true life planet

Well, I´ve got giardia.

The odds of me getting giardia here were pretty high-especially because I am living with a local family. If I was camping in my own tent, and had control over every aspect of the preparation of my food and water, the odds would still be prettty high.

The river here is contaminated with giardia, ecoli, and lots of other bacteria and parasites, because the people go to the bathroom in the water. They have always used the river as a bathroom-and in the past, they didn´t have as many problems with contaminated water, because they didn´t have as many people living here.

My illness started about a week ago- I think.

It is the result of random chance and cultural differences.

How it happened, was that about a week ago, my families house stopped having running water(normally water straight from the river is pumped from the aquaduct to their house for two hours every night). This meant that we had to-or should I say, I had to-go down the hill, fetch water with a bucket, and then carry that same 5 gallon bucket up to the house. Sound easy? It isn´t.

Sometimes I was tired from teaching and tutoring and so on, so I would ask one of the boys in the family to go get the water for me.

When I would go get water, I would get it upstream. The kids were basically scooping it up where people went to the bathroom and pigs went swimming. I did not know this until it was too late, several days later.

Additionally, the family ran out of gas for the stove. We had to wait for the gas man to come by with more-and he never showed up all week. Which meant that the only alternative to the now defunct gas stove was cooking over a woodfire-not something I am particularly adept at, especially in the Ngobe fashion(very little wood!).

Basically this meant that I left the cooking of my water to the women in the family, as whenever I attempted to start a wood fire, I caused a great upheaval-having used more than two tiny pieces of wood, and so on.

I felt I had throughly explained the need for ¨hardboiling¨the water, and satisfied that this was being done, went about my other tasks, and assumed the water was boiled. A fe days later. as the sharp stomach pains started, I realized it had not been boiled.

When I asked them about boiling the water, they told me they had ¨cooked¨it. This means: they had heated it a little bit.

I could not get angry, even though I had explained the importance of boiling the water countless times. To be angry, or show being upset, would really be very upsetting to my hosts.

It is not the custom for the Ngobe to be confrontational or upset-it is more important for everyone to get along. It is confrontational enough for them that I can´t drink their water as they do, and by not drinking it, am pointing out that there is something wrong with it, or in their mind, wrong with them or their actions(using the river as a bathroom).

I felt a little sick-but not too bad, and I hoped for a mild stomache flu at the worst.

By Wednesday, I thought I was better, and was very glad becasue that night I had been invited to have dinner with 15 missionaries from Tennessee(thanks, guys-that was the best food I have had in months!). But right after dinner, walking home, I felt terrible. Something was wrong.

Thursday I decided not to eat anything, and see if that helped. It did, somewhat. However, the real problem at this point was the water situation. Since we had no water at the house, I was having to fetch my own water, boil it-and use that single bucket for all my cooking, washing, and drinking needs. I wasn´t drinking much at all, because I was rationing myself.

My plan was to get up early Friday morning and catch the 5:30 chiva(goat-another word for the 4×4 that you have to catch to get out of this place), head to David, and stock up on some backup supplies: water, gatorade, and food that didn´t have to be cooked.

I woke up Friday morning miserable. Thinking it was solely because of my diet and lack of water over the past week, I hopped on to the chiva heading to David.

Rather, I should say, I sqeezed on to the chiva-vehicles designed for cargo, not for passengers, the chiva drivers are notorious for cramming as many people as possible into the back of their vehicles, sometimes as many as 16 people.

Sometimes people are not particularly clean, having walked ten hours or more to catch the chiva. Sometimes they have lice, fleas, or other bugs, having been living in cramped, almost outdoor conditions, with animals. However, everyone is in the same boat-packed in so closely, no one can even move.

Once I made it to David, I headed to the supermarket, where I stocked up on everything I though I would need for two months. I bought enough water for few days, figuring I would have some back up water for when I didn´t have time to boil any.

I took a taxi back to the terminal, and boarded the chiva to return to Soloy. The driver of this chiva has a terrible nickname-they call him ¨Black Hand¨, because he is always taking advantage of the Ngobe. Today was no different-he packed us in like sardines, then locked the door-and went off in search of other passengers. He left the windows down a little, but already, the heat was unbearable. There was also a strange smell.

I suddenly noticed where the smell was coming from-it was coming from a very sick Ngobe woman, obviously infected with smallpox. The woman became sicker and sicker, and the Ngobe pounded on the inside of the chiva to be let out(or to let the woman out) but the ¨Black Hand¨never returned. Finally, some other guy came and let us out-and the woman with the smallpox left the chiva, trailing behind her husband, carrying a tiny child.

I had not seen sadness until I saw that scene.

I boarded a different chiva that was ready to head to Soloy-and the ride was agony. So much bouncing along, and nothing to do but grit your teeth and bear it.
By the time I got home, I was dizzy from the heat. I just wanted my bags of food and to got o bed.

Saturday morning, I woke up in terrible pain. Adan came to visit me-and then several of the other volunteers in the area.

My family did not seem to understand that I needed water-which I was storing on the back patio.(Ngobe do not drink water usually-and when they do, not much. They drink hot coffee or soda drinks.) I kept asking for water, but I was too tired and weak to get up from the bed.

By the time Dennis came(a local peace corp volunteer), I was crying and had a fever. Dennis took one look at me, and I knew I was going to the hospital.

We managed to get into yet another chiva-and that bouncing ride was the worst one yet. I had been afraid to get back onto the chiva, purely because of the terrible roads…
We got me to the hospital..where, a very nice doctor took one look at me and told me I was severely dehydrated and also had giardia.

Five prescriptions, 6 bottles of gatorade, a few hours of bad tv in a so so hotel in David,an actual hot shower in the same hotel, and yet another chiva ride back to Soloy-I´m back at ¨home¨, still not feeling great, but a little bit better.. Still not eating much, but drinking lots of water(that I´m boiling myself).

Also am taking this experience very much to heart-and in spite of not wanting to refuse food, etc offered to me, I have decided for now to only eat and drink what I have prepared myself.

Taking a break from teaching for a few days, and blogging for the next week.

If you are reading this blog, please leave a comment to this post. I need comments, they keep me in contact with the world.

The Comarca is a world of it´s own.

gigi

I´ve been meaning to take the time to write about funny language mishaps I have here. Unfortunately, I have had quite a few. Although my Spanish improves day by day, it´s still beginner Spanish. Combine this with the fact that the Spanish here is somewhat different than where I have traveled in the past, and it´s easy for language mishaps to happen. Additionally, cultural differences abound-sometimes people don´t talk about a certain subject directly-or when they do, it´s done in a certain way.

Here´s an example:

One day a dog followed me home. Not sure if he was there to stay, or simply there for a meal, I fed him and figured he would go back home. The next day, he was on the back patio, waiting to be fed again. This happened for several days, so I finally named him Captain Jack Sparrow(Jhonny Depp and pirate movies are very popular here.). Captain Jack made himself comfortable on the back patio, and seemed to have decided Catalina´s home was his new permanent home.

I became concerned that when I finally left to go back to the States, my family would stop feeding Captain Jack. This was a valid concern, as as I have mentioned before, people do not feed their animals here-at least not regularly. Very few people have pets, who are coddled over and well fed, as our animals are in the US. So I was worried about his fate, and trying to figure out if I should take him to a friend´s house who has pet dogs here.

So I asked my family if they would feed him when I was no longer here. But what I actually asked them was ¨Tu come mi perro?¨, which means, ¨Will you eat my dog?¨!!!
This left everyone quite shocked, their mouths open. Once we all realized my mistake, we all cracked up laughing. As a matter of fact, they tell this story over and over again, every single day.

Here´s another example:
The other night, I was attending church with my family. Half way thru the service, the woman next to me started speaking to me. I couldn´t hear all of what she had said-there was alot of chaotic activity going on at the time, and quite a lot of noise- but I did hear her say something about ¨….a person had died ….¨

. So, all I heard was that someone had died, in the church.
Right after she said that, I was looking around at all the people near me. Suddenly, I realized the woman who had been rather fervently dancing in the middle aisle was lying down on the cement. She was in the position of someone who had been laid out-and she wasn´t moving. Was she dead?, I wondered? She did not seem to be moving at all, and people began praying over her. She did not move.

Oh My God.

I am sitting 4 feet away from a dead body, I thought.

Everybody kept singing, praying, dancing, and jumping-it did not seem to matter to anyone that the poor dead woman was in their midst.

I was freaking out. I mean, I was trying to be calm, thinking to myself that this was just another cultural experience-but honestly-I was reeling.

Trying to remain composed, I was about to point out the dead woman to my hostess-she had been onstage and had just come back to her seat-when…

The dead woman suddenly leapt up and started dancing!

Oh my God, I almost had a heart attack! I fell backwards off my seat, and my hostess looked alarmed.

I explained that I had thought the woman was dead! I explained that another woman sitting near us had explained to me that someone had just died, and that I thought it was the (now) dancing and jumping woman, who had been lying on the ground and not moving moments before.
Great hilarity broke out in my family-and they began explaining in Ngobe why I was so shocked when the woman leapt up minutes before to the surrounding people on the benches. With everyone laughing, Catalina explained to me that no had just died-the story I had been particially told happened a year ago. A missionary had died building the church-no one had died that night.
gg

Last night was the night of the total lunar eclipse. My family and I had stayed up late to watch it together. I was having hard time staying awake, as I was really tired from working alot during the day. Also, ... [Continue reading this entry]