The new new Ale

Ok, I'll admit it. I've been avoiding my blog. After the Great Housing Catastrophe of 2014 I was feeling pretty down. I spent a lot of time in the hammock reading historical fiction. I ate a lot of graham crackers. I didn't even care to call any fellow PCVs to chit chat. I just needed some time to myself. After previous setbacks I would freak out. What just happened here? What did I do wrong? And why doesn't anything seem to work!? I didn't want to freak out again over the failed housing project, so I hibernated. I didn't immediately react or lash out. I just... laid low.

At our Mid-Service Conference I talked to my project manager to get some advice on how to move on. The thing is, not only were people in my community mad that the project wasn't free, they were specifically mad at me for advertising a "promotion".... not a project. (Nomenclature regarding "project" seemed to be a major issue for us. I believe that a NGO devoting time and resources to a community for a set period of time is a project. They believe getting these resources for absolutely free is a project.)

My initial reaction was to clear my name. Shout my intentions from the mountain tops. "I worked hard to bring you this! It is an objectively good deal!" But my PM put the kabosh on that right quick. Culturally speaking, bringing up the housing project and trying to explain away the confusion would imply guilt on my part. I hemmed and hawed for a bit, then resolved to never mention the project again.

The Mid-Service Conference itself was quite an event. Four days of technical training and reflection at our typical spot in the mountains of Perquin, supplemented by tons of hot food and coffee. It was FREEZING to me, like 60 degrees. The warmest thing I own is a black cardigan and it was buttoned up at all times in that terrible frozen tundra. I was also rocking socks and sandals.

We had a session about earthquake safety, which was incredibly ironic because we had a 7.3 earthquake the night before. I still have a bad reaction to earthquakes. For my midwesterners, the best way I can describe the horror of an earthquake is when you're about to make a left hand turn just as the light turns red and you narrowly miss an incoming car. (Pretty sure mom won't let me drive when I visit in December.) That moment of heart racing, wide-eyed uncertainty, the "Is this the end?" factor... that is what an earthquake is still like for me. And the one we had a few weeks ago was a full 2 minutes of terror. I don't care what people say- it is wrong and unnatural for the earth to move like that. I'll stick to snow storms and tornados, thank you very much.

I had a week of hard work on my capstone which, by the way, is ridiculously difficult to write in the campo. Roosters, cows, screaming children, heat, loud ranchera music, children's vomit... There are a lot of distractions. I enjoyed a quick beach trip with some PCVs, headed to San Salvador for my Mid-Service Medical which was simply exhausting. I spent 7 hours rushing from appointment to appointment, but mostly I waited outside the doctor's office and threw shady looks at the receptionist who always disregards la hora de la cita. I'm proud to say that at 25, I still have not had any cavities. And that's saying something after living 15 months in El Salvador!

I came back to site on Tuesday ready to return to my campo life (i.e. hammocks and no traffic). Unfortunately, I didn't get to enjoy being home. A security incident occurred earlier in the day. A big one. The next day I was back on a micro to SanSal.

I'm not going to get into the specifics. It can suffice to say that I was freaked out, but after speaking with my Safety and Security Officer, and the Medical Officer, and my project manager, I calmed down significantly. I am safe. I am not a target. Please don't go off the handle. I've lived here long enough to know when I'm ok, and I am.

I'm deeply saddened by what happened, and I feel helpless in the face of violence here. I did have some kind of a revelation, though. Since we got here we've been told to keep our expectations low. Community organization is difficult here, perhaps more so than in other countries, because many people are so scarred from the recent war. They've compartmentalized so many personal tragedies that they're numb, defeated, and tired. I never really understood what it meant to live a life in which there is a persistent, underlying threat of violence. It's exhausting, and it consumes your thoughts and changes your behavior. Perceived or real, violence is a part of this country. My host sister tells me "Only God can save my country," and I don't think that's religious mumbo jumbo. I think she really means it. I understand why people aren't as bummed as I am when meetings are cancelled or projects ruined. They've got bigger problems to deal with. So once again, I realize how important it is to bring joy and happiness en vez de projects and training.

On the bad days I used to fantasize about PCES closing. Hey, I'll admit it! I often wondered what it would take to close us down like Honduras was. But now that I had a moment that made me honestly think about packing my bags, not because of a run of the mill mid-service crisis, but because of something I couldn't control or decide... well, it just seems foolish that I ever entertained such thoughts. I don't want to leave, especially not suddenly. I would feel ripped in two if I never had the chance to thoroughly thank my host family and those important to me for welcoming me, helping me, and loving me. I need to give parting gifts and donate all my possessions. I need to hug Aysel tight and have a good cry before I can leave her. How terribly stupid of me to hope for the worse case scenario.

Yes, I get angry when projects fall through (there's been too many to count), I hate bolos and piropos, and I really hate it when we don't have electricity and water at the same time. But I also love pupusas, salsa music in the streets, and the whole body hugs only Otinia can give.

I'll likely never live this kind of life again.

I feel like the new new Ale. New the first time because I've come to terms with my work and purpose in El Salvador. New the second time because I want to make every day count. From here on out every month is the last month of my service. The last November, the last December. The new new Ale is going to cherish every moment she has left.