So it's been about 3 weeks since I left my island home of St. Lucia. Leaving proved to be one of the most difficult partings I've had. Despite living away from family and friends for 2 years and facing many challenges of volunteering in a developing country, St. Lucia had become my home. I don't think I fully realized this until just before leaving. After leaving, I flew back to Florida for a night, shipped suitcases home, and immediately set off again on a traveling adventure with 4 other Peace Corps Volunteers from St. Lucia. It's been fun traveling through Central America so far, and I am thankful for the chance to make the transition back to life away from the Peace Corps with fellow Volunteers who are experiencing a similar range of emotions. So far we've been through Guatemala, El Salvador, Honduras (very quickly, I might add), and are now in Nicaragua. Some of the highlights have included:
-Climbing Pacaya Volcano in Guatemala and coming within 15 feet of flowing hot magma!
-Swimming through a cave to an underground waterfall by candlelight
-Sledding down a Volcano at speeds up to 51km per hour and subsequently crashing close to the bottom
-Swimming in natural pools forming a bridge over a river at Semuc Champey
One of my experiences was a bit less crazy as those listed above, yet perhaps even more memorable. I wrote up a little story about it and pasted it below. Hope you enjoy it...
On any trip of sizeable length that involves frequent movement from
place to place, multiple living accommodations, and above all an
unwavering devotion to the pursuit of that which is cheap, one
inevitably will encounter a destination that’s, well, more or less a
dud, just a bottom of the barrel dump. My Peace Corps Volunteer
friend Sam and I discovered such a rare gem after splitting from our
other 3 beach-bumming friends to check out Lake Coatepeque and climb
Volcan Izalco at Cerro Verde National Park in El Salvador. Sam had
heard from a Peace Corps Volunteer friend that had previously served
in El Salvador that the place to stay on the Lake is a hostel called
Amacuilco. Despite the fact that the most recent version of Lonely
Planet Guidebook to Central America deviated significantly from Sam’s
friend’s recommendation, describing the place as “wretched and
ramshackle,” “haunted,” with “complaints of theft,” we decided to go
ahead and reserve our room at paradise anyway, as it was not
surprisingly the cheapest place on the lake to stay at $10 US a night
(still steep compared to our usual standard of $4-$5).
As we explored our newfound home, we began to see why the Lonely
Planet Guidebook, otherwise known as the “Bible of travel guides,” is
such a reliable source the vast majority of the time. Apparently the
fact that we were the only two lucky occupants wasn’t indication
enough. The stairs to our room shook as we ascended and the door knob
had obviously been turned one too many times, as the El Salvadorian
owner explained in Spanish that she would provide us with a lock and
key to supplement it. The room had sort of exotic jungle motif going
for it, vines creeping in through the dusty windows, spider webs
slowly possessing certain areas, and dead insects caught in the
tetters of an old mosquito net. Surprisingly, the room contained 3
beds. Not surprisingly, however, the first bed evidenced age through
various lumps caused by springs popping up through the quasi-mattress
of sorts.
As we headed down to the dock we discovered the pool, just slightly
short of empty save for 3 inches of old, dirty rainwater that had
collected at the bottom. Though a “no diving” sign wasn’t posted, I
gathered that it wasn’t a real feasible option. The footpath to the
dock was made up of broken tile pieces in an eye-capturing design, but
it abruptly stopped, with a large heap of abandoned remaining tile
pieces evident off to the side. A distant gaze of the lake proved
beautiful, but a closer inspection of the immediate area revealed a
comprehensive layer of plastic potato chip bags and other assorted
trash covering the bottom.
While waiting for lunch to be cooked, which took a decent couple of
hours considering chickens had to be caught and killed, we quickly
glanced through a dirty old travel magazine of Honduras from 1992, and
disappointingly stumbled upon a fooseball table partially filled with
water and about as level as the state of Colorado. At this point,
Sam wisely pointed out, “I bet that this place was real nice at one
point…just about ten years ago. Finally, we noticed that the place
next door was quite filled with people, the majority most likely
wealthy El Salvadorians on holiday. “Eben bon,” I exclaimed. “We
should have stayed over there. How much are the rooms there according
to the guidebook?” “About $10 US more,” Sam replied. “Tempting.”
“Yeah,” I agreed. “But we’re paying too much here as it is.”
Later, after taking a nap, we went back to the dock to consider a
swim. Ultimately, however, the combination of tiredness from the
previous night of no sleep (3:15 wake-up for bus) and the abundance of
trash led us to decide against a quick dip. As we sat on a lakeside
bench relaxing, the owner came out and started resolutely stomping on
the boards, shaking the dock and laughing all the while. I turned to
Sam and puzzled, asked, “Is she finding the instability of the dock
humorous?” Just then, the short yet stout woman raiser her right leg
as high as an El Salvadorian woman can, paused, and thrust it
powerfully onto the dock. This proved to be the fatal death blow, as
the board went crashing from beneath her and her entire right leg
plummeted through the newly formed hole. Startled, yet still howling
with laughter, she pulled herself up and scurried away. “Is that
sufficient justification to demand our $20 back and find another
place?” I jokingly asked Sam. “Eh, whatever,” Sam replied. “Yeah, I
agree,” I responded. “This place has a real rustic feel to it.” “For
sure,” Sam concurred. “Rustic with a capital R.”
The situation didn’t improve much later. After dining alone in an
enormous, practically deserted restaurant/hostel, we struggled to get
back into the hostel after being locked out, ultimately resorting to
holding the buzzer down for a solid 30 seconds to draw sufficient
attention from the owner, who had probably been nursing a bad leg.
Later that night, as we both read in our beds, a strong wind came and
thrust open one of the not so securely latched windows. “Well that’s
comforting,” I spatted sarcastically. “If someone jumps through there
in the middle of the night I doubt that I’ll be too pleased.” “This
place is haunted,” Sam added. “Yeah,” I agreed, “with a Psycho-esque
feel to it.
Fortunately for us, we were not visited in the night by a masked
thief, robbed, nor stabbed in the head by the thick, jolly,
dock-destroying El Salvadorian firecracker. In fact, we stayed
another night and even recruited our Israeli hiker friend we met
climbing Volcan Izalco to join us. His initial attempt at asserting a
positive perception of the hostel (“I don’t mind the springs at
all…pretty comfortable bed”) was tempered by his mid-shower water
outage and subsequent less than successful attempt at completing
bathing in the trash infested lake.
While paying an extra $10 to hop next door would most likely have
granted us a much more comfortable experience, it’s the leaky faucets,
particularly those that necessitate deliberate and repeated
child-proof Tylenol bottle opening push and twist tactics to turn off,
and other life experiences of initial inconvenience and frustration,
that in some twisted way occupy the most treasured parts of our
memories and ultimately, in many ways, can come to mean so much more.
Wednesday, September 30, 2009
Monday, September 7, 2009
Last St. Lucia Post
So I wrote this blog entry in my journal quite a long time ago and started by saying that it would most likely be my last blog entry here in St. Lucia, and now I can say that definitively as I’m scheduled to leave in 3 days.
It’s been a busy summer and seems to be getting busier (obviously, as it has taken 3 weeks to transfer this entry from journal to computer) as I’m trying to wrap up some projects and put certain measures in place to hopefully ensure that other projects continue smoothly in my absence. Also, thrown in the mix is completing Peace Corps paperwork, cleaning my not so spotless house, and trying to do a bunch of fn things with friends before leaving September 10th. Though its been a bit hectic, I prefer something to do over nothing at all, so I really can’t complain. The first 3 weeks of this summer were spent helping facilitate a bunch of summer camps. Like last year, I worked a fellow PCV to conduct a tennis camp. Fortunately we had a bit more help coaching this year. In between the tennis camp, I also helped with a youth camp for kids in my community. It was a bit haphazard and thrown together, but like most activities here, it somehow came together and the kids seemed to enjoy themselves. The last camp I assisted with was a summer youth development “Leadership through Sports and Service” camp that my friend Jen, a Volunteer in Soufriere, was organizing with a community youth group.
As I’m nearing the end of my service, I’m realizing that I don’t have man pictures, if any , of some of the people with whom I see on a regular basis in my immediate community. I’ve been trying to get a few more pictures of my neighbors, therefore, before I leave. Though this seems like simple enough a task, in some instances has seemed more difficult than Calculus 2 in college with Professor Olinick. Blast! For example, there’s a sweet little old lady who lives just higher up my house named Mary, husband Joseph, but surprisingly no carpenter son. She calls me “my darling,” “my love,” or “koko” (common affectionate nickname here) and nearly every time I pass she asks how I’m doing…twice. It goes something like this:
Ben: Good Afternoon, Mary!
Mary: Good afternoon, my darling. How are you?
Ben: I’m doing great, thanks. How about yourself?
Mary: I’m fine and how are you?
Ben: I’m good (not much has changed)
She also really loves it that I enjoy speaking Patois and is always up for conversing in it. So, she’s obviously on my list of people I would like to get a picture of before leaving. Unfortunately, however, every time I have a conversation with her about this we end up in the same place (even now, 3 weeks later)
Ben: Hey, I was wondering if I could get a picture with you before I leave to take back to the States and remember you by.
Mary: Eh, eh, koko. You want a picture of me?
Me: Yes, of course.
Mary: Oh, that’s nice. Anytime, anytime, my darling. But not today. My hair is looking a kind of way.
Me. Eh, eh, don’t be silly. You look great.
Mary: No. Look at it. I would need to fix myself properly.
Me: Alright, no problem. I’ll check you later about it then.
Mary: Of course. Yes, anytime is good. Anytime, but not today.
So I’ve had nearly the exact same conversation with Mary several times and always get the same reply of “anytime, anytime is good, but not today.” I’ve even tried to book a day in advance, but that doesn’t seem to be a fruitful venture either. ☺ Personally I would best like a picture of her as I know her, twisted hair and all. Sometime when people dress up here you can hardly recognize the person anymore as they might be wearing a wig, big hat, and who knows what else. I once thought I thought my host mom was taking me on a bank heist one morning instead of church…no joke. Oh, and a little update…the picture with Mary never worked out…will have to burn the mental image.
So, I’ve had some interesting/humorous conversations with kids here about the complexion of my skin. I recently bought some island sandals with bright Rasta colors (red, green, and gold) as my other sandals bit the dust after two years of faithful service. While I have gotten a bit less white in complexion,(I’m still not sure “tan” or “darker” would entirely be accurate, so we’ll refrain from those terms), my feet have remained as white as snow. Now that I’ve got my stylish, shockingly bright Rasta slippers, which have minimal coverage, the whiteness of my feet is accentuated to the nth degree. It’s kind of funny looking, and I’ve definitely got some interesting comments, but I could care less. I had a funny interchange with a 5 year girl a few days ago.
Little Girl: What’s your name?
Me: Ben. What’ yours?
Little Girl: Kiana
Me: How are you, Kiana?
Kiana: Fine. What happened to your feet?
Me: What do you mean?
Kiana: Huh?
Me: Why do you ask that?
Kiana: The’re white
I also fielded an interesting comment in my 4th grade recorder class a few months back that cracked me up. I was in the middle of teaching the recorder, having just recently established that I want seriousness for the remainder of the class, when one of the precocious ones, Phoebe, raises her hand. After calling on her, she boldly asked, “Mr. Wiechman…how come you so white?” I couldn’t help but laugh, and told her, as we had already gotten off topic a number of times, that we would have to discuss that later. In conversations with the other teachers about it, I was informed that I should have responded, “Phoebe, well how come you so black?” Kids really are curious about differences in appearance and certainly don’t have any reservations in making their observations or queries known. Good for them.
Jenny Schneider, this section is for you. As my close of service is soon approaching, I’ve had to undergo a number of medical examinations to ensure that I’m as healthy going out as I was coming in. One of these medical tests required that I deliver 3 consecutive stool samples to the lab to have examined parasites or any other friendly critter. So we weren’t given much information as to how this was exactly to be done, where exactly to take the samples, etc. So one day I called my medical director to find out more information. She told me the place to take the samples and advised me to go ahead and bring up the samples I come up to Castries. So with this info I assumed (you know that they say about assumptions) that I had to simply transport a few terds to Castries using whatever means, methodology, I deem fitting. So, after much careful forethought and planning (similar to the process of deciding to recycle mice glue traps), I solidified my collection methodology and the rest of the plan. I’ll spare you the details here. After wondering what to put to store the samples in , I decided to use a 1 kg Sunflower Margarine container, tinged with the light red stain of Del Monte pasta sauce. As my first sample was relatively petite, I decided not to waste containers but rather double down and store the 2nd sample in the butter tub as well, even though it was significantly larger than the first. I couldn’t produce a 3rd sample before going up to Castries (though the 2nd sample might have arguably counted double), as I had been enjoying the mango season to the full earlier in the week and was having some consistency issues. So, I traveled to Castries with my butter tug in a black plastic bag full of deliverables to drop for the doctor. Shortly after entering the doctors’ office, another PCV coincidentally enters, and after greeting me, tells the secretary that he’s here to collect the containers needed for his stool samples. I turn to him and surprisingly say, “eh eh? They have special containers for them?” He replied, “yeah, we’re supposed to collect the containers first to use for the samples.” Just then, the secretary whips out 3 containers, each no larger than a tiny restaurant sauce cup of BBQ sauce. Beginning to laugh, I turn to my friend and tell him, “I brought my samples together in an old butter tub and one of them is about 5 times the size of one of those containers. Shortly thereafter, the doctor emerged. Still laughing, I explained the misunderstanding to the doctor (except for the tid bit about the size of my 2nd deliverable) and asked him whether or not that will be ok. He paused, took the container from me, which was beginning to emit a foul odor, most likely due to the size of sample number 2, and replied, “well, it’s not ideal, but we’ll see if we can work with what we’ve got.” Little did he know the nature of the surprise awaiting within.
I’m starting to really process the fact that I’m leaving very soon now that I’m saying goodbye to people, doing certain things for the last time, etc. It’s been an interesting ride. I’ve honestly been looking forward to the completion of my service for a few months, as it’ll be nice to get off the rollercoaster, travel for a bit, and finally reconnect with family/friends, but now that the end is staring me in the face, I feel sad and a bit confused about the range of emotions I’m experiencing. I think that even though St. Lucia has come with its fair share of challenges, nothing can change that I’ve lived her for two years and it has certainly become a home.
I'm not sure how much internet access I will have while traveling in Central America, but I'll try and post a time or two about the trip. But for now, take care, and God bless.
It’s been a busy summer and seems to be getting busier (obviously, as it has taken 3 weeks to transfer this entry from journal to computer) as I’m trying to wrap up some projects and put certain measures in place to hopefully ensure that other projects continue smoothly in my absence. Also, thrown in the mix is completing Peace Corps paperwork, cleaning my not so spotless house, and trying to do a bunch of fn things with friends before leaving September 10th. Though its been a bit hectic, I prefer something to do over nothing at all, so I really can’t complain. The first 3 weeks of this summer were spent helping facilitate a bunch of summer camps. Like last year, I worked a fellow PCV to conduct a tennis camp. Fortunately we had a bit more help coaching this year. In between the tennis camp, I also helped with a youth camp for kids in my community. It was a bit haphazard and thrown together, but like most activities here, it somehow came together and the kids seemed to enjoy themselves. The last camp I assisted with was a summer youth development “Leadership through Sports and Service” camp that my friend Jen, a Volunteer in Soufriere, was organizing with a community youth group.
As I’m nearing the end of my service, I’m realizing that I don’t have man pictures, if any , of some of the people with whom I see on a regular basis in my immediate community. I’ve been trying to get a few more pictures of my neighbors, therefore, before I leave. Though this seems like simple enough a task, in some instances has seemed more difficult than Calculus 2 in college with Professor Olinick. Blast! For example, there’s a sweet little old lady who lives just higher up my house named Mary, husband Joseph, but surprisingly no carpenter son. She calls me “my darling,” “my love,” or “koko” (common affectionate nickname here) and nearly every time I pass she asks how I’m doing…twice. It goes something like this:
Ben: Good Afternoon, Mary!
Mary: Good afternoon, my darling. How are you?
Ben: I’m doing great, thanks. How about yourself?
Mary: I’m fine and how are you?
Ben: I’m good (not much has changed)
She also really loves it that I enjoy speaking Patois and is always up for conversing in it. So, she’s obviously on my list of people I would like to get a picture of before leaving. Unfortunately, however, every time I have a conversation with her about this we end up in the same place (even now, 3 weeks later)
Ben: Hey, I was wondering if I could get a picture with you before I leave to take back to the States and remember you by.
Mary: Eh, eh, koko. You want a picture of me?
Me: Yes, of course.
Mary: Oh, that’s nice. Anytime, anytime, my darling. But not today. My hair is looking a kind of way.
Me. Eh, eh, don’t be silly. You look great.
Mary: No. Look at it. I would need to fix myself properly.
Me: Alright, no problem. I’ll check you later about it then.
Mary: Of course. Yes, anytime is good. Anytime, but not today.
So I’ve had nearly the exact same conversation with Mary several times and always get the same reply of “anytime, anytime is good, but not today.” I’ve even tried to book a day in advance, but that doesn’t seem to be a fruitful venture either. ☺ Personally I would best like a picture of her as I know her, twisted hair and all. Sometime when people dress up here you can hardly recognize the person anymore as they might be wearing a wig, big hat, and who knows what else. I once thought I thought my host mom was taking me on a bank heist one morning instead of church…no joke. Oh, and a little update…the picture with Mary never worked out…will have to burn the mental image.
So, I’ve had some interesting/humorous conversations with kids here about the complexion of my skin. I recently bought some island sandals with bright Rasta colors (red, green, and gold) as my other sandals bit the dust after two years of faithful service. While I have gotten a bit less white in complexion,(I’m still not sure “tan” or “darker” would entirely be accurate, so we’ll refrain from those terms), my feet have remained as white as snow. Now that I’ve got my stylish, shockingly bright Rasta slippers, which have minimal coverage, the whiteness of my feet is accentuated to the nth degree. It’s kind of funny looking, and I’ve definitely got some interesting comments, but I could care less. I had a funny interchange with a 5 year girl a few days ago.
Little Girl: What’s your name?
Me: Ben. What’ yours?
Little Girl: Kiana
Me: How are you, Kiana?
Kiana: Fine. What happened to your feet?
Me: What do you mean?
Kiana: Huh?
Me: Why do you ask that?
Kiana: The’re white
I also fielded an interesting comment in my 4th grade recorder class a few months back that cracked me up. I was in the middle of teaching the recorder, having just recently established that I want seriousness for the remainder of the class, when one of the precocious ones, Phoebe, raises her hand. After calling on her, she boldly asked, “Mr. Wiechman…how come you so white?” I couldn’t help but laugh, and told her, as we had already gotten off topic a number of times, that we would have to discuss that later. In conversations with the other teachers about it, I was informed that I should have responded, “Phoebe, well how come you so black?” Kids really are curious about differences in appearance and certainly don’t have any reservations in making their observations or queries known. Good for them.
Jenny Schneider, this section is for you. As my close of service is soon approaching, I’ve had to undergo a number of medical examinations to ensure that I’m as healthy going out as I was coming in. One of these medical tests required that I deliver 3 consecutive stool samples to the lab to have examined parasites or any other friendly critter. So we weren’t given much information as to how this was exactly to be done, where exactly to take the samples, etc. So one day I called my medical director to find out more information. She told me the place to take the samples and advised me to go ahead and bring up the samples I come up to Castries. So with this info I assumed (you know that they say about assumptions) that I had to simply transport a few terds to Castries using whatever means, methodology, I deem fitting. So, after much careful forethought and planning (similar to the process of deciding to recycle mice glue traps), I solidified my collection methodology and the rest of the plan. I’ll spare you the details here. After wondering what to put to store the samples in , I decided to use a 1 kg Sunflower Margarine container, tinged with the light red stain of Del Monte pasta sauce. As my first sample was relatively petite, I decided not to waste containers but rather double down and store the 2nd sample in the butter tub as well, even though it was significantly larger than the first. I couldn’t produce a 3rd sample before going up to Castries (though the 2nd sample might have arguably counted double), as I had been enjoying the mango season to the full earlier in the week and was having some consistency issues. So, I traveled to Castries with my butter tug in a black plastic bag full of deliverables to drop for the doctor. Shortly after entering the doctors’ office, another PCV coincidentally enters, and after greeting me, tells the secretary that he’s here to collect the containers needed for his stool samples. I turn to him and surprisingly say, “eh eh? They have special containers for them?” He replied, “yeah, we’re supposed to collect the containers first to use for the samples.” Just then, the secretary whips out 3 containers, each no larger than a tiny restaurant sauce cup of BBQ sauce. Beginning to laugh, I turn to my friend and tell him, “I brought my samples together in an old butter tub and one of them is about 5 times the size of one of those containers. Shortly thereafter, the doctor emerged. Still laughing, I explained the misunderstanding to the doctor (except for the tid bit about the size of my 2nd deliverable) and asked him whether or not that will be ok. He paused, took the container from me, which was beginning to emit a foul odor, most likely due to the size of sample number 2, and replied, “well, it’s not ideal, but we’ll see if we can work with what we’ve got.” Little did he know the nature of the surprise awaiting within.
I’m starting to really process the fact that I’m leaving very soon now that I’m saying goodbye to people, doing certain things for the last time, etc. It’s been an interesting ride. I’ve honestly been looking forward to the completion of my service for a few months, as it’ll be nice to get off the rollercoaster, travel for a bit, and finally reconnect with family/friends, but now that the end is staring me in the face, I feel sad and a bit confused about the range of emotions I’m experiencing. I think that even though St. Lucia has come with its fair share of challenges, nothing can change that I’ve lived her for two years and it has certainly become a home.
I'm not sure how much internet access I will have while traveling in Central America, but I'll try and post a time or two about the trip. But for now, take care, and God bless.
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