Friday, December 28, 2007

Monday, December 24, 2007

Monday, December 17, 2007

'Tis the season...

For all our consumerism and extravagance, Americans are a very giving people. While eating at my favorite comedor the other night, the owner engaged me in a conversation singing the praises of the goodness of Americans from her knowledge of Compassion International. She was utterly amazed how a person that knows a child only through a picture can be so faithful in writing and sending monetary support and gifts. It moved her deeply that a complete stranger would help a child whose own father had abandoned him.

There is something ingrained in the American ethos that compels us to help those in need. It is a different mindset than the poor helping poor collectivism in the developing world where survival depends on pooling meager resources. Instead it is born out of abundance, when people acknowledge their great fortune to have been born in the most prosperous nation in the world and act upon this by giving to those who have not been afforded such a luxury. Our socially conscious purchases, our child sponsorships, and our donations to emergency relief funds are all outlets for our compassion.

It is with organizations like Compassion International where you get to know the person or people you are helping that makes giving all the more rewarding. I hope that through my blog that you have gotten to know the women of Nu’Kem—“my” women. I hope that through words and pictures you have experienced and will continue to experience their lives here. And I hope that through words I can compel you to give (you probably already saw the pitch coming).

The women of Nu’Kem are paid a set amount for every article they make depending on its size and intricacy of design. The amount of products we make (and consequently the amount of money each woman can earn to support her family) depends on the amount of products we can sell. So while I am earnestly searching for markets for their products, I never want there to be a time when the women aren’t working for lack of funds. They literally can’t afford not to be working.

Through a non-profit called Friends of Guatemala, comprised of returned Peace Corps volunteers from Guatemala, you can make tax-deductible donations to my project anytime throughout my service. Every cent of the check you write to Friends of Guatemala will go directly to Nu’Kem—to ensuring that these women constantly have work to support their families. Checks can be written to Friends of Guatemala with “Kathryn Griffin – Cat. II” in the memo line and sent to the following address:

Friends of Guatemala
P.O. Box 33018
Washington D.C. 20033

Christmas ‘tis the season for lots of things: celebration of Christ’s birth, time with family and friends, opening gifts…and giving.

Saturday, December 15, 2007

Friday, December 14, 2007

En fuego

It was divine design that I was placed to serve in a country that dedicates an entire day to setting things on fire.

December 7th here in Guatemala is “El diá del diablo” (the Day of the Devil) or “Quema del diablo” (Burn of the Devil). The people pile up things no longer needed or useful and burn them in the streets, symbolically representing ridding their houses of evil. After sunset Tactic was filled with smoke and the noise of fireworks (the staple Guatemalan celebratory instrument) as the Tactiqueños burnt the devil out of their homes.

In celebration of the day, I bought a devil piñata that had a striking resemblance to Fidel Castro. After taking pictures of him in various poses (riding my bicycle, reading a book, climbing the ladder to the roof), my host family and I wrapped him with a belt of fireworks, hung him on the neighbor’s gate (their idea) and set fire to him. The gringa’s flaming/exploding devil brought onlookers from the whole street.

Although with all the fires and fireworks, I must say, I was a bit disappointed in the festivities. There was talk of setting a man dressed as the devil on fire in the park that never came to pass, and the customary practice of young men throwing balls of fire at each other also did not take place. I suspect the celebration was tamed down this year given the previous year an errant firework landed in the store of fireworks housed alongside the municipal building setting off a massive explosion that burnt the side of the building and caused extensive smoke damage inside. At least the muni was sufficiently cleansed of the devil.

Thursday, December 13, 2007

Friday, December 7, 2007

A hike out of the valley


Vista de TacticMujeres caminando a sus casas

Mi oficina

Casa en la milpa

Aldea La Cumbre

Tuesday, December 4, 2007

Give Thanks

The turkey killing Thanksgiving post is long overdue, but after eating up, cleaning up, and subsequently throwing up, I had a week of training and Spanish classes in Santa Lucia, which left little time for writing. So about two weeks after the fact here is a little recap of the day’s events to go along with the already posted (some say graphic) pictorial narrative…

The Thanksgiving feast was a true team effort of sixteen volunteers, my extremely helpful host mom, and one very patient taxi driver (Tonto decided to relieve himself one last time in the trunk of his car) that made the meal come together perfectly, albeit not until eight o’clock that evening. Above and beyond “just” cooking, everyone helped in some way—from making trips to the Tactic market to going on runs to Paiz in Cobán, from manning the oven at my house to washing dishes and cleaning—and the results were amazing. We had two turkeys (I must admit the “contingency plan” Butterball tasted a little better than Tonto), mashed potatoes, sweet potatoes, potatoes wedges, macaroni and cheese, garlic bread, grilled vegetables, mint carrots, two kinds of stuffing, gravy, fruit salad, deviled eggs, green bean casserole, broccoli casserole, pumpkin pie, pecan pie, carrot cake and caramel/chocolate bars. This impressive spread was the work of everyone present, but nowhere was the teamwork more needed than in the killing and preparation of Tonto.

Although we had received numerous tips and instruction from Guatemalans, admittedly none of us were completely sure as to what we were doing, but we managed to get the job done. The squeamishness and screams at the sight of spewing blood from the first hack at Tonto’s outstretched neck (I didn’t get the head off with the first blow and had to finish with sawing) and of his headless body convulsing on the ground for the subsequent five to ten minutes eventually gave way. We then set about removing the feathers using a pot of boiling water to loosen them up, breaking and cutting off the legs, and digging out all the internal organs taking care not to rupture the “poo” bag. Next, he was spiced, stuffed, and thrown in the oven. It was quite the lengthy process, but perhaps we would have eaten before eight had we not taken so many breaks to pose for photos with the head, legs, and other dismembered parts and organs—a little morbid, maybe, but how often do you kill a turkey?

Previous to this Thanksgiving, I had only killed one living thing—a squirrel. And even though they are just glorified rats, I still felt horrible after doing it (although, I must say I was proud to have hit a swiftly moving target). So along with my family, other volunteers, and people here in Tactic, I had serious doubts as to whether I could actually kill Tonto, especially after we had become so close. But perhaps because it was not just gratuitous killing (as in the case of the squirrel), when it came time to put the machete to his neck, I felt no remorse. I felt gratitude. I put one of his feathers in my headband, smeared his blood across my forehead (it seemed appropriate at the time), and gave thanks for his sacrifice to our Thanksgiving celebration. And a great celebration it was.

On behalf of all the volunteers at Thanksgiving, I want to extend a huge “thank you” to my amazing mom (my real one). Not only did she pay to put all of us up for two nights in a gorgeous cabin in the woods, but she sent boxes and boxes of ingredients, snacks, and Thanksgiving themed bowls, plates, and napkins that can’t be found here in Guatemala. Thank you so much, mom. I love you.

Tuesday, November 27, 2007

The killing of Tonto

Pilgrims & Indians

Death by machete.

Headless, but still alive.

Pluckin' feathers.

Turkey killing amateurs turned pros.

continued...

Removing the innards.
Dessert.

Tonto's last meal.

Is that a turkey flower?

Wednesday, November 21, 2007

One day to live...

...the turkey, not the child.

Friday, November 16, 2007

Monday, November 12, 2007

The day I became a socialist

So I am not really a socialist. Actually, “capitalist whore” would most aptly describe my free-market leanings…but I prefer not to be constrained by labels. However, while I steadfastly trust in Smith’s invisible hand, I think in many instances below the surface it takes a lot of real hands firmly grasping each other for people to eek out a living.

Nu’Kem is an association—an association of women from five different communities that don’t always agree or get along but that desperately need each other to earn a living for their families. All across the developing world there are associations and cooperatives like Nu’Kem dedicated to growing coffee or fashioning wooden trinkets or weaving cloths or driving microbuses—almost any economic activity imaginable. Without personal funds and very limited opportunities to individual access to capital or foreign aid, the poor band together, working towards a common goal to improve their lot in life. They do it to survive.

Americans don’t completely understand this grassroots socialism, because we don’t need it. We join food coops and REI to get discounts on arugula (with Barack Obama) and North Face Denalis. We are members of associations to express our support of a cause or ideology or to find affinity with like-minded individuals. But we need our organically grown buckwheat groats about as much as we need to show our solidarity with other gun toting Republicans in the NRA. Associations and cooperatives in the states have a lot to do with personal enrichment and expression (and, dare I say, maybe even a little narcissism) but very little to do with survival. When it comes down to making money, our deeply ingrained American individualism kicks in, and we go it alone.

A great prosperous nation has been built on this “pull yourself up by your bootstraps” entrepreneurial American mindset, but a lack of resources and opportunities makes it virtually impossible in most parts of the world. You first have to have a pair of boots before you can pull yourself up by them. Sometimes it takes a group of people to help someone get onto steadier footing.

So I guess am a believer in a sort of nebulous micro-socialism/macro-capitalism—people sharing resources and working together at the community level to be able to participate in the economy on a national level. And it was on September 2, 2005, my self-declared “day I became a socialist”, that this personal economic philosophy began to take root…

My friend Jenna and I were about a month into our five-month overland trek from Cape Town, South Africa to Cairo, Egypt. Exhausted from spending the day climbing the highest sand dunes in the world at Sossusvlei in the Namib Desert of Namibia, we returned to Swakopmund just in time to catch our train to Tsumeb. Given the fact we had pre-purchased tickets with an assigned sleeping cabin, we were naively deceived into thinking it would be a pleasant and relaxing trip through the gorgeous Namibian countryside. We were grossly mistaken.

The moment the train rolled into the station, the quietly waiting group of travelers turned into a near riotous mob fighting to get into one of the two passenger cars of the mostly cargo carrying train. Jenna and I eventually squeezed and pushed our way onto the train only to find the door to our “assigned” cabin barricaded by its new inhabitants. After fruitlessly pounding on that door and practically every other one in the car, we had nearly resigned to set up camp in the aisle when a group of six fifteen-year-old boys kindly invited us into their cabin.

Not only did the boys allow us into their already snugly filled space (the cabin was just slightly wider than a twin bed and about ¾ the length), but moreover they shared everything they had with us. Ill prepared for the seventeen-hour ride, we boarded the train without a drop of liquid or a bite to eat. The boys gave us apples, licorice candies, bags of popcorn, and a loaf of raisin bread. As we discussed American movies and music and debated in which country MTV originated, they passed around a lone paper cup filled with pineapple Fanta for all to drink. When the tiring day in the desert finally overtook us, the boys provided us with blankets and all squeezed into one side of the cabin so we would have a place to sleep.

It was the aggregation of this experience along with many others that followed during my life-changing journey through Africa that made me decide to join Peace Corps. In Africa, as well as here in Guatemala, people struggle—but struggle together—to just live, yet they freely and generously give to those in even more need.

Not knowing what lay ahead, I put the picture of myself on that train through Namibia on my blog to serve as a reminder as to why I chose to spend two years of my life living amongst the poor. But I have long since needed such a reminder and thus the blog facelift. My purpose here is reinforced every day—seeing the joy on Julia’s face while trying on the new poncho she weaved, joking with Yolanda about her need to lose weight before wearing a bikini, attending Elvira’s daughter’s quinceañera party, and spending time at Olivia’s house discussing the alimentation of Tonto. These women are now the only reminder I need.

Nu’Kem is made up of a lot of amazing individuals, and together they will make it.



Saturday, November 10, 2007

Wednesday, November 7, 2007

Me gustaría presentarles a Tonto

I bought a turkey two weeks ago. I named him Tonto (as in “wild one” in Pottawatomie not “silly” in Spanish). I am going to kill him in 15 days time for Thanksgiving.

Thanksgiving is one of my favorite holidays (coming in a close second behind Groundhog Day). Every year my family makes the trek down to Oklahoma to spend Turkey Day with relatives. Steeped in tradition, the festivities begin the night before with marathon games of Monopoly, Risk, and Civilization. Thanksgiving day is kicked off with endless photo sessions (including the infamous ‘grandchildren on the steps’ photo that we continue to take even though someone else is now living in my deceased Grandmother’s house), followed by the mid-morning Griffin Family Football Game in which rarely a year passes that someone is not left bleeding and/or immobile. The Griffin Family Paintball War usually rounds out the activities the next morning (Yeah, my family is just a little competitive).

But here in Guatemala, my surrogate Peace Corps family will have to do. My training group is gathering for El Diá de Gracias here in Tactic at a cabin in the woods. And it is for this reason that I have Tonto.

Since I haven’t the slightest idea of how to care for a turkey, Tonto is currently happily residing at the house of Olivia, a weaver in my association. I make random visits to check on his wellbeing and increase our rapport. He knows I am going to eat him soon and seems well resigned to that fact. We have an understanding.

My mom thinks it inhuman to kill this turkey, especially after giving it a name. She suggested I leave it up to a vote to decide whether Tonto will become Thanksgiving dinner or have his life spared. But there shall be no vote. Tonto’s fate is sealed. I see it as a sort of Peace Corps rite of passage to at least one time slaughter the animal I am going to later eat. The only question that remains is which method of killing I am going to employ: twisting his neck, ripping out his tongue, or chopping off his head. I prefer the latter, pero vamos a ver.

Thursday, November 1, 2007

Tuesday, October 30, 2007

To kiss or not to kiss?

I am closing in on six months in country, and I have yet to figure out the Guatemalan greeting (perhaps I never will). There is forearm grasping, hand shaking, and/or cheek kissing depending on whether the person is a man or a woman, Indigenous or Ladino, urban or rural dweller, or a new acquaintance or a friend. But to my frustration these “guidelines” are loose (and often create contrasting combinations), and I am still at a loss to know which greeting to employ in which situation.

After becoming accustomed to the cheek kissing greeting from the Guatemalan staff during training (Peace Corps is a close family), I arrived in Tactic kissing all the women in my association. I quickly realized that I was making them very uncomfortable which in turn was making me uncomfortable upon seeing their slightly frightened reactions. I stopped and made a mental note not to kiss Indigenous women because it renders them ill at ease.

Soon after I ceased all kissing in general…or initiating it at least. Now I awkwardly wait for the other person to make the first move and simply reciprocate whatever greeting he/she extends to me. Based on the previously mentioned criteria, I try to surmise which advance will be made beforehand with my internal monologue being something to this affect, “Okay. This is a Ladino man living in the muni. Go in for the handshake, but be prepared for the kiss," or “Indigenous women from an aldea. No sudden moments. Just a simple forearm squeeze will do.”

But my assumptions have been constantly proven wrong. Indigenous women whom I have never met sometimes kiss me. Many people I have known since arriving will still only grab my forearm. I often get away with a just handshake from men. I suppose I am destined to fumble my way through the Guatemalan greeting up until I leave…or I can just start kissing everyone again.

Saturday, October 27, 2007

Cooking in Chijacorral


That is a leg of a pig.

Sunday, October 21, 2007

Cleanliness is next to…impossible

It has been previously well established in my blog posts that I am an anal perfectionist. This analness evades every aspect of my life, but nowhere is it more visibly apparent than in the lengths I take to organize and clean my immediate physical environment (in the states the shirts in my closet were organized by sleeve length, type, and color, all hanging in the same direction on a certain wooden hanger…as my friends can attest, I always knew when someone had moved something). While I lack in almost all other domestic skills, I do keep a sterile home…well, did.

My definition of a clean environment has been on a steady decline since my arrival in Guatemala and has now reached an all-time low. Dust bunnies are the least of my concerns. I have been battling bugs, insects, and spiders (occasionally the size of my fist) and am now at the point of concession. Previously armed with a can of Raid, I was spraying every living thing that dared enter my line of sight, until I realized I would sooner kill myself from the fumes than alleviate my pest problem. Then I took to keeping a flip-flop or magazine on hand to smash anything I saw crawling, but I just couldn’t keep up. Now I let the bugs infest my walls and floor in relative peace, going on the occasional killing spree to remind them that their whole existence relies on my good graces.

But is it not the bugs and insects that irk me the most. My house and nearly everything in it is covered with mold. With the constant rain of Alta Verapaz, it is a full-fledged mold factory (Dad, is there some way it can be used for biodiesel?). I sleep at night on moldy sheets. I wake up to bath in a moldy shower and dry off with a moldy towel only to put on moldy clothes and moldy shoes. I flip the pages of moldy novels and write in moldy notebooks. Mold is my closest companion.

Fortunately the mold is not causing any health problems (of which I am aware), but it does throw another kink in my personal hygiene maintenance. Getting and staying clean is a bit more challenging than it was in the states. I am extremely thankful to have running water (well, most of the time…there were periods leading up to the elections when there was no water, which I was told was the result of political power plays in an effort to make the current mayor look bad—although I am not exactly sure who has access to the town water switch) and a shower with a heater, but it comes with its own set of quirks. The water rarely gets hotter than lukewarm if that, and I have to shut it off every minute and a half as not to cut the power to my whole house (the switch to turn it back on is outside). Mixing exposed electrical wires and running water is a recipe for disaster, and I have had my fair share of literally shocking morning showers. Given it isn’t a very pleasant experience, I have cut my showering time down to under five minutes—a fact that I am sure my family finds astonishing.

But in spite of the bugs, mold, and electrifying cold showers, I do have a very comfortable living arrangement. It could be better, it could be worse, but, hey, I am in Peace Corps.

Wednesday, October 17, 2007

Mold


If this is the mold accumulation on my pants, I wonder what my lungs look like.

Friday, October 12, 2007

¿Cómo siente volar, Seño?

“What does it feel like to fly, Seño? Is it like riding in a camioneta?” a woman from Guaxpac asked me yesterday as a plane flew overhead—a rare occurrence here…The question almost made me cry.

How do you fully explain to someone a sensation in which she will never in her life experience? The closest these women have ever been to a plane is seeing them pass thousands of miles above their heads. Most have not even visited the capital, which is only less than 120 miles away (though it takes anywhere from 3 ½ to 5 hours to get there). I have seen more of their country in my five months here than they ever will.

Coming from a country of privilege, there are so many experiences in my life that I take as commonplace—flying being one of them. I have been riding in airplanes since before I could walk, and never once has someone asked me to describe how it feels. People in the States don’t need to ask. They know.

So with 15 indigenous women and their children intently listening, I tried my best to describe in detail the take-off and landing, “And other than that, yes, it is basically like riding in a camioneta…except for the turbulence.”

Tuesday, October 9, 2007