A Little Advice for Future PCVs

This is a little advice for future generations of PCVs in order to avoid screwing over the people who will either be working after you or with your counterparts:

1. Don't sleep with a work-partner/counterpart
2. Don't party with a work-partner/counterpart 
3. Don't take your job lightly
4. Do your FUCKING job

Now these four suggestions come after a pretty horrific work meeting Abra and I had a few days ago with a few gentlemen who will remain nameless.

From the first minute we were in the room with Señor Big Creeper and Licenciado Bad Mouth (Clue: These are made up names) there was enough sexual harassment going on that a boss in the U.S. would immediately file a harassment suit for us. And before anyone starts blaming, I was still depressed over my dog (heck, my eyes were still red) and Abra was still being supportive... so there is no possible way to be sending mixed signals to these men who we would have to work with over the next two years.

After more body-on-body-touching attempts and a slew of weird sexual compliments, then came the comparisons:

"Pcv Hoo-Hah was really nice and went out on a date with us (there was even a few mentions of PCV Hoo-Hahs chest in this conversation)"

" Pcv Boing-Boing takes longer in the schools and accepts everything we give, even alcohol"

Etcetera... 

I completely understand if you just want to be seen as one of them, want to build rapport in an easy manner, want some local booty or even want to accept free things, but honestly, you are screwing it up for the rest of us who are truly here to do a job. We are professionals and want to be treated as such-- not like women who drop their panties for a shot of tequila. No I don't want to drink at 7 am and no I don't want to sleep with you because you would be something I would want to experience.

And for the record, I can understand spanish and did understand your backhanded comments when we refused you... along with those lewd comments you shot at us from the front seat of the car. And we still don't want to sleep with you. But see you in a month for the next workshop, okay! Oh and please remember to keep your penis in your pants, kthnxbye!

Mal de Ojo, My Health, and How Am I Still Alive?

Let me start off by getting down on my knees and apologizing for the fact that I've been a little silent on the inter-webz lately. I blame my budgeting, the fact that I've been busy at work, and the fact that my life line is getting a little shorter with every health problem I encounter.

What is it now? is probably the question thats pulsating in your head as you continue to read this little-ol-blog of mine. Well, dear reader, this time it involved me writhing in pain and having copious amounts of puss and blood coming out of my ears (sorry to those readers who are currently eating or have consumed food in the last few minutes). Parentals, please don't freak out... which I know you will probably do.

Yeah, this time it wasn't any of my past ailments which include but are not limited to: gastrointestinal issues and malaria. No. This time it was a cold that wanted more than just to stuff up my nose and have me hacking snot. It wanted to get saucy. And so it gave me the worst ear infection known to man. Maybe not the worst known to man, but it is still horrible.

But it hit me today, after so many people questioned the fact that this bubonic plague-like ear infection appeared so quickly, that this near-ear-death-experience was probably my own fault. Let me explain.

On Wednesday, I was coming back from work in a pretty great mood and managed to find yet another new route in the cabecera (head of the department) that lead me to my bus (I say yet another because since I've been here, the cabecera has changed so much that I have had to figure out new bus routes about 10 times, no joke). After a few minutes and a couple of chats, I found the new bus stop. Being as it was five o'clock, I was mentally preparing myself to sardine-can my body into this bus for forty five minutes until I got home.

When my lovely green bus arrived, I squeezed in, began to think skinny and stood up between four rows of seats (filled to the max with three people) and held on for dear life to the top bars since I was equally smashed from the front and the back. Once my bus began to toot-toot along it's route, I began to feel a sharp pain coming from my stomach. A few minutes later, when I took my mind off my current day dream, I looked down to see a woman elbowing me. I did the courteous thing and moved the smidge that I could and apologized for the discomfort. Sadly, this did not please the nudger.

As the twenty minute mark passed, the nudge became more like a shove and the elbow was replaced by both of her hands and eventually, her whole body. I was shocked. I mean, we're all in this Sartre version of hell for the next forty-five minutes, so calm down M'am.

After a few more attempts of moving towards the rows behind me, it was enough. I had already had two possible falls onto the bus floor and it was time for the madness to stop.

"Excuse me, but I can't move. Can you please, stop pushing?"

"*Woman speaking to friend in k'cakchiquel (my town's indigenous language) and then laughing and pointing*"

At this point, I let it go. I feel like speaking out in a bus full of my neighbors was enough, but in reality this little chat only spurred harsher action. The next part is when I raise my voice and everyone in the bus is silent and the bus driver is staring at me through the rear view mirror.

"Seriously? I have no where to go, so enough. I can't move and you need to stop shoving me around right now. If you have a problem with me, let me know, but enough."

At this point, my hearing was getting faint and I could only pull out some sort of insult about my weight (and for the record, she was heavier than I was) and then more pointing and laughing.

The laughing and the few insults I could pull out in my dimming ability to hear continued until I reached my stop. 

I'm not sure if I'm just believing local superstition or if I'm just trying to find an excuse for my current condition (muffled hearing and nastiness coming out of my ears), but this cannot be a ridiculous coincidence. This all points to Mal de Ojo (Bad Eye/Bad Glance); the idea that if someone gives you the Mal de Ojo, whether deserved or not, something terrible happens to you. My hearing immediately failed after I stood up for myself and the only thing that was out of the ordinary as far as my character and the cold, was that conversation.

Though you might not agree, I feel like you can agree with the fact that my health (since moving to Guatemala) has made a complete 180. What the heck, Guatemala?

Guate & the F-Word

Before some people get their panties in a twist (uhum Peace Corps I know you're monitoring), this isn't a post about that F-Word.

Instead, it's about feminism. And since March 8th (this past Monday) was the 99th International Women's Day, I thought what a better time to discuss feminism than now.

Before I delve into the topic at hand though, let's discuss Guatemala  for a little bit.
And to start off, let's play a game... a word association game. So, if I could only use one word to describe Guatemalan culture, what would it be? Hmmm, oh yeah: machista.

Don't believe me? Well here are some stats to back up the machismo (which were brought to our attention during one of our weekly training sessions, sorry I didn't get the actual source... pretty sure my jaw hit the floor when I saw this and completely forgot to cite!).
Without further ado, Guatemalan gender issues in convenient 'percentage form':

• 30% of Guatemalan women surveyed think it is acceptable to be spoken to innappropriately
• 70% of Guatemalans surveyed agree women should remain in the home
• 54% of Guatemalan women surveyed agree to be submissive/docile to men
• 53% of Guatemalans surveyed agree that men determine # of children in family
• 60% of Guatemalans surveyed think that men are the economic decision makers
• And finally 4/10 Guatemalan females surveyed think men are the superior gender

I'm not sure about you, but these stats are frightening--especially when you see the effects of machismo in everyday life.

For example, being a proud feminist, I decided to decorate my netbook with a 'Feminism is for Lovers' sticker; nothing fancy, just a plain sticker with a strong message on it. One night, after my host family came in contact with the sticker, they decided to sit me down for dinner and 'scare me' with a wonderful (read: disturbing) bed time story (which I will paraphrase/embellish below).

There was once a strong, feminist in town who would fight for women's rights with her fog horn and picket sign. Day in and day out, she would rile up the women to stand up for their rights and rebel against the machismo in their homes and communities; singing songs that would make Rosie the Riveter and Margaret Sanger jump for joy. Well, one day the feminist took a little longer than expected to come home from a rally, but instead of being welcomed by her husband, she was brutally beaten while her ten year old son watched. As she cried for help, all the other 'smarter' women in town laughed their tushes off because the feminist should have known that it is a woman's job to please the husband first rather than go off galavanting and looking for trouble. The next day, the feminist appeared bruised and fragile, without her picket sign or her fog horn, because she had finally learned that her husband and son come first.

Yeah, these are the wonderful tales I was told after dinner; and let me remind you, this was all because of a sticker!

And these real stories (which come up alot) that are supposed to teach women their role in life don't even scratch the muggy, machista surface. In fact, the place you see machismo the most is on the street.

From the moment a woman (no matter the age) steps on the street, wearing anything from greasy sweatpants to t-shirt/jeans, it begins. A slew of suggestive comments shush chuch noises, whistling and general cat-calling from males ranging from 10 to 60 years old. Yeah you heard me, it can be anyone from a ten year old boy (who hasn't even felt the pangs of puberty) to a wrinkled, liver-spotted older gentleman of sixty.

Most of the time, I can deal with the general nuissance, but there are times when things so vile come out of these mouths that I just want to jump off the highest (5 ft, joke) building! I've only had to deal with this for three months and yet I look at Guatemalan women who have dealt with this their whole lives and ask, How do they do it?

While most of the population seems to be sticking to status quo, I have already seen amazing men and women trying to bring in different notions into culture through Women's groups and other organizations. In the future, in fact, I hope to partner up with my site-mate and give self-defense classes (as a secondary project) to women in our area. Who knows if it will be well received, but with the success of some of the other experimental organizations and notions, maybe we too can make a difference here.

The Tourist Vs. The Peace Corps Volunteer

There is something to be said about the way Peace Corps training has us (the PCTrainees) thinking about our image in-country.

We are told to dress professionally and according to what we see around us rather than don shorts, tank tops and sandals. Likewise, we are expected to glean pertinent information from our communities in order to integrate within our towns rather than stick out like a sore thumb. I didn’t realize though, how  pertinent these PC suggestions were until I visited a new location in Guatemala.

A few of my classmates and I were visiting a local treasure this past week when a woman, from Los Angeles I’m ashamed to say, was walking with her local guide. As she stepped into this local treasure, her Chanel glasses, bright orange tank top, and green cargo shorts immediately gave her away as a tourist.  But what caught my attention was not her bright plumage, or the fact that she seemed to direct this tour guide more like a slave driver than someone hoping to learn something about the culture she was visiting. No, it was something that she uttered from her botox-ridden lips, Oh my gosh, I can’t believe what these people are doing? What are we doing here?

[First of all, let me stop the story here. If you didn’t want to come, the door is right there. You can just as easily tell your guide to lead you to a new destination. Heck, you could probably (by the looks of your Coach bag) book a flight out tonight. But I digress…]

I continue watching this woman, puzzled by what some may call cultural insensitivity. She continues going further into this Guate treasure and is now standing merely feet away from locals with camera in hand. I bite my lip, hoping that what I’m thinking in my head will not happen; heck this woman was at least 50+ years old, she couldn’t be that insensitive. But no, she stands close, like a child looking into a fish bowl, and starts taking pictures (with flash) of what is happening before her. Sure some Americans, heck, most foreigners, might see what was going on in this plaza as something weird, but this Guatemalan treasure was meaningful to the people who were participating. This was not a marimba band or a group of dancers dancing, but something heavier--something that felt too sacred to photograph.

I, seeing myself as a part of this community now (despite being only in-country for three-ish weeks now), told the woman that maybe she could at least turn off the flash or hide the camera because this wasn’t a circus. What I got in return was a middle finger.

Sure, I could have retaliated or made a spectacle but I knew that I too, would be portraying an image of the U.S. that was worse than the reality. So Peace Corps, I thank you because even in this short time, I know you have trained me to see how I fit into this community rather than to see myself outside of it.