Slow Progress

The passing of time has aided my recovery from the unfortunate events described in my last entry. Although I will remain acutely aware of what has passed, it has converted from an intense and overwhelming obstacle to a severe blemish that will mark, but not degrade, my Peace Corps experience. To speed my recovery I began to socialize and pasear more proactively, and was pleased to see people´s attitudes towards me were in no way changed. At the time of those incidents I had become more reclusive and aloof- I rarely paseared as I was weary of the mental and physical energy it required. Being among people again has certainly helped a great deal and shaken many of my fears. Although I avoid them somewhat, I am pleased to say I no longer feel hatred and fear towards those women who took me too lightly. I feel a bit more liberated as their control over me diminishes;I view them with indifference, and at times, pity.
My resentment towards those who failed to help me is also receding into more distant memory. After seven months and seven different houses, I finally moved into my own- not to say that it wasn´t a struggle getting to that point. The privacy and independence of living on my own have eliminated the fear of being a burden to others. Though they do not necessarily deserve a volunteer, there are people in the community I can help. For the sake of work, I will try to dismiss the indignation and resentment I occasionally experience. I resign myself to the notion that many volunteers before me have faced worse obstacles, and a few meddlesome and ill-educated women are not among them. An apathetic community, on the other hand, is certainly a huge impediment. Even if my projects fail, I will have at least completed two of the three chief Peace Corps goals: facilitating cultural exchange and improving cultural understanding. As some of us PCVs like to say, ¨when I think I have it bad, I think of that PCV in Africa that has it ten times worse!¨

Feliz Navidad to all-may your Christmas be colder and whiter than mine (which is certain)!

Not-So-Great-Expectations

When I accepted my invitation to serve in the Peace Corps, I did so with caution. I never was bubbling with energy or optimism like so many others. I never harbored visions of grandeur or inflated expectations. In fact, I tricked myself into believing I had no expectations at all. But what I never expected was an experience that is falling far below the minimal expectations I thought were once nonexistent.


The harsh reality of a PCV´s (Peace Corps Volunteer) service is that only a tiny fraction of the volunteer´s community will have been responsible for his or her presence. Usually only a select few with a common interest will ask for a volunteer, and the majority of the community will be ignorant of the PCV´s purpose and react with indifference. While I never expected a welcome comittee, I was quite surprised by my first reception to my community- no one did anything. Without the promised community guide, I was forced to pasear (visit people´s houses) on my own. It was difficult enough introducing myself and small-taking with strangers as if I belonged in the community, even moreso in a foreign tongue. These residents had no idea why I was in the community, let alone on their porch. I never knew if I was wandering to the house of a drunk or creepy old man, and many people viewed my arrival with nearly equal apprehension.

I can now say fervently that those who asked for a volunteer have failed to take responsibility for me. By my third month I had to search for another host family because I was not given an appropriate option by those who promised to be responsible for my housing. I accepted an invitation from a woman who had no responsibilty for my being in the community- a Catholic woman I hoped to befriend to avoid reinforcing the communal divisions the prior volunteer followed during her service.

Meanwhile, I was trying to bridge the communal divisions of religion by befriending the Catholic women. It was the Evangelicals that had asked for a PCV; the Catholics never worked with the past volunteer. Maybe it was a naive move, but in order to be fair and just, I tried to befriend them. And so I thought I had.

I was aware of gossip about me in the community but it never affected me until it meddled with my permanent living arrangements. A man who promised me to rent me a house backed out at the last minute due to a rumor circulating that he was only doing so to involve himself, lets say, impurely, with me. Less than a month later a friend told me that the Catholic woman I thought was a friend had very publicly said some awful things about me in the bus. She and several of the Catholic women I had considered friends had been saying cruel things behind my back for quite a while. This, unfortunately, included the woman I was living with.

Initially I became sick at the sight of those women in the street (which is daily) and avoided public exposure. Now I still have stirrings of anger, but they are tempered with pity. I have since been told those women are horrible gossips and should never have been meddled with in the first place. In my attempt to be fair and give these undeserving women the chance to work with me, I have done more damage than if I had left them alone.

For the majority of this past month I endured a lead stomach and woke up with dread and apprehension. In the most recent days I have resigned myself to my situation and try to approach each day with more indifference. These women continue to talk behind my back, disguising their dislike with polite formalities in the street. Therefore, I am not going to try so hard to appease everyone, and will see how things pan out.
As hard as it is to deal with this situation, it is more difficult to accept the overwhelming failure of my community in providing for me in the first months of service. I usually feel like a burden as I am always having to ask favors and impose on people; no one has stepped up to help as promised in the begining. I don´t always feel wanted here- and I didn´t give up my life in the States for that. I refuse to feel like an abandoned dog that was adopted out of pity when I was specifically requested. I see the potential of the projects here, but am unsure if those who requested me actually deserve my help. The only thing that keeps me in my community is the feeling that my work will be worth the pain, humiliation, and distrust I have experienced this past month. I knew Peace Corps would be trying, but not to the degree that I would feel so unwanted and sorely out-of-place. I realize now that I did have at least one expectation coming into service- that my presence would not be resented. I expected caution and indifference, but not rejection.

I will pardon those women who have hurt me as I know they have not been taught better and never receieved the opportunities I´ve enjoyed. Their behavior is a way of life and it is all they know. I will also try to pardon those who failed to take responsibility for me, and consequently are responsible for my current situation. I was offered the chance to change sites, but I figure the least I can do is stick this out a bit longer. There certainly are PCVs in much more challenging situations, and I will have to try and grow from this, instead of running from it. I´m hoping that my not-so-great-expectations will be fufilled by the end of service, and that I can look back on this as an unfortunate but enlightening experience.

Half a Year

Although it doesn´t feel like it, I have been in Panama for half a year now. I have been in site for over three months- only 21 more to go....About now I am organizing tasks and determining what exactly my work will be. At this point it appears I will continue working with the conservationists´ group to keep the vivero afloat and hopefully improve its business prospects (a vivero, for those unfamiliar with the term, is a nursery for trees). There is also the possibility, if the money ever arrives from Biological Corrider, to inititiate a small-scale community-led ecotourism project along the Chiriqui River. My other focus will be environmental education in the local primary school (with students up to fifteen years old). Additionally, I am supposed to start and maintain a environmental youth group called Panama Verde. As the community expects English instruction, I will eventually teach a few night courses. When the rainy season finally ends, I will work with community members to construct Lorena Stoves. These stoves supposedly require less firewood, and at the very least, reduce excessive smoke inhalation.


A lot to do in only two years, and ideally (although I have reservations about the feasability of this) they will be sustainable. These plans are all tentative, and as I´ve already learned from the meager time accrued in site, flexibilty is a requirement, not an option.


It has been extremeley trying living in seven different households over the past six months. The prospect of being estranged from California for two years doesn´t help either. At times, it is overwhelming. At least when studying abroad I had numerous distractions and could converse with English-speaking friends. Here distractions are far less frequent, and even moreso, English friends (or friends at all for that matter). A radio ad for Kenny G in concert in Panama (oh the things that cross US borders....) has been running endlessly. And Lord help me,I was honestly tempted to buy a ticket. The soft jazz conjures up images and sensations of the Bay Area and all its goodness- cheesy and stereotypical as they may be: open-air cafes, the Golden Gate, crisp breezes, damp fog rolling in, sourdough bread, mellow sunsets, golden beaches, and even car drives with my dad and KOIT playing on the radio. Sometimes at night I lie in bed with my tiny radio pressed to my ears (so as to not disturb others) and fiddle with the tuning to locate familiar songs. Whether it´s Journey, Sinead O Connor, or even a little Tim McGraw (if I´m lucky enough to encounter it much), I feel slightly less displaced. In the darkness I decompress, but when light returns my efforts appear in vain.

Out of The Blue

I had been at my third host family´s house for over a week when I finally realized that they had two, not one, dogs. I saw something staring at me from afar, a black and white head peeking over the trash heap, as I was washing my clothing in the sink. The frozen form was so immobile that closer inspection was required to confirm it was indeed alive. Among the garbage and pools of stagnant water sat an emaciated but very much alive adult dog. And so, in the midst of my washing routine, Blue entered my life.

The owner said she was a ¨bad dog¨ because she bites (there isn´t a dog here that doesn´t supposedly bite), and because she steals eggs from neighboring chickens. Based on her amiable temperament and emaciated state I deduced that she bit because they hit her (others confirmed this abuse), and stole eggs because she was starving. When I came to Panama I NEVER thought I would adopt a dog because it would be too difficult to leave behind. The last thing I wanted was the responsibility for another life- be it dog, cat, or even chicken. Nearly every woman here has inquired as to why I don´t already have or desire children. I would tell them I couldn´t commit to caring for a dog, let alone a child. I´ve seen many a mangy, abused, and severely underfed dog here, and have often told myself that there is no point in helping them as there are far too many. But I suppose this apathy can become dangerous if the whole world was viewed in this manner- nothing would ever change for the better. This is particularly important for me, as I am supposed to have a tiny impact here that although seemingly insignificant, will serve a greater good in the the distant future.

At the very least I can give this mutt a decent two years and try my best to find a home for her. Our doxie, Sophie, died unexpectedly and at a rather young age. I like to think that I´m giving this dog two years that Sophie should have had.

On a lighter note, my new friend is happier and slowly gaining weight. I don´t have to do much to please her at all because she is used to so little in the first place. When I told my dad that she looked like a Dalmation, he dismissed the idea with a laugh and a ¨I highly doubt that, Lizzie¨ (you don´t exactly find purebreds in rural, slightly impoverished towns like this). Now I can laugh at him, because she is indeed a dalmatian, an unwanted gift from a relative in Boquete. Her best feature is her eyes- one is chocolate brown and the other is ice blue. Hence the name, Blue. I, however, want to change her name to something a little more creative, considering I am a native English speaker. People find her eyes quite comical and joke that she has one eye like me. For lack of better choice in the pet store she is sporting a hot pink collar (which I justify as a forthright celebration of her femininity....). She is one of the three female dogs I have seen out of perhaps hundreds of males in this community. Females here are considered a burden as they will always produce puppies, and the female puppies are usually abandoned and left to die (my friend just rescued two that were left to die). But, to be fair, these practices are quite common in rural areas of the US too. Within the span of one week, three of us volunteers in the province of Chiriqui rescued dogs- and all of us were against having dogs in the first place. Even if we leave our communities in the same state as when we arrived (heaven forbid!), at the very least there will be three happier mutts in Panama.

It´s a Small World After All..........In Panama

Maybe it´s just because I am from a state as large and diverse as California, but I have become acutely aware of exactly how tiny Panama is. That, and how blissfully unaware her people are of this.

When I try to relay the scale of California to people in my community, I always am met with furrowed brows, shaking heads, and bugged-out eyes. I haven´t even tried to explain NY City, and can only imagine the responses such an attempt would receive. Here in Panama, the ¨big city¨ is the capital, Panama. Everything else is referred to as ¨the interior¨(which, I would think, should be called the exterior as it is all the area outside of the city). Over half of the Panamanian population lives in the city (as it is usually called), the population of which is a little over three million. All the other larger cities of Panama have fewer than 300,00 people each. Consequently, all news revolves around what occurs in the city.
The evening news is what consistently reminds me of how tiny Panama is. Events that would barely make the afternoon local news become headline reports in the evening. A fist fight at a school in the Province of Colon, a death on the Panamerican Highway in Cocle, or the failure of the government to cut the grass in a park in Chiriqui all make it on the evening report. To fill up an hour of news reporters have to cover the most (what I would consider) irrelevant news, or at least, events that are usually omitted in our TV programs. These reports span all of Panama, for one province alone simply wouldn´t provide enough substance. The spheres of local and national news here don´t just overlap, they are one and the same. They are perfectly content focusing on Panama alone, even if international events carry more weight. It seems that they are so unaware of the larger sphere of which they are only a mere component, that they can´t see how international news relates to them indirectly (and consequently, they don´t care about it).

Commercials are, oddly enough, another indicator of Panama´s size. Most of the major department stores are located in Panama City alone, and yet commercials for them run in all the provinces, as there are only 2 Panamanian channels for the entire country. I get excited to see there is a sale at a store I like, only to remember that to get to that store I would have to ride at least 10 hours in transport to the city. It´s like a Californian constantly viewing commercials for stores that are located only in Oregon or Nevada. If I had a penny for every Dunkin Doughnuts commercial I´ve seen I would be rich, but I´d have to use that fortune to pay for the transport to the 2 locations that exist in Panama. Even the celebrities that endorse these products (Dunkin Doughnuts included), are all people that are widely known in Panama but otherwise uknown in Latin America. Pop icons Sammy y Sandra Sandoval are ever-present in commercials, whether they are selling cars or pushing lottery tickets. Known for their production of Tipico music (the traditional music of Panama), they are completely unknown in neighboring countries.

Perhaps the most entertaining example of this whole phenomenon was the return of Irving Saladino from the Olympics. Saladino was the only medal winner from Panama, and his victory was all the more significant for the Panamanian people because the last gold medal won for the high-jump was received over fourty years ago. Yet, the scale of his reception exceeded the merit of such an accomplishment (or at least I thought). He become an overnight celebrity: school was cancelled for two days (unfortunately that may have been one of the most valid reasons yet I have heard for the cancelling of class), he toured the country for a week in a car procession, was presented awards by the president, and there were two days of festivals throughout the larger cities. Before the man even set foot on Panamanian soil he was present in two different commercials that ran relentlessly on the TV. His reception recieved 24 hour news reception; the woman I was staying with said she hadn´t seen such coverage since 9/11 (I was relieved to know that the two events carried such similar weight in the minds of the Panamanian public). The news channel even developed a catchy jingle to play during commericals with footage of his victory. Even now his face and name are plastered over billboards and storefronts- he remains a living legend. It would seem this grand scale reception would be appropriate at a local level in the States, but at a national level it would be unheard of (at the very least, for such a duration of time).

Even if they are simply unaware of just how small their nation is, the Panamanian people are content with what they have and don´t seek to widen their otherwise narrow view of the world. The majority of the people live in small rural towns and rarely leave their towns, let alone provinces. Even if it is confined to the borders of Panama, the world they inhabit must appear a large world after all.

Son of a Bitcho

I never have enough time for internet, so posts may become a little less frequent than I would like. Time is passing quickly enough in site and I now have been in site for a month and a half.
Life here is as past volunteers have said, a bit manic. Everyday is a emotional roller coaster and one moment I am happy to have received an invitation or friendly smile, while another moment I am down in the dumps about a less-than-friendly reception. Several times a day it hits me that I have roughly two years left and a knot forms in my stomach. But it helps keeping in touch with people and I know that eventually I will have projects in full-gear to distract me.

As far as adventures, I can now say I have killed a snake with a machete. I was visiting a family´s house when the mother called for a machete. I assumed a scorpion was in the kitchen (I almost always assume this as I have developed quite the phobia) but it was actually a tiny snake. Tiny, but poisonous. It´s called a vivora, and it is a general class of snakes that have the triangular viper-type heads. I ended up sweeping it outside and hacking it into two because the women just jabbed it in the head and it was obviously suffering. The family was taken aback by the force I used when killing it, and the ease with which I performed the task. I felt bad about it, but it was going to die anyways, and I figured I could ease the suffering. (I will never, however, kill chickens!) That day I also caught and freed several toads from their house (every one of which peed all over me in the process, a defense mechanism). They would call me in when they spotted a toad and were quite amused that I didn´t fear touching the toads as they are sometimes "poisonous." Panamanians, especially the women, fear all living things- even harmless ones like newts. Everything to them is "poisonous" and therefore fair game for a machete.
The scorpion war continues and I caught my host family trying to kill one without my finding out. The visiting niece came into retrieve the machete and when I questioned her she responded, "nada." Mentirosa! (liar!) I called her on it (because no one carries a machete inside the house unless they are trying to kill some unwanted pest) and sure enough I found people staring at a scorpion on the wall. They laughed when they saw how I figured it out because now I am just a source of amusement to them when it comes to scorpions. My new swear word is "son of bitcho!" because no one has any idea what I mean. Bitcho is the word for pests and insects, and I enjoy usuing an expression I mean as a vulgarity but can never be called-out on.
I rode a horse to a neighboring community one day and it ended up being over four hours on horseback. The return portion was during a rainstorm too I may mention. At times the horse began to gallop and I was certain I would fall off. It didn´t help matters that were were (as I soon found out) going to clean the grave of the family´s father- who died from falling off a horse. But it was fun and very surreal, and most definitely worth the incredible pain of the following two days. I felt like a "vieja" (old woman) and barely left the house.

I miss California and what I left behind. It´s hard to move forward when you´re focused on what´s behind you; therefore I am trying to be more future-oriented.

One Month in Site

As of yesterday I have had one month in site. Only 23 more to go! Hmmm....
As expected with the mundane and uneventful nature of campo life, not much has occurred since I wrote last. I am in David stuffing my face with chocolate and ice cream because two weeks is too long to live without such things :)
Life here is still somewhat a novelty, but what I find new and surreal, the locals merely laugh at. Five nights ago I was attempting to fall asleep when I heard a scratching noise from the ceiling and felt something fall on my blanket. I grabbed a flashlight and searched for whatever it was, but because I didn´t have glasses I could barely distinguish anything. After a moment of searching something bit me and I felt a burning sensation on my lower leg. Naturally I flipped out, assuming that whatever it was, it was surely poisonous. The tropics harbor many poisonous spiders and snakes ( as I am reminded on a daily basis), and finding one in my bed wouldn´t have been impossible. My host family searched for the critter and eventually found, hiding in a shoe, a giant scorpion. I hadn´t even thought of the possibility of a scorpion, but when it returned to the scene of the crime, my bed, I was speechless. They used a pair of pliers to remove it and throw it outside, and I remained huddled under a sheet in my bed, unable to sleep. The assurance from one person that I was lucky it didn´t fall on my face didn´t help at all. Its thorax and abdomen were about three inches long, and fortunately it wasn´t a severely venomous scorpion (which are usually small and black). Fortunately, I think it bit me through my sheet and wasn´t able to dispense much venom. The upshot of this is that I know I´m not allergic to scorpion bites! Whenever I relay this story to the locals they know from the very beginning that it was a scorpion and I needn´t continue with the tale. Apparently scorpions are common enough, and almost everyone gets bit sooner or later. Hopefully being bitten sooner means there will be no later for me!
I am having a hard time adjusting to the tranquility and laid-back nature of campo life. I didn´t realize how much I enjoy being around people and in a busy atmosphere. The solitude and silence is stifling at times and I often feel suffocated by it. Past PC Volunteers say it takes about a year to really adapt to it, meaning there is a long road ahead of me.

While on the bus to David we passed by the usual gated communities of Norte Americanos, and this time, went to the entrance of one to drop off locals. The women go to clean and maintain the homes, while the men and boys stick to yard work. I felt so ashamed and out of place at that moment. For all they knew, they were headed off to clean my house or trim my grass. Every person I meet assumes I am from Boquete or some other Gringo community. Why on earth would a white girl like me be living anywhere else, let alone with other Panamanians? It´s frustrating living outside of both the communities here as I fit in neither sphere. I will always be a rich outsider to the locals, and can never identify myself with those " of my own kind."
The only interesting aspect of that humiliating moment was the community itself. These Norte Americanos claim they come here for the cool climate and the tropical landscape. But from what I could see from the bus window, the community was devoid of any such landscape. Trimmed grass, artificial fountains and waterfalls, statues, manicured shrubbery, and elaborate patios were the only things that met my eye. Any remnant of tropical landscape had long been destroyed. The mountains in the distance were breathtaking of course, and perhaps, that is why they choose to live in such a community. The novelty and beauty of the landscape could be enjoyed from far away, while the luxuries and comforts of first-world living are immediate and accessible.

I have had more than my fill of white rice, fried hot dogs, and fried bread. At the base of the Panamanian food pyramid is white rice and fried bread, and various other simple sugars. Above that is sugar and fat - sugar in the form of juice, coffee, candies, and soda. It will be a sheer miracle if I leave Panama without a mouth full of cavities. Fat is, of course, oil, because everything is fried (baking is rarely spoken of let alone done). The third level consists of carne: fried hotdogs, chicken you pick off bones, tough pieces of beef you have to rip with your teeth, and fried pork, which contains more fat than meat. I am tempted to place hotdogs in their own category becaus they are such a staple. The hot dog section of supermercados dominates that of other forms of meat, and last night I saw a commercial for a new Pizza Hut pizza with a hotdog crust. Only in Panama. And lastly, at the apex of the pyramid, are fruits and vegetables. Despite the fact I live in the breadbasket province of panama, I rarely see vegetables besides yucca or onions. I can´t wait to be able to cook for myself for once, and to finally feel full an hour after I have eaten. Most of the meat here disgusts me, so I am sticking to packages of dried soya as my protein source.

The presence of American culture is, quite naturally, becoming more and more apparent to me. Not only is there a Latin American Idol, but Panama has its own version of the show, "Vive la Musica," complete with horrendous product placements and supplemental reality shows of behind-the-scenes material. Much of the clothing here has writing in English, which no one can read. Common sense dictates that one should only wear what one can understand and defend, but who would these people ask for a translation anyways? Young girls flaunt tanks with vulgarities ("Move, bitch!") while older women sport shirts with tween/teen targeted expressions ("Dump him!" or "Mrs. Clooney"). As if those women even knew who Clooney is....At the very least, the clothing has become a source of entertainment for me.

A Long Time Overdue

I have had two weeks in site now and finally can enjoy the prospect of regular internet access. I will try to post once every two weeks or so when I have the opportunity to go into the nearest city, David. My future home for two years Paja de Sombrero is a little pueblito nestled at the feet of the Chiriqui Mountains. The higher elevation affords it a slightly less uncomfortably tropical climate, but it does get quite humid and hot during the day.
The area has its share of beautiful vistas and I hope to post pictures in the future. Unfortunately, the area is heavily deforested due to cattle-ranching and dam projects. What used to be bosque (dense forest) is now reduced to wide expanses of grubby cattle fields. The redeeming factor is that everything is lush green as we are entering the wet season. Even the most heavily deforested areas are, at times, stunning. It seems the best asset of Paja de Sombrero is its proximity to the Rio Chiriqui- one of the largest rivers in Chiriqui. For about 3 or 4 months of the year the river is brimming with tourists and Panamanians looking to swim in its waters. The province of Chiriqui is known for its rivers, and unfortunately, its dams. Huge swaths of beautiful forest are destroyed and countless communities uprooted in the name of these dams. Some of my work will deal with reforestation of the watershed- a burden that falls upon local communities. A community member told me that Panamanian law dictates that for every tree cut down, ten must be planted. As we see in the States, there is a huge disparity between what is written and what is done. The government is failing to close this gap, and by initiating more dam projects, is only widening it. It´s incredibly disheartening to hear from people that they regularly saw Toucans and monkeys during their childhood, while nowadays such creatures are banished to the surviving forests higher in the mountains.
One of the oddest aspects of life here is my regular exposure to Norte Americanos, i.e. Gringos. Chiriqui is the up-and-coming place to live in Central America for Gringos because its mountainous areas provide a lush tropical landscape, without the uncomfortable heat or humidity. The vast majority of the inhabitants in my area work for Gringos in Bouquete, or are constructing their mansions in gated communities nearby. I have seen more hideous Hawaiian shirts and heard more massacring of Spanish than I care to remember. To say the least, it is disturbing to see how self-rightous these ex-pats are as they cluster together in private communities and hardly interact with locals. Many care little about learning the language or the culture, and see Panamanians as cheap labor, not members of their community. It´s not neccessarily the concept of ex-pats that is so wrong, just this unwillingness to exchange. Great people have been ex-pats (my favorite being Joyce), but these people used their unusual situations to achieve greater things. They embraced foreign cultures, learned from them, reflected on their own, and achieved something greater than their own culture could afford. Even in my case, I feel as though I am learning more about American culture by comparing with Panamanian culture. It as is though I am viewing my life as I saw it through a different lense. For this, I am becoming grateful.....