La vida llamó: November 2007

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.

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.