The End of the Beginning?

So, on the 8th of October we (group 60 of Peace Corps Panama) set off to our counterpart conference in the neighboring province of Coclé. There was where we would meet our community guide which was someone who came from our site to meet us, greet us, learn about us, and then take us to our site for 5 days to acquire a sense of what the next two years would be like. After an awkward yet necessary two days of conferencing we all set off on our respective routes to our respective sites with our respective counterparts. That first day on our own was a drag and I mean that in the most respectful way. You see, my counterpart wanted to stop by and spend the night at her daughter's place. I was fine with it because family is important and whatnot. Also, it was on the way.

We get there to a town right outside Chitre with the nice lady. We pull up to her daughter's place. She's in her mid-20's and has two kids. She goes off to work as soon as we get there and her mother is in the backyard cleaning something. So I'm sittin in the living room by myself for a WHILE feeling intensely awkward when all of a sudden I hear some rock n' roll music blasting from one of the two bedrooms. I walk in and the three year old boy is banging a broom against the wall while his semi-nude five year old sister is jumping up and downon the bed rocking out to a Guns n' Roses music video. I believe it was Paradise City. I hate that song so naturally, I take a seat on the bed. Maybe I was tired from the bus ride or maybe it was Axl Rose's incessant whining coupled with the tune's truly inspired lyrics (sarcasm alert) but something triggered the 'realization' mechanism in my head. At that moment I looked around the room and mentally doused myself with a cup of cold water. "Where the hell am I?" I seemed to say. I imagined a globe. It was focused on the western hemisphere then Panama then Herrera, then Chitre so forth and so on until I saw myself in a room full of G n' R and ADD children. It hit me like a ton of bricks; I was no longer going to lead the life I had grown accostomed to over the past five years. I was done with the college life for good. I knew that etapa (stage) of my life was over but had yet to feel it during training. This was the first time I was on my own since i met all these wonderful Peace Corps personnel over two months ago. I knew it was time to "go big or go home" using the parlance of our times.

The next day, the nice lady and I (let's call her Reina Campos), decided we were done dilly-dallying. We were over Chitre and yearned for greener pastures... literally. But things didn't start out as sunny as I would've liked. In what seemed like an eternity (six hours in transit, three of them in the back of a rickety old pick-up truck on a road that few in the states would dare take but in Panama is a mere "camino" on a transport route) Reina and I arrived to, let's call this town Chirpo. From there only a two hour hike to my site, let's call it Quesadilla,on a good clear day. Of course, as our immature, adolescent universe would have it, we were in the middle of the 6th consecutive day of solid Panamanian rain (oct and nov are the wettest of the nine month wet season in Panama). So, picture this: Franco, with a big REI hiking backpack on his (redundancy alert) back, a regular sizebackpack on this chest full of tech binders, cultural and peace corps-y books sprinkled with a modest amount of literature for recreational purposes (you know, Cervantes, Borges, Voltaire, JK Rowling and Dan Brown). Two of those were but a jest and if you cannot tell which are the silly ones then the seatbelt demonstrations on airplanes are for you.

Tangent aside, I have a third backpack wrapped in a plastic bag carrying essentials that i dared not tempt fate by exposing them to the Central American elements (side note: Panamanian weather could be described as a tortoise... slow and steady. It defeats all). These of course, were my Ipod, cellular mobile unit (which since then has been irritatingly been left behind on a bus or as they are affectionately known here: Diablos Rojos), digital camera used to chronicle images that validate my existence, my moleskins, lucky chicken's head, and a one-year supply of jello packets. Again, two of those were made up. Also, I was carrying a box holding a water filter.
Next to me was Señora Reina Campos, the scrappiest 5 foot 1 mother of nine I had ever met. She had her own cross to bear (purple gym bag, pink powerpuff pack and a self-confessed Latin Gringo with a wicked farmer's tan). So there are the two of us standing in the rain with what seems to be a 3 hour trek to my new community, my new home. I knew I loved life when she turned to me, raised her eyebrows in bewilderment, opened her mouth releasing a large sigh and the following words: "I've never seen the path this shitty before." Naturally, I used artistic liberties in the translation but the point has been made.

Now, I don't mean to be a complete dork but then again I did join an organization full of them and I mean that in the most lovable, huggy way possible but I'm going to have to compare our journey to that of another (geek alert) fellowship. New Zealand, my ass. Peter Jackson filmed the scenes leading up to Mordor in Quesadilla.

Not only was the two hour trek straight stock footage of primordial goop Earth but the town was a spitting image of the wild west sans Will Smith. Yes, the wild west... if it was in the very rainy mountains full of lush vegetation where every house was about a quarter of a mile from each other. So, maybe it doesn't look like the US's wild west but the vibe is definetely there. The culture is very cowboy-like but I'll get into that in another blog entry.
So señora Campos and I were on our 'amazing journey'. We were a couple of rootin-tootin' go-getters like Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid. Like Neil and Buzz. Like Tom and Jerry. Like Quixote and Sancho. Like Nixon and Agnew. Like Bonnie and Clyde. Like Turner and Hooch. Like Paul and John. Like Jerry and George. Like Pete and Roger. Ok, enough of that. I'll give you 20 reales if you can name all the references. easy right? That's why I'm only offering a dollar.

So, Reina and I made it to my new home. We survived the lomas (mountainy hills), floods, makeshift bridges (i.e. large wet tree trunks suspended 15 feet in the air above brown water rapids) not once, not twice but thrice! Oh, and we survived the mud. She's everywhere. She's like 20th century despot ignorant of borders. She invades and consumes all. She's in league with the rain and the earth. Mud doesn't care if you just showered or are planning on wearing those pants all week. She will do anything within her power to hug you and bring you down closer. She loves to be wrapped around your body. She loves you and needs you inside her. You think you can run. You think you can hide. You think you can walk around. But you cannot. She doesn't care for your needs or desires. She will come after you and one day you seize to resist. It will be decades away perhaps but she would have won. You will be one with her. You will be engulfed by her. We all will.

How do I temporarily keep her at bay? Tall rubber boots!!!! You might think that I exaggerate with the exclamation points but you're obviously never been here. Go outside and kiss that asphalt street you step all over daily so dreadfully taking it for granted. Yes, the rubber boots keep my feet from obtaining dehabilitating infections. We've all seen those Vietnam war films. You know what can happen.

If this entry seems a bit hostile and off, know that it is not due to my feelings towards my site for I am extremely excited but rather to the inevitable affects of listening to The Velvet Underground's "Venus in Furs" on a continous loop for what seems like an eternity now. Internet cafes are strange like that.

R.I.P Michael Webb

I have the sorry task of informing you all that our good friend, Michael Webb, is no longer with Peace Corps Panama (for reasons I shall not delve into). It's a shame because I cannot think of another trainee in our group of 42 that could have made a better volunteer. That is in no way an insult to any of us but as proof of this young man's character. We're really going to miss you these next couple of years and I hope you visit soon and often.

And now, the exciting part everyone has been waiting for: pictures.









A few of us had a "stache bash." That hole is Michael shaped for he was growing one out as well.
















I visited the province that I will be living at for the next 2 years as part of our culture week and this is one of the music performances they put on for us in traditional dress (polleras). I believe the music is called Tamborito (small drum). The one in the green is the volunteer who resides there. We visited her.













We cut chicken's heads off as part of integrating in the campo lifestyle. See how the wing is bleeding? A trainee who shall remain nameless had no previous experience so he/she began to hack away at the poor rooster like a piñata which was followed by many "holy shit!"s and "duuuuude! aim for his neck!" and then he/she would say "I'm trying"... I took pictures and a video of it.









During tech week we all got about 10 hrs of sleep and woke up pre-sunrise since we were so tired from the day's construction. The gnobe host family I stayed with for a week lived on a loma (hill in panamanian spanish) with a beautiful view under their noses. I bet they don't know how truly awesome their location is (i hate ending sentences with a prepostion). To them it is normal, they all got them, like inflated bellies on their kids. It's sad but this is why we are here... to shed some light on behaviour changes that would raise their standard of living.

Alright, I have to go cos this place will close and I am hungry for some non-Panamanian food.
Suerte,
Franco