Lasting Impressions from Colombia

The Pilgrimage

     One community event at the second site I taught at was particularly memorable. It was an annual religious pilgrimage. The people in the vereda invited me to watch them prepare their Virgin Mary statue for the trip, then we got up at 3:30 the next morning (no class that day—a Friday—since no one would be around) to prepare food for the journey and get ready to leave on foot at 5:15 a.m. There were about 30 of us and it was a beautiful 3½-hour walk – a good way to get to know people in the community. When we arrived at the designated site in a field, there were already about 300 people there with lots of dancing, drinking and visiting in progress; it reminded me of a country fair. The priest didn't show up until almost 11 a.m. so some of the fellows were rather unsteady on their feet by the time the mass was said. In spite of protestations and the fact I'm not Catholic, the group I was with pushed me up onto the wooden stage to sit with the priest and all the statues. How embarrassing! Fortunately, I wasn't asked to speak. Soon thereafter the priest left and everyone headed (some staggering) home. Someone loaned me a horse to get to the main road where I soon caught a cattle truck to the nearest town, then a bus home for the weekend.

      Over the years, I've stayed in touch with one member of that community who invited me to stay at her home a few weekends, and whose sisters I met at other sites. Like many Colombians at the time, they had two photos on their living room wall: one of Pope Paul VI, who visited Bogota in 1964, and another of President Kennedy, who visited Colombia in 1961.

Butcher Shop: the burro is tied to the "counter" where meat was sold by someone who butchered an animal each week, rain or shine.. Customers brought their own pan or bag in which to carry purchases home.

Gimme the Keys, Please

     When you rely on whatever form of  wheels that happen by you can find yourself in uncomfortable situations. Sometimes on Friday trips back to the city, the Jeep or truck that happened by was driven by someone who had already started celebrating the weekend, or perhaps atttended a clausura. On one such trip when an obviously inebriated driver stopped along the way for another drink, I suggested he let me drive. He laughed, saying I wouldn't know how to drive a stick shift. I insisted I knew how and, surprisingly, he handed over the keys. The other passengers were men but they seemed relieved and nixed my offer of letting one of them drive. I drove straight to our apartment and handed the keys to one of them. The original driver slept the whole way.

Mule carrying cane that will be processed into sugar, brown sugar (always added to coffee here), or fermented into gurarapo, a strong alcoholic drink.

“Because He Loved Her”

     Something worse than drunk-driving happened as I arrived at the office in the city one Friday afternoon. I was getting my things out of the trunk of a shared taxi when the driver rushed back and pulled me to the ground behind the car. He pointed to the building and we peered above the car to see a man with a gun menacing one of the childcare workers who was supervising children in the big fenced yard. He shot her. The children screamed and ran and someone came out to grab the man, another to carry the girl inside. When the man was under control and the police arrived, I continued into the building and in the confusion was asked to say something to the children. I couldn't speak. How can you explain what they just witnessed to a child? Fortunately, another woman came to the rescue and handled the situation beautifully. I truly admired her calmness and ability to convince the children that if everyone sang for the girl, she would feel much better. They sang and sang through their tears. The girl survived, fortunately. I was still shaken when I went to the SENA offices (my Colombian bosses) a short while later and was distressed when even they weren't alarmed and said the boyfriend had surely done it “because he loved her.” He was apparently jealous when she rejected him for someone else.

Beliefs

     Every culture has them, ones that seem odd to people from elsewhere. I encountered many in Colombia, especially in rural areas. Some were harmless, others had merit. Among them:

Childbirth: after giving birth, a woman was supposed to remain in bed and not bathe for 40 days, resting and eating only chicken and beets (beets were believed to be good for the blood). I never talked with a woman who had done that and can only imagine how difficult it would have been without strong family support since, without the modern conveniences we take for granted (electricity, running water, cooking and washing appliances, etc.), daily life was quite demanding. And chicken was not cheap, even if you raised your own. It was served on special occasions. Besides, how awful would you feel being cooped up so long without bathing or exercise? Childbirth itself would surely have been more pleasant.
     I was told girls and women should not eat limes or avocado during their periods. One group asked me if it was true that women shouldn't look at snake bites then either.
     One woman told the class if you have a nosebleed, you should inhale smoke or put your head over a cup of lime juice (limes were supposed to "cut" the blood).
Asthma: a driver told me that turtle blood is the best remedy.

Year Two in Colombia

Second Year as a Peace Corps Volunteer

     The year was filled with  preparing and teaching eight leadership courses, then visiting the dozen or so communities represented at each course the following month. It meant traveling even more in remote regions but, to me, that was the best part. Visitors were rare and a foreigner even more so, hence the women were most welcoming. Not only was I immersed in beautiful country, but Colombian culture. While I sometimes envied volunteers who spent their entire time getting to know one community really well, I appreciated that I got to see so much of the country and meet so many people (and I'm a relatively shy person!).

    In the end, I extended my service for a third year to work as assistant to the Peace Corps' health and nutrition director. It meant broader travel throughout the country and frequent trips to Bogotá.

Rural teaching site

Both were nice but I still remember the people and time in the remote rural areas best.

     When you extend your service you get a month break at home, in the U.S.. While there, I got a call from P.C. headquarters asking if I'd go to El Salvador for two months on my way back to Colombia, to prepare and execute a training program for women volunteers. It was another unexpected and fascinating opportunity.

Here are two memorable Colombian cultural experiences:

Transportation:

Getting to remote rural areas was often a challenge and a good way for clock-driven gringos to learn to just go with the flow. Often the better part of a day would be spent getting to a teaching site, no matter how early in the morning I'd leave my home base. It usually involved a pre-dawn arrival at the dusty bus plaza where the aromas of coffee, fresh-squeezed orange juice, cigarettes and diesel fuel mingled in the cool air with tinny cumbia or ranchera music coming from transistor radios.

    Young men would stand by each bus to watch for potential riders, sell tickets and bark the bus's destination every few minutes. Inevitably, just as the bus was taking off, they'd be engaged in deep, important conversation with someone a distance away and would have to run to heroically jump on the bus when it was in full motion. Very macho, very amusing, very predictable - and dangerous.

Fellow ag teacher heading to an assigned site

     The bus would arrive in a town or village where one would take another bus deeper into the campo (rural area), usually on bad (sometimes very bad) roads with steep climbs and no guard rails on narrow mountainsides. Fortunately, the view was usually breath-taking enough to keep your mind off the deadly possibilities. These vehicles were called mixtos and were actually wooden frames with bench seats, a flat roof (for baggage, jute bags of produce and often extra passengers) built on a flatbed truck. They were painted in the colors of the Colombian flag: yellow, blue and red. Roll-down canvass covers on the end of each row offered a bit of protection during driving rainstorms. Otherwise, it was all open-air.
     Mixtos were especially fun to ride back into town later in the week, because I knew many of the passengers by then. Everyone else knew each other and would greet the entire busload as they got on. The chilly pre-dawn bumpy, jostling ride was filled with friendly banter and often live animals headed to market at one's feet or back – chickens, goats, or piglets. It was a community on the move, in for a long day at market, appointments, or doing errands. Most would return on the same bus later that day.

     For really remote sites, the last stage of trip was by foot, horse or mule. Someone would meet me at the road – either a woman from the class, or a young boy, usually barefoot, who would walk the whole way if he'd brought a horse or mule, unless I could convince him to take turns riding.

     The mixto drivers were sometimes messengers, as well. Once, I got a message upon its evening return that I needed to call the Bogota' office immediately. I couldn't until the same mixto went back to town at four o'clock the next morning, then phone from the telegraph office. After worrying all night, wondering who in my family had died, I learned it was just a photographer who ended up going elsewhere when I didn't respond quickly. All that worry for nothing.

La Violencia

      We think of the terrible violence that wracked Colombia during the recent decades of drug wars

Hard to imagine such violence  where laundry dries in the street

. However, there was a period called “La Violencia” that began in the mid-1940s as liberal and conservative parties fought over control of rural land. Most fighting took place in rural areas until the killing of a presidential candidate, Jorge Gaitán, in 1948 took it to city streets. Guerrilla groups formed which would eventually morph into now-recognized forces such as the FARC (Revolutionary Forces of Colombia) or the ELN (National Liberation Army).
    The violence became as terrifying as that in Mexico in recent years where the press was driven out by murders and threats, leaving no official record of the number of deaths, though it's estimated in the hundreds of thousands.
     Though La Violencia was supposedly over when I was there, I met numerous families with horrible stories of what had happened to family or neighbors within the previous two decades. It's hard to imagine witnessing such atrocities, most committed with machetes, to women, children, even the unborn, as well men. Occasionally, it would flare up again near sites where I was working. My roommates and bosses in the city monitored news and would send someone to get us if the need arose. Fortunately, it didn't at my sites, though the other volunteer working for the same Colombian organization, was evacuated once when guerrillas were reported approaching her site.

      Ironically, I felt very safe in the countryside – more so than in the cities. If the people I stayed and worked with were fearful, they didn't express it in my presence.

The End of the Beginning

Where coffee beans were processed

     The first course, at Valparaiso, was memorable in so many ways. The class grew to twenty-five.

     Throughout my stay, people invited me to their homes to meet their families and see their fincas (farms). Many grew vegetables, but most produce went to market. They always served strong coffee which they had grown, harvested, processed, roasted and ground themselves. Or, sometimes an alcoholic drink they had made from corn (chicha), sugar cane or fruit (guarapo), or anise-tinged and very strong aguardiente. Often the children would sing, or whoever in the family played guitar. Since there was no t.v., people shared stories, jokes, ideas - real conversation, especially in the evenings.

Adios Mis Amigas!

     At the end of the course, the women prepared a farewell lunch and presented a wonderful "clausura” (closing ceremony). They served champagne, rum and a huge lunch with chicken and a big salad (lessons learned!), and much more. Of course, I was served far more than anyone else, much to my chagrin and protestations. The school teacher had a record-player that ran on batteries so some of the women did skits and folk dancing - it was really fun. Soon, others joined in and the party

Some students & guest at clausura

continued for hours. A visiting agricultural consultant from another organization was invited to join the lunch, as well.

    
     The teacher and I had arranged for a Jeep to come up to get us in the late afternoon, but he didn't show up (not uncommon, and they had no way to let us know they had been delayed or had to cancel), so we arranged to borrow horses to get down the mountain very early the next morning in order to catch a bus to town. A couple of young boys (one just 5 years old) were sent with us – on foot – to guide us and to take the horses back. One led a burro that carried two big pouches of yucca for market, plus my little suitcase. I had to laugh at the sight of my college-graduation present of luggage bouncing on his back. By then I had learned to use only the overnight piece, more like a duffel bag, since almost always at least one leg of the trip would involve traveling on a horse, mule or by foot, often with posters, books and other equipment to carry too.

Eleven More

     The success of this course was most gratifying and, as would continue, I learned as much as I taught. There would be a dozen such courses all told, at a new site every three or four weeks. Each community was different in climate and personality, and class size would vary from a dozen to fifty.   
     Once, at an especially isolated community that had policia stationed there because of occasional flare ups of violencia (more on that later), I was given the police chief's apartment at the back of the station and he stayed at the schoolhouse until another home could be arranged for me. (At the first house, I slept on a cot in a hallway while the entire family slept in the next room. There was no door between us and something big [rat?] kept shuffling about, keeping me awake and clapping my hands to keep it away, thus keeping everyone awake.) The police chief had by far the nicest mattress I'd seen (a real one, not straw), but when I went to blow my candle out one night a tarantula was sitting beside it. He scampered away and though I searched high and low, I never found it again and, fortunately, it didn't find me either. I did review the first aid chapter on spider bites before blowing out the candle, though.

Kicking It Up a Notch

      At another site, months later, Doña Victoria Rodriquez de Herran from the Colombian Coffee

Handsome dudes I met on the road

Federation happened to be visiting. She was in charge of programs for women and children all over the country. I met some truly amazing people in those years and she topped the list. Meeting her changed my path. She inspired me to organize leadership courses for women where I'd teach the leaders from a given region and they would return to their communities to teach what they'd learned. Rather than teach all classes myself, I'd enlist representatives from the various organizations that offered services to rural communities. Through their presentations women would learn what resources and educational opportunities were available. My bosses at SENA agreed it was a good plan. They knew of Doña Victoria and already collaborated with the various organizations she recommended.

       After teaching at a couple of more sites on my own, I would take two months to prepare for the new courses. It kicked everything up a notch and, while I already lived out of my little suitcase at least five days a week, it was about to bounce on the hindquarters of a lot more horses and mules.

Teaching Alone in Colombia

Class at Valparaiso

Heading to class

      The women chose to have the class at the schoolhouse in the afternoons, during the students' 3-hour lunch break. That sounds like a long lunch “hour” but I had watched some kids walk to school from the facing mountainside and it took some as long as 40 minutes. The school was about half a mile downhill from the house where I was staying – a gorgeous walk. It, like most rural schools, had been built by the Colombian Coffee Growers Federation – Federación Nacional de Cafeteros. Most families in rural areas grew coffee and/or cacao. The school was also whitewashed cement and had a large classroom, plus a kitchen.

       Despite preparing well for teaching alone, it was intimidating at first to have a room full of women seeming to expect all the wisdom of mankind to flow from my lips. Those who could write took notes and sometimes those who couldn't write would borrow the notes of others to have their children copy and read them aloud. We used a lot of pictures too. Early on I asked them to write down everything they had eaten the previous day. All had 5 to 8 servings of carbohydrates (rice, yucca, plantain, potatoes, pasta, bread), less than half had any meat, less than a third had milk or cheese and none had eaten fruits or vegetables. We talked every day about the nutrients in foods they ate (or didn't), what they do for the body and what happens if you don't get them. As we analyzed their diets or theoretical meals, I was impressed with how quickly they learned to do it themselves. Of course, given their situations, they couldn't always do a lot about it, but a few vegetables and fruits started to appear during the course. At least they now knew what to choose when opportunities arose.

      The second week, one of the women brought in a poster she had made for her kitchen with drawings of the five food groups and a list of nutrients necessary for all ages. It was the first hint that every community has its leaders. Later, I would meet a woman from the Cafeteros who would show me how to encourage such born leaders. It would change me and my work.

Home Work

      At the house one morning, I heard a loud thumping noise, accompanied by gentle grunting. It turned out to be Aricela, the 16-year-old niece, pounding dried corn into meal. She would lift, head-high, what looked like a long, heavy wooden barbell on end and pound the corn in a large wooden bowl. Soon, the Señora came with another “barbell” and they worked together, like a synchronized machine. It was impressive to watch. The younger girls took it all in, knowing it would be their job soon. The women asked if I wanted to try it – alone, since it was dangerous to try it with someone else if you didn't know what you were doing. I did it for a few minutes, which left me all the more impressed with their skill and strength. Today, when I use an electric grinder do the job in minutes, I think of them.

The Staff of Life – and Class

     As Peace Corps volunteers we had access to foods through the World Food Program for educational and hunger projects. I usually got a 50-lb sack of flour, a can of cooking oil, and box of  raisins, for each teaching site and the class would make rolls. The women would bring yeast, sugar, salt, eggs and wood for the cob oven in which we baked the rolls.
     Though I knew how to bake bread, the women had to teach me how to use a cob oven. They'd get a good fire going in it, then, as it died down, brush the coals to the edges, They knew just how to position the rolls and how long each batch took without wasting heat by opening the door frequently.
     Once baked, rather than distribute the bread all at once, we saved some for the following days to have at class. Then, they took the rest home or we gave it to the school to distribute. Keeping it a few days worked better at some sites than others, because of the climate. I had grown up in a very dry climate and knew little about mold. While mold appeared on bread surprisingly quickly (to me) in some of the muggier sites, it was usually just a bit that had to be cut off. I learned lessons about food storage in different climates. If mold wasn't the challenge, mice always were.

"Mr. Clean"

Kitchen at another site

     Another American myth I had to learn to shake was the spotless kitchen. When you cook with wood indoors, your walls are going to be black. When I first saw such a kitchen, I longed to attack it with a scrub brush and some Ajax. When the opportunity finally arose at the school here, I learned that the stuff just doesn't come off. Besides, the kids and teacher were responsible for keeping the school and kitchen clean, and they did a good job. I did manage to get the women (in our class, at least, when we cooked something) to wash the dishes in hot water with soap. Most were used to just rinsing them off with cold water. Having to heat water with wood was surely a deterrent, given that gathering wood was one more chore.

Exercise
     You'd think in a place where people walked long distances every day to school or neighbors houses, did farm work by hand, chopped and hauled wood, carried buckets of water and milk, and  had no t.v., or computer to lure them to a seat, exercise was the last thing they'd need or want. Surprisingly, though, the women expressed an interest so we did some stretches and jumping jacks part way through the class. They loved it. It produced as much laughter as it did endorphins and soon the kids were doing jumping jacks too. I wonder what the Señor would say if he knew people pay good money to use machines to get exercise. I'd get the same "you're crazy" look the pictures of the moon produced. 

P.C. Anniversary, Part 2

First Site: Valparaiso

     So, did anyone show up to my first class, teaching by myself? Yes – two. More students showed up over following days and, in the end, it was a wonderful group of women. This was not atypical, as I would learn teaching subsequent courses. Occasionally, I'd have the class announced on the radio before heading to the site since most families had a transistor radio. I realized that was how they knew what time it was. I don't recall seeing clocks on walls, especially in rural sites without electricity, and few had watches.

     Having been drilled my whole life in being punctual, I would learn that other people weren't as ruled by the clock as we Americans are, yet were just as intelligent and had skills I'd never dreamed of, often with little or no formal education, and many that were far more useful than any I possessed. In other words, I would learn patience and humility. Most of the women had families to care for, meals to prepare without refrigerators, a microwave or electric stove – all used wood-burning stoves. Often our meeting site was a great distance, they came on foot, by horseback or mule. Many had animals to care for, as well. Some classes were lean because during harvest seasons, mainly of coffee or cacao.

Uncomfortable

     Being stared at took getting used to. I was different, a foreigner, something most people in rural areas hadn't seen before. And I talked funny, made mistakes with the language, sometimes really funny (stupid) ones, prompting laughter or blank looks. Kids were especially good at staring. It was unnerving at first; I felt like I should be doing something entertaining. But, it was fun to engage them in conversation and soon we'd all be laughing.

     In cities and especially on buses, young men would whistle or practice their few English phrases. “Free love, Miss” was a popular one. “Oo-la-la, Baby” was another. “Gringas” were expected to believe in free love (the '60s had arrived in Latin America!). And/or we were suspected CIA agents. One of my favorite fellow-volunteers was in her 80s. She'd been born in Germany, migrated to the U.S., had a fascinating life and had survived two husbands. Her children were grown and she was a great-grandmother, still open to experiences and adventure. When a man exposed himself to her on the bus one day, she looked him in the eye, shrugged and said she seen much better. Deflating, indeed.

The First Family

     The house I stayed in at Valparaiso was large for the campo (rural area), with various relatives sharing it. It was cement, inside and out, whitewashed, with little furniture other than the basics. Besides a straw mattress on a hard wood bed, I had a chair which served as a nightstand for the candles, book and notebook I always brought along. There were hooks in the wall for hanging clothes. I learned to pack everything I needed for the week in an overnight bag.

     There was no electricity this far up, but water was piped into the house, though laundry and

Boy carries wood for the cob oven

showers were done outdoors. Besides quite a few cattle, there were goats, chickens, turkeys, pigs, cats and dogs running about with the children. There was a cob oven in the “yard.”

     Supper the first night was rice, yucca, beans, an egg and fresh (from just yards away) milk. It would be the same for every meal, though potatoes, fried platano or pasta were served at breakfast and lunch, as well. If there was meat (usually salted and dried, occasionally butchered that day) the Señor and I would get most of it which, of course, made me feel very uncomfortable. I would often claim to be vegetarian, especially in the most remote and poorest sites. Even though, as instructors, we always paid room and board, access to some foods was difficult. Female volunteers tended to gain weight, but, oddly, the fellows lost weight. There were no vegetables or fruits until towards the end of the course at Valparaiso, after we had discussed their importance for almost three weeks. Gardens were rare at this altitude and would be impossible without lots of fencing when you had so many animals, domestic and wild. The lack of refrigeration limited how much you could bring home on the few trips to a market in town. One volunteer in a very remote site ended up with scurvy.

      I'd not picked up the coffee habit in college since it made my face break out. Still, it was offered everywhere in Colombia, by even the poorest families, since they usually grew and roasted it themselves. So, I learned to accept it graciously when offered. A sizable chunk of panela (brown cane sugar) was always added and, since it was quite strong, it was served in demitasse cups. Coffee was the one addiction I picked up in Colombia.

      It would turn out that at every site, with every family, I would be served meals either alone or with the father/husband only. The Señora, no matter how close we had come to be, ate in the kitchen with the other women and children. I always asked if I could eat in the kitchen with them, but it just wasn't done. At Valparaiso, the Señora would come out and stand to visit with me briefly, then I'd hear her tell everyone in the kitchen what I'd said. It was odd and awkward, but just how it was. Often the Señor was uncomfortable too and engaged in little, if any, conversation. Here, he had his transistor radio on, right by his plate, the whole time. We did occasionally comment on a bit of news from the radio. One day we got on the subject of men landing on the moon. He said it didn't really happen, it was all Hollywood. When I brought a Time magazine back with me the following week with photos from the mission, he just looked at me with a smile that said I was a sucker to believe it. It was understandable, given the difficulty in just getting to the nearest village here. Besides, the photos were so amazingly sharp and such beautiful color, even I found myself questioning them. Before leaving the table, he asked me how many days it takes to fly from Bogota to the U.S..

      Since there was no t.v., evenings were often spent with the family, visiting on the porch, sometimes singing, sometimes playing games. When it got dark, everyone went to bed. Volunteers had access to lockers full of books so I always had one with me and would read by candlelight.
     So much for home life. What about the classes?
     We'll head there next. I promise.

Note: as recommended at the time, all my photos were saved as slides and aren't the sharpest, but will help illustrate these stories. Today, volunteers can snap photos on their phones and send them across the globe lickety-split. What would the Señor think of that?

Peace Corps Anniversary

      I was startled to read that the Peace Corps turned 55 on March 1^st. Can that be right? It was celebrating its 10^th anniversary when I entered in 1971. So, well, I guess that is right.

     The anniversary triggered three things: 1) it made me feel old; 2) it confirmed that experiences really do last a lifetime and affect your view of the world; and 3) it prompted pulling out a journal from then which rekindled many memories. 

     Travel and adventure had been strong pulls since childhood. The Peace Corps had been at the top of my list since junior high, so I felt very fortunate to be accepted upon college graduation though, in truth, I wasn't sure I had much to offer. Engaged at the time, my then-fiance understood that I “had to do this” and agreed to delaying marriage for two years. In the end, it didn't work out. Distance does make the heart grow fonder. But, sometimes its for somebody else. It seemed a heavy price at the time, but was probably just as well. It extended my adventures in Latin America for an additional two years.

Assignment

     I was assigned to work for a Colombian organization called SENA (Servicio Nacional de Aprendizaje – the National Service for Learning). SENA offers myriad classes, from business and professional skills in cities, to agriculture and livestock management in rural areas. At the time, the only classes for rural women were pattern-making and sewing. Both are great skills, but weren't my forte, so they allowed me to teach health, nutrition and first-aid. Macrame was included so women had something tangible to take home to husbands or fathers who were sometimes suspicious. I learned after the fact that some women were punished, even beaten, for coming to my classes. That was heart-breaking. Most of the rural women I met had limited education but were incredibly resourceful and clever. El machismo may make it appear it's a man's world, but it was obvious it was often the women who kept homes and families together, and even crops going sometimes. (That's not to say I didn't meet good husbands and fathers too; I did.)
     Most volunteers will tell you you learn far more than you teach. That was certainly my experience. Was that part of President Kennedy's reason for launching the Peace Corps?

Living Out of a Suitcase

    My job, in essence, was serving as an itinerant teacher, assigned to a village or vereda (homes spread across a mountainside or valley) that had requested a course. I'd spend two to four weeks, living with a family, or sometimes in the priest's house (the casa cural) or with the school teacher.during the week. On weekends, I'd usually go back to the city  where I shared an apartment with three other girls. Travel was by bus from the city to the nearest town or village but the last few miles were usually on horseback, mule or foot. There was rarely electricity or running water in the veredas.   Nor did anyone speak English. The women were my best teachers, with their infinite patience and humor. I didn't even realize they were correcting me, at first, they were so subtle. They say when you first dream in the language you are studying, you've grasped it. You're not necessarily fluent then, but are more comfortable and have absorbed its rhythm. It's a memorable morning when you awaken to the realization that you've dreamed in another language.

At another volunteer's house

     Each Peace Corps volunteer's experience is different. None is without its challenges, but those are what make the experience rewarding. Former President Jimmy Carter's mother, a nurse who served in India in her 60s, called Peace Corps service “the toughest job you'll ever love.” She was right.

In honor of the anniversary, I'll share some stories over the coming weeks.

Conflicting Goals

      My brother returned from his military tour in Viet Nam, two days before I left for Peace Corps training in Colombia. While I was eager (yet apprehensive) about what lay ahead, his opinion of my choice was surprisingly negative. He tried to discourage me by saying people didn't want us in their countries. They will hate and resent you, he said. It was sad to see him so negative, but perhaps understandable, given the experience he was exiting. It gave me pause but didn't change my mind. He was about to readjust to life in the U.S. which, for him, as for thousands of others, would not go well. Near the end of his life he received the “new” diagnosis: PTSD. He died waiting for a liver transplant. Alcohol finally killed his ghosts and pain. For some, tragically, their war never ends.

      The Peace Corps didn't end wars either and has been removed from numerous countries over the years because of political strife that put volunteers and those working with them in danger. It pulled out of Colombia in 1981 after 20 years. However, volunteers began to return in 2010, teaching English for Livelihoods.

First Site Sola

      After three months of in-country training, the two of us assigned to work with SENA spent several weeks interning with Colombian instructors in rural areas before being sent out on our own.  Naturally, I was a bit nervous about  my first assignment on my own. It ended up taking the better part of a day to get there, not because of distance so much, but because of a mix up in communication and no transportation for the last leg (this was well before cell phones or internet, and wouldn't be the first time). But, an elderly priest and the mayor of the village at the bottom of the mountain  (a woman) were especially kind and helpful. When they couldn't locate a horse for me to borrow, I offered to walk but they said it was too far and dangerous. Finally the driver and '59 Jeep the drugstore used for deliveries was enlisted and up the mountain we went, with two girls who'd learned of the ride and had family where I was headed. There was no road, just a rocky path. The scenery was stunning but the trip bone-jarring. The Jeep's gas pedal was tied to the steering column with a rope which, amazingly, didn't come undone during the heavy jostling and we had just one flat tire.
     Before settling in with a family, I went to the school house to have the children tell their mothers the course would start the following day.
     Would anyone show up?

Remembering Gratitude

Left in the Dark
     The power went out for no obvious reason the other day and was out for over 3 hours. It wasn't a big deal, at least not as big as it would have been had I been in the middle of baking bread or something you just can't do on the wood stove. (At least I can't. I do know someone who did all her baking in a barbeque grill when they lived off the grid.) For living in the country, our power service is exceptionally good. Power outages are rare; most are related to icy weather or wind storms. Given that we're surrounded by forests, power outages from fallen trees are expected. Turned out that's why the power went out the other day. A large tree from a nearby forest fell across the road, taking down a power line. One from the same forest did the same a couple of months ago. The weather wasn't particularly bad either time, but sometimes trees lean just far enough or aren't as healthy as they appear and boom! - down they go.

     It was late in the afternoon and we expected the power to be out an hour at the most – it's usually back in less than that. Those fellows (all I've seen working on power lines are men, but women surely do the job just as well) are always right on it. I think of them during the worst storms knowing they'll probably have to have to leave their cozy homes or offices to fix downed lines while the rest of us “struggle” without power.

The woodstove provided heat and a wee bit of light

     Having no power can be inconvenient, in varying degrees. If your livelihood or health depends on it, then it's critical. For the rest of us, it's a reminder of how dependent we are on electricity. There were tasks left on my to-do list that day but now I couldn't do them because they required an electrical appliance (vacuum, clothes dryer, stove, etc.) or water. We're on a well and power is required to pump it. You could use what's in the pipeline, but that's unwise unless you're desperate, and we haven't been yet. We heat with a woodstove, so warmth and basic cooking isn't a problem. For longer-term outages we're ok since we have a compost toilet, and a generator to power the refrigerator and freezer if the outage stretches very long. Most years it's not used.
Checklist

     This power outage reminded me to review our checklist of disaster-preparedness. Here in the Pacific Northwest we're aware that “the big one”—a major earthquake—is due anytime and will leave us without power (thus water) for weeks, if not months. Some predict years. It could level buildings and trees, leave roads impassable and result in fires in homes and forests. Not a pretty picture. One can imagine lots of scenarios but we don't know exactly which to prepare for. Will the house collapse? All of it? Or will we be able to access parts of it? Where should we stash emergency supplies? The answers will seem obvious when it hits, but planning is like solving a mystery. Will we be better of out in the country, or worse? What time of year will it hit?

     We have lots of water stashed, so weren't concerned about that in the recent outage, but we realized after two hours that the power might not be on when darkness fell. Candles and oil lamps were gathered and a fire lit in the woodstove. When darkness did fall, I curled up with a couple of candles and a book. It was rather pleasant, actually. Not much else I could do. Hmmmm...that reminded me to add books to our emergency supplies.
Valuable Lessons

     When I was a young Peace Corps volunteer, I worked as an itinerant teacher, living most of the week in rural villages or veredas (homes scattered across mountain sides) in Colombia. None had electricity, though some villages had power for an hour or two a day. Often water was carried to the home by family members or mules from a nearby creek or community well. A few had their own wells. I learned to wash my face, brush my teeth, and do a simple "spit bath" from one very precious glass of water.
Women washed laundry in rivers and I learned that's not as easy as it looks. My first attempt provided many laughs for the women who were showing me how. Showers were always cold and I quickly learned the best time for one was at mid day when I had worked up enough body heat - especially when in the higher foothills of the Andes. Laundry dried best if you did it early in the day since it was hung on bushes, trees, fences or laid on cement patios. I'd never given water—or scarcity of it—much thought before. It was an excellent education. To this day, I never fill a sink full of water to wash dishes as we did when I was a kid. Using one of the bowls you're washing anyway is plenty.
      I have often wondered if part of John F. Kennedy's goal in organizing the Peace Corps was to educate the Americans who participated, as much as those they were supposed to have been teaching. It sure seemed to work that way.