Life on Another Planet

Last Wednesday I received a phone call that sucked the air right out of me. I was in David when my dad informed me that my grandma, my mom’s mom, had suffered a stroke and was not expected to live. The news knocked me to the ground and sadness and homesickness flooded my eyes and pounded in my head. I paced furiously throughout the city for the next few hours. When I finally had a chance to hear my mom’s voice, I knew that I had to get home. Soon.

During the next couple days, I traveled to retrieve my passport from my site, acquired Peace Corps permission to leave the country, and booked a flight. Friday morning I crossed the Costa Rican border for San José for a flight back to Ohio. The long and lonely pilgrimage terminated in the heartland, on my parents’ farm, in the arms of my mother. The next day I went to the hospital with my mom to say my first set of goodbyes to my dying grandmother.

Throughout my week back home I tried to ease the shock and pain in familiar activities, but the dizzying grief and the last half-year in Panama had diminished their familiarity. My skin dried up and flaked with the lack of humidity in the air; the closed up house felt like a sealed box, so I tried opening all the windows; waking up thinking and speaking in Spanish just wouldn’t due. And then there was grocery shopping. Although I had been looking forward to the possibility of indulgence, I was rendered completely useless in U.S. grocery stores. I walked down aisle after aisle (freezing my tushy off) only to arrive with an empty basket to the registers. Overwhelmed with the so many options, not being confined to a Peace Corps budget, and having access to refrigeration at home was just too much. I couldn’t decide what, if anything, to purchase. And then there were the pains of guilt. My parents’ fridge and cupboards were all ready full of food; did we really need more?

So when all else failed I sought comfort in the kitchen. I cleaned and baked: zucchini bread, pear-stuffed pork chops, apple dumplings, chocolate chip cookies, and pear crisp. And then I made grape jam from the grapes that were beginning to fall from the vine outside. And just when I was starting to feel at home again, it was time to say goodbyes. My time at home had expired. I would miss both Grandma’s passing away and the homecoming of my Philadelphia-dwelling sister. Saturday with a very heavy heart (and a heavy bag, full of grape jam) I boarded the first of two planes that would carry me back to Costa Rica, and yesterday I re-crossed the border to return to Panama.

Pictures of the heartland and my journey back…

sunset over the tattered (from Hurricane Ike) corn

the farm

cattails

Mom. she just read Omnivore´s Delima, so I had her pose with the infamous monoculture

bull thistle

the pregnant moos

clouds over Columbus, Ohio

somewhere south of Cuba

Laguna de Arenal, Costa Rica

Bowel-Splitting Bloating

Disclaimer: as the title would suggest, this blog entry is a bit graphic and perhaps way more than you’d ever want to know about me, so if you have a weak stomach or would ever like to think of me professionally or romantically again, please stop reading now…

The uncomfortable bloated balloon feeling was back and worse than ever. The morning’s diarrhea led to a day of painstakingly monitored food consumption, but to no avail. Bowel-splitting bloating was once again ravaging my colon. The acid tasting burps were frequent and I could feel more trouble brewing. The pain was incredible. Five more appendicitis would be preferable to this. I tried laying down, but I felt something rising in my esophagus. I raced to the toilet just in time to vomit… air. Terrible stomach gas really. Like dry heaving, but more painful and decidedly worse tasting. I laid down again, pushing my abs inward to force out more air. Would my intestines really rupture from this pressure? What is the number for 911 in Panama? Oh no, more dry heaves. I race back to the toilet and this time vomit spews out, but with such force it splashes back in my face, in my hair. Eventually my stomach has nothing left to offer up. My whole body aches, I smell of vomit, and I wish for sleep. I take off my splattered tshirt, wad it up, lay down on cool concrete, and continue trying to force the gas out of my abdomen. Sleep comes eventually, and in a couple hours the sun rises.

More burps. And then things start moving in my colon. I race around hunting for a bag. The laboratory will be open today, and I can get tested for parasites. I find a bag, and figure out how to maneuver myself before it’s too late. Mission accomplished. I double bag for good measure, and walk down to the lab.

— Good morning. How can I assist you?
— Good morning. Uh, I’ve been having digestive problems recently.
— Would you like to give a sample of… uh…err… um…(recovering)… for parasites?
— Yes.
— Did you, uh, bring a sample?
I reach into my bag. My current situation has made me surprisingly frank and, well, shameless.
— Yes. It is a couple hours old. Is that okay?
— Yes.
I feel the eyes of the other man in the reception on me. I hand over my bag.
— It should be ready in an hour.
— Thank you.

Two hours later I return. It is Panama, so naturally all wait times need be doubled. I arrive and am told to wait. After 15 minutes, I am handed my lab test results: “Entamoeba histolytica (Q).” I have amoebas. Again. I take my bit of good fortune down the pharmacy, where I am given twice as many drugs as last time (per PC doctor’s orders), and spend the rest of the day how I would imagine an amoeba passing its time in my colon (minus the parasitic food consumption part): being blob-like and releasing enormous quantities of gas.

I know I an generally a pretty happy person and a particularly jolly drunk, but I am evidently a nasty mean sick person. Over a day into treatment I am still have eaten next to nothing and my intestines are still getting mad when I try to do so, so I call up the Peace Corps doctor to ask if that is okay and to see if force feeding myself oatmeal would be a good next step.

“Janell, I know that you’ve had amoebas twice, but I need you to eat something. Go to the cafeteria there in Changuinola and eat their soup with some rice.”

The thought turns my stomach to stone.

I really want to say, “You’re the doctor, you should know what six plus weeks of parasites does to your insides. Do you know how much pain I am in? Dammit do you have any idea how much I don’t want to eat?” But I reply, “Okay.”

After a fifteen minute pep talk with myself, I am putting on my shoes. She’s the doctor, so I’ll give her a chance, but if my nose says “no” I’m going with him on this one. The soup passed my nose, but not my eyes. I could see the chicken grease floating on top. I go to the store to buy some apple juice.

That was a couple hours ago, and things are looking up. I had some yogurt (which was totally against the doc’s orders of “No dairy, that includes yogurt”), but it sounded good, and I haven’t felt or heard any angry rumbling as of yet. And I have a whole arsenal of herbal meds express mailed from Ohio. I think things are settling down, and soon I’ll graduate solid foods again, so I’ll be headed back to site tomorrow, and explain that Janell can no longer accept drinks containing untreated water. It’s a shame, but it’ll be better than round 3 with amoebas.

Timber

Despite waking up daily with garlic breath, the past couple weeks have treated me very well. Munching raw garlic has become more of a treat than a chore. I would describe it as instant digestive gratification, if such a thing existed. Digestive troubles are much less frequent these days and can mostly be linked to sampling an intriguing new fruit or consumption of food with a high sugar or oil content.

I am finally realizing how much produce rots on my community’s soils. We have passed through the season of rotting mangoes and avocados into rotting guava and orange season. Due to high transport costs, high labor inputs, and low prices offered by intermediaries, too often it isn’t worth bringing certain produce to market. As a consequence, I now bring a sack with me when I leave the house to collect what others leave behind. This gives great laughter to my host family. Also, much to their delight, palm heart (the tender top of a palm tree) has recently worked its way up to my second favorite dish (just behind pifá, a fruit which is also fed to the pigs). Apparently for the majority of the community eating palm heart is act of desperate hunger. My host family described the flavor as bland as they devoured tasteless boiled green bananas, white rice, and yucca. When I asked how much a palm heart sells for, I was laughed at (a pretty common occurrence) and told they are free, a waste product. They are left behind when palm trees are cut down and harvested for their fruit. Apparently I have varying views on what constitutes local delicacies.

Work for my house has begun, and it looks like I have one more project to work on in my next two years: reforestation. Seven trees were cut down on the first work day. And while watching each great tree fall filled me with excitement and awe, I was left with remorse for the subsequent gap in the canopy. But my inquiry into possible interest in a reforestation project was answered affirmatively, ebbing my remorse. An estimated two more days of cutting remain, and several weeks’ worth of work will follow: pulling the wood to my house’s proposed site, burying the posts, constructing the frame, laying the floor, raising the walls, weaving the roof’s thatch, and finally raising the roof. A dozen or so incredibly generous community members have vowed donate their wood and labor to the task through the coming months in exchange for breakfast and lunch on work days. And the generosity doesn’t end there. Tuesday when I went to the school for the teacher’s weekly English class, the director’s husband gave me a bundle of twine string for weaving my house’s roof. A nine dollar donation, a large sum on a Peace Corps budget.

Friday, for the first time in a month, I hiked up to one of the hill tops in the skirts of my community to the house of one of my farmers, Ismael. From the mountain there is a magnificent view above the fog all the way out to the Caribbean Sea, which is decidedly worth the burning I am feeling in my legs. Once in the house, I had ate my way through two-thirds of breakfast when I heard a ruckus behind me in the trees. A group of about 15-20 white-faced monkeys were passing through, but not without first cleaning a balsa tree of all of its fruit. I jumped up, climbed down from the house, and headed down a path toward the balsa tree to get a better look as they passed by not unmenacingly overhead. Meanwhile my host dad barley turned his head to look. He had seen them plenty of times before.

Eeks, monkeys in the backyard! One more sign that I live in the jungle. Now if only it wasn’t so darn rainy. ;)

the view from Ismael´s farm

mangotín according to a local, delicious!

casinos, they are everywhere, and the people watching is superb

scorpion eating scorpion

from the bus window coming back from David, the Caribbean

tree roots by the river San San

poisen dart frog (they are everywhere, esp in the mornings)

fresh new editions to my host family

Carved gourds, a traditional Naso craft

Costa Rica (from Panama)! The sketchy bridge that crosses the border

convenience store in Changuinola

All Kinds of Critters

My host mom watches as I empty the ten grains of rice off my spoon into my mouth, chew by default, and force myself to swallow. I can already feel the turbulence brewing within. Just one more bite, Janell, it’ll make her happy, and then you can let the spoon rest. But my head says, “Stupid, stupid girl” and my tummy is shrieking, “Oh, no you don’t! There will be revenge.” And sure enough within a few hours, my belly swells up like a balloon, full of air, very foul air. Trying to pull my tummy in hurts. Bending over induces vomit-laced burps from the pit of my stomach. Why on earth did I try eating? And what kinds of reactions are taking place within my abdomen? After weeks of inflation, deflation, and other err, other discomforts, I finally admit to myself that maybe my body needed a leg up with some modern medicine. I go to the clinic in Changuinola, and am given a prescription to treat the amoebas that had been ravaging my intestines for weeks.

A couple days later, after many pills and nursing my stomach with an oranges and oatmeal diet, I am back in town and have celebrated the amoebas’ defeat with a pint of ice cream. Flavor of choice: cookies and cream. Oh, and I really did mean to share with a fellow volunteer, but after a couple of spoonfuls those silly thoughts melted from my mind. So cold (yea! for electricity!), and so creamy (yea! for daily products!). Oh, what bliss! And the cherry on top: no bloating!

Despite the recent health issues, I have managed to get myself to be at least mildly productive in my community. Which means that I have been reading a lot and fielding questions about the price of a can of tuna in the U.S., which I use some help in answering. However, through the bloating and cramping, I’ve continued my weekly English classes against my community’s protests for my health. I tried convincing them that I was going to get bed sores if I spent one more day in bed, and the issue was settled. We worked on numbers this week, having board races with the promise of candy for the winners. Mind you, the majority of my students are over 30.

For weeks my two oldest host sibling have watched me with curiosity as I practice my swim strokes that I learned in my last quarter in the university (I was going to be a college grad, but I still couldn’t swim!). After many shy refusals, I have finally convinced them to also give it a try. Things are going well. Of course I am no Michael Phelps, but not only have none of my students been lost to the river currents, my class has more than doubled in size to include my cousins as well. And the best part is that class usually ends with crayfish hunting among the rocks. I must admit I was a bit apprehensive the first time that these little guys appeared on my plate with their itty bitty fried eyes staring up at me. After observing proper consumption etiquette, I popped a whole one into my mouth and chewed, timidly but steadily. Not bad. Perhaps not a delicacy, but not bad.

In addition to the deep fried variety that graces my plate weekly, I’ve had many other critter sightings lately. The most novel that presented itself was a 3-toed sloth. The farmer that I was with at the time graciously cut down the tree that the small bear-like animal was happily feeding upon to show me the very slow-moving, rather defenseless creature. There are also sloths of the 2-toed variety, which this same farmer sighted, but failed to kill with his sling shot, so it got away. Apparently having fewer toes allows them to move faster. Scarcely a week ago, my host dad heard a strange noise not far from the house. He left with his flashlight and shotgun, and within minutes came back with two dead cat-like animals (name I forget, but picture is below). He and my host brother subsequently charred the animals over bamboo and hacked them up to feed to the family’s dogs. I have also seen my first toucan that was not on a cereal box. It had also fell victim to my host dad’s shotgun and was then fried for lunch. My last new animal exciting was just as exciting, but in a rather frightening way. It was a coral snake, but luckily I had my handy host mom to impale it with rocks.

the rooster slaughtered for my brother´s birthday

A picture worthy feast complete with crispy crayfish eyes (10 o´clock)

eventual dog food

chocolate cake perfection... my host mom is now selling cake in the community

the recently deceased Toucan Sam

the kittens brought into the world in my room between 2-5 am,
which means I am going to be a cat mom... but first I have to build my house... and then adopt :)

How do satellites stay up?

After two weeks of daily rain, four days of diarrhea, a week of pink eye, and a couple hours of restless sleep, I set off to return to my community with twenty plus pounds of rice, beans, flour, and sugar strapped to my back. The rain had destroyed the path and sickness had destroyed my spirit. And the muck had just consumed my right boot. As I yanked at my boot, I yielded to the frustration and exhaustion. Tears welled up in my eyes, and I clenched my teeth, trying, in vain, to keep them from falling. In half an hour I was expected at Adelina’s farm to teach cacao pruning, but the rest of path there was far worse than the current stretch, and the rain clouds were already rolling in. I finally freed my boot, rinsed it out in an adjacent puddle, and resumed plodding along, regaining control of my tears. I soon recognized three figures coming in the distance: Adelina’s son, daughter-in-law, and grandson. Adelina was sick, very sick they said. She had gone to the clinic for blood tests for malaria (which later came back positive) and dengue. The said that we would not be working today, and I should not worry about Adelina, there was nothing I could do except head home, there was storm brewing overheard.

Other volunteers say that the first few weeks and months in site are trying, and each day is a testimony to that, but at least my days don’t pass without a hearty bit of laughter. As resident gringa in the community, I am the authority of all things technological or foreign-sounding. For example, last night my host dad inquired how do satellites stay up and what is a kilowatt. After a few ‘aye, aye, aye’s and ‘do you want the full answer or a generic one?’, I found myself explaining the principles of relative gravity and electricity to a bewildered Naso man over a kerosene lamp. Aye, aye, aye, enginerd Janell.

Oh, exciting news, construction of my house is scheduled to begin August 25th. It will take several group work days (juntas) to cut all the wood and build the house, but the agricultural producers that I work with are committed to finishing the house by the end of September. I have a site picked out, and the wood, palenquilla (thatch), and labor for cutting and construction will be donated (read: my community is amazing). I’ll supply the fuel for the chain saws, the nails, and the food. I am really excited. Maybe I’ll even bake cake.

kid’s day at the school, an ulgy duckling skit

my two year old host brother singing (his dad holding the mic)

The first cake made from scratch (ever) in my community

Ana frosting the chocolate cake

Raisin and cinnamon cake (the carrots did not arrive) in the "oven"

The coconut shaded primary school

The palm tree of pifá, the fruit that makes up a healthy portion of my diet

the land of nature´s abundance

a pre-dawn departure to catch the chiva out of site... not joking about the mud that swallows people and cars alike