly.
Strong and free.
Frizzy, frazzled, and damaged.
My mothers hair was unending.
Like her love, it never stopped.
Never compromised with dye or scissors.
In the wind it would wave wildly entangling.
Forming bonds with itself impossible to break.
Always slightly messy.
My mothers hair mirrored her soul.
Never compromised, but always growing.
It was sure to stay with you.
As pieces remained after each encounter.
My mothers hair was unforgettable
A defining characteristic.
My mothers hair represented comfort.
Safety. Warmth. Love. Peace.
Compassion. And understanding.
My mothers hair hid weakness.
Covered pain.
My mothers hair was beautiful
It smelled of patchouli and cigarettes.