matapollo

A few months after I first got up on stage and told the sad story of the accidental death of my precious first pet, my cat Bella, I found myself yet again wanting to open up to a group of strangers regarding a second sad, yet slightly less accidental, animal death story. This story will ultimately become my next NorCal Story Jam story.

Once upon a time, in a Honduran village far far away, two chicks hatched. My very generous host mom named each chick. The first was mine; she was named Karen. The second was my site-mates'; she was named Jason. My host mom took care of these chicks, feeding them along with all the others. She told me that when our chicks grew up they would ultimately become ours. And the eggs they would go on to lay would be ours as well. It was a really sweet sentiment, while also saving us from having to purchase eggs, an integral part of our daily diet.

My host sisters showing my chick, Karen, to my brother

 As Karen and Jason grew they became teenagers. Then they became full fledged hens. Jason hardly ever lay eggs, while Karen, on the other hand, laid her fair share of eggs. She was just very particular regarding her egg laying habits. She would lay eggs only deep within the grass. She would leave the confines of my host mother's yard and lay her eggs in the grass across the street. She was particular in this respect. But I received her bounty every week. And she continued to lay eggs. Until one day she didn't. 

It quickly became apparent that Karen had just stopped laying eggs. There didn't appear to be anything wrong with her; it was as if her eggs had run out. So the question was raised as to what would become of Karen. Because my host mom continued feeding  her (at a cost) and no one was reaping the benefits of having a hen, I went back to spending my money on store bought eggs. Keeping Karen around no longer seemed like a benefit; she was now simply a cost.

Meanwhile Jason, the human Jason, was in the middle of a crisis of conscience. He had just announced that he would no longer eat meat, unless he killed the animal himself. While I'm a fan of knowing where your food comes from (that's farm to table, right?), I thought his rantings a bit extreme. However, it gave me an idea. I would kill Karen myself. Then I would cook her up. I know it seems morbid, but it's the circle of life. I realized that I too shouldn't eat any animal I wouldn't be willing to kill myself.

Well, willing is one thing. Actually doing is another. But, I thought  now might be my one and only chance to learn how to kill chickens as my neighbors did. It would be cultural bonding at its best. I felt like a true Peace Corps volunteer.

My host godmother, Marleni, prepares to teach me how to kill my chicken

So I took Karen (the chicken) over to my host-godmother's home. She would show me the ropes. The first step? To wring Karen's neck. How was I supposed to do this? I wasn't exactly sure. I do recall taking the neck and wringing it, waiting for it to snap. But it didn't work; there was no snap. And I couldn't tell if Karen was dead or not. So I was worried. I didn't want to her suffer. If she did suffer, I didn't think I could eat her. And then I would have killed my namesake for nothing.

So my host godmother, Marleni, quickly grabbed a bucket. She laid the chicken on the ground, turned the bucket over with the rim of the bucket crossing the chicken's neck and stomped down. Hard. I heard the crunch. Karen was dead. And I was horrified. Marleni had just completed one of the dirtiest chicken killings I could imagine possible. It was gruesome. Poor Karen.
 How could I explain to Marleni and her family how horrified I was? Her family had to eat. I felt that I had no choice but to pick up Karen, pluck her feathers and cut her up. Marleni needed to make her in to tamales for her entire family's dinner.

That's when I learned yet another Honduran custom. Not the one about using every part of the animal. I had seen that before. But the part where my host family argued over who would get to eat the tamale with the huevos in it. Even though Karen had long ago ceased to put out eggs, she still had her own ovaries. And apparently they, along with the rest of her internal organs, were considered delicacies. I then watched my godmother stealthily set the eggs aside and make herself a special tamale. I could barely stand as I watched her feast on Karen, huevos and all. But she had done the dirty work. She deserved the caviar of chicken parts in her tamale.

Yum, nacatamales de Karen

At that point, I had to get out of the kitchen for a few minutes. And in the end I didn't eat a Karen tamale. I'm not really a fan of nacatamales, a traditional Honduran food. Plus, Karen's death had been a bit too horrific for me. But she was enjoyed by all. And I suppose that's what really matters.

sustainability

Every industry has its fair share of buzzwords. From social impact investing to emotional intelligence, it feels as though more and more industry terms are being inserted into everyday jargon with each passing year. The "new" term being passed around every board room in my non-profit industry last year was "collective impact." What does it mean? Well, it means exactly what it sounds like; a group (the collective) working strategically together can create a deeper impact. In other words, it's a shared vision for change. This is not a new idea. So why all the buzz surrounding this buzzword?

The difference between Collaboration (old concept) and 

Collective Impact (new, slightly different, concept)

We are all guilty of using these terms. We buy in to the buzz. From level five leadership to leaning in, no one is immune from throwing these terms around in conversation. But do these words really matter all that much? They sound like great concepts and will most likely help a lot of people. But I still believe that actions speak louder than words. Even louder than the most popular words of the year.

Because I still believe in actual sustainability. Good old sustainability, the biggest buzzword of them all (in my industry). I'm no stranger to the term; I've been working toward sustainability for the majority of my life. It's the very basis of why I do what I do. I am constantly asking myself, "why am I working so hard for change if it doesn't turn out to be long lasting? What will my program's impact really turn out be?" Despite all the new buzzwords, these are still the main things I care about thinking through and discussing.

Every day I find myself still relying heavily on measuring the "sustainability." But what is sustainability? And why do I care so much about it? Because sustainability is still the mother of all end results; it is meant to signify success. It's meant to move the needle. It's meant to bring about change in the world.

But how does one buzzword accomplish so much? Because it's not about the word itself nor its definition. It's about the thought process. That's what all these ideas and phrases have in common. They remind us to remember to act collectively. To remember to lean in (only if you want to). To remember to measure your ROI and to present your company as a social impact investment.

I recently heard the following quote, "if you want creativity, take a zero off your budget. If you want sustainability, take off two zeros."1 This quote makes me smile every time I come across it. It's a pretty honest reminder to stay focused. To stay cheap and stick to your grassroots. But also don't forget about your sustainability plan. 

Keep sustainability in mind all the time. Even if it becomes your mantra. Even if you can't stand hearing the word even one more time. Let it guide every action you take. Don't throw a dart at a board, grab some money and run off to a place you know nothing about. Be smart. Be thoughtful. Be long-lasting. In other words, be sustainable. Be willing to change. And if you're like me, become a part of this change. Pick your passions. Start small if you have to. But don't be afraid to get big. 

I can see my big picture. I know what I want for the next generation. I want all high school seniors to graduate this year. I want every mother and daughter across the globe to get an education; the highest they can possibly find. I don't want women's rights or gay rights or minority rights to exist; can we please just eliminate the qualifiers already and look at the "rights" of all? 

Ten years later, my Honduran host brother is still studying. 

However my host sisters are not.

I can't do everything I want to and I don't plan to. If I do my piece well, then I've truly achieved something. Because perhaps through the course of my existence I'll have helped one or two or hopefully even ten people out of a vicious cycle of poverty. Because that's what is important to me. And I certainly don't work at it alone. I choose to surround myself with like-minded people; people who also want to be a part of the change. People who also thrive on this change, as tough as it may be. People who also want to watch change pass on through a few generations before calling it a success. People who want to see this change become truly sustainable. Because it means we're not needed anymore; our jobs are done. And it's an incredible feeling. One I very much look forward to experiencing one day.

For even more fun, check out this sustainability buzzword generator game.

For sustainable grassroots development, join the Peace Corps. Just kidding (maybe). 

And check out Proyecto Itzaes. The most sustainable education program I've ever come across (and that's saying a lot).

1. http://www.forbes.com/sites/tomwatson/2015/01/15/capacity-the-philanthropy-buzzword-for-2015-thats-missing/

matagato

I have a lot of stories from my years in the Peace Corps. I have a least a dozen stories that involve all sorts of shenanigans, from the campaign to get Eddy Urbina front teeth to the time my mom hopped on a random stranger's horse and rode away, bareback.

But no other story holds a candle to the one involving two large men, a small cat, my living room, and a Spanish book of yoga poses from 1972. But I'm getting ahead of myself.

I've gotten more and more into storytelling this past year. Having a blog will do that to you. And just as I'm getting into writing stories, the Northern California Returned Peace Corps Association (NorCal) starts up a storytelling series, the Story Jam. Over the past year, Story Jam has consisted of Returned Peace Corps Volunteers getting up on stage and telling their stories. I'd been meaning to attend a Story Jam for months. Because before I knew it, I was standing on stage telling my tale of lost love. Below is my story.

Or you can listen to the audio version of the story here: http://picosong.com/2ycF/
And the video version is available here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_bPu6U7_QVY&list=PLHcV3zsz2X9w7cZJTFHj34FpY97j64Csa

In my home in Gualaco, Olancho, Honduras I had mice. They would pitter-patter every night on the side of my bed, trying to crawl into it with me. So I got a cat. I didn't have mice anymore. 

Instead, I had a best friend. This was a very special cat. "Mi Primer Mascota." My first pet. I named her Bella, bathed her, put a flea collar on her, brushed her fur, let her sleep in the bed with me, potty trained her, and even bought her Gati, special cat food only found in the capital of my department, over two hours away.

The kids loved playing with Bella

Everyone in the village knew my cat; my special gringa cat (pink and white striped "gringa" flea collar and all). I loved this cat with all my heart and soul. When you are the only person living in a small village without your family, you have two choices: you can either miss your family inconsolably. Or you can make your own family. Bella was my family. I named her after my Aunt. I would take pictures of Bella and send them to my mom. I had never had a pet before and Bella was 100% mine.

Meanwhile, I was a new Peace Corps volunteer, always looking for something to fill my time. Around the same time I left for my two plus years in Honduras, my best friend decided to quit her job and move to a yoga retreat in Hawaii. Despite my reluctance to accept yoga into my life at the time, she had sent me off with a deck of yoga cards. I couldn't think of a better project to occupy my time than translating the yoga cards into Spanish. Frequently people would see me around town, at the school using the copier machine, or at the internet cafe, translating the instructions into Spanish. It took up a lot of time.

My yoga deck of poses

One of the very best things about living in my village was the Sierra de Agalta National Park that surrounded us. A group of Gualacans (my people) were "guides" who knew the park like the back of their hands. They would lead me to the Caves of Susmay any time I wanted. They helped me climb La Picucha, the tallest mountain in our department. These guys had day jobs, but being guides was the thing they were most proud of. I spent countless days with these guys; they became my closest friends.

So it wasn't too surprising when I got a knock on my door at 9pm one night. I was almost in bed. But Moncho (real name Ramon) and Eddy were at my door and they were super excited; they had just found a book, in Spanish, of yoga from 1972. And they couldn't wait share this information with me. What the hell, I thought, yoga hasn't changed in a few thousands years, what's another 20? Their poses should be the same as mine.

Moncho asked me if he could show me what he'd been working on. I didn't see why not. It was late, but they were already here and they were so excited. So Moncho quickly swept my living room floor clean and started one of the most difficult poses in all of yoga; he would attempt to do a tripod, leading into a head stand. 

Here's the thing about Moncho Belis: Moncho is a great guy, heart of gold, but also a former alcoholic always one step away from falling back off the wagon. His years of drinking had begun to catch up with him and he was what Hondurans refer to as "panzon." He had a literal beer gut. This guy weighed at least 200 pounds.

Moncho & Eddy

So to watch Moncho attempt the headstand was nothing short of miraculous.  But, along he went: elbows on the ground, legs on his arms, legs heading straight up in the air, and then legs coming down faster than you could imagine. But that's when I saw it. I gasped in horror as Moncho sat up. I was the first person to see the blood that completely covered his back. Then I saw my cat. Bella then started running around in little circles, blood shooting out the side of her head. Finally she dropped down dead and I just took off running, screaming and crying. I woke up the entire town. "What's the crazy gringa going on about now?" they started asking each other.

Where I went wasn't all that much of a mystery. I went to the home of my then Honduran boyfriend. I banged on the door, screaming for him. He was the only other person in the town who could even fathom how much I loved this cat. I woke him up. I also woke up his entire family. I screamed, "Moncho la mato, Moncho la mato!" - "Moncho killed her". And that's when things went from bad to worse. See, my boyfriend's brother's name is also Moncho. So his mom and dad thought either a. someone had killed their son Moncho or b. their son Moncho had killed a girl. Either way, it was looking bad. Everyone was upset.

And then my boyfriend had to explain a completely foreign concept to his parents; Karen was inconsolably upset because Moncho Belis had just killed her cat. Relieved their own son Moncho was okay, they started to stare confusingly right at me. At that point they knew I was crazy; how could I get so upset about an animal? Animals were meant to be kept outside, literally at arm's length all the time. It's not like a family member was gone.

Once I had mostly calmed down, I knew I had to go back home, to confront the scene of the crime. I headed home. Moncho was gone, but Eddy was there waiting for me. The floor was mostly cleaned up, but it still looked like the scene of a very bloody crime. And it was beginning to smell like one.

Eddy told me that Moncho had gone home. That's when I realized what my running away had done; it had told Moncho that I couldn't look at him ever again. But that wasn't true.  It was a freak yoga accident that killed my beloved cat. It was absolutely an accident.

I knew I had to talk to Moncho right away, so I went right over to his house. He was so sad, I just couldn't be mad at him. He very apologetically told me, "Karen, I am a lover of all animals. I could and would never hurt your cat. My children can attest to this fact. I have never harmed another living creature in my life!" 

Remember I mentioned these guys all had day jobs? Well, Moncho was a fumigator. The emotional side of me knew it was just an accident; the logical side of me knew we'd have to some day revisit just what it meant to be a fumigator by profession.

Back at home we put Bella in a box. I apologized to everyone around me for my crazy outburst that night, but my period of mourning had already begun. I put a sign on the door. "Hubo un accidente, no hay clases hoy." There was an accident, there are no classes today. I wasn't about to start telling everyone what Moncho had done. 

But I lived in a small town; everyone already knew. By noon the next day, Moncho already had the nickname "Matagato." Cat-killer. The cat was out of the bag. Everyone knew Moncho Belis had killed my cat.

We ended up burying Bella in my backyard. Eventually I accepted what had happened to her. And what about me and Moncho? I really did forgive him and we ended up becoming great friends. Even if he is a matagato.

Watch out for the cat-killer!

what time is it?

During my last trip to Mexico, I had the privilege of experiencing a yearly time change; the end of daylight saving time in Mexico. It wasn't until the night before my 6:30am flight out of Mérida that I realized this one and only daily flight to the U.S. was leaving really really early. I'd have to get to the airport at 4:30am (two hour standard early airport arrival time), which would mean leaving the house at 3:30am. Even if you are a morning person, you have to admit that's really really early.

I had heard daylight saving time was approaching (technically the switch off of daylight saving time, on to regular time) pretty soon in the U.S. We do "fall back" after all, and it is the fall. I guess at first I just assumed the U.S. would be gaining an hour the same night as Mexico. But, of course, I was mistaken. Once again, I found myself unsure of what time it was, when the time had changed, and crossing from timezone to timezone over a period of less than two weeks. 

Mexico always changes its clocks at 2am on the last Saturday/Sunday of October. The U.S. typically changes its clocks after Halloween. So, this year Mexico fell back on October 25; the U.S. on November 2. Normally these facts don't matter. Except all of a sudden they mattered to me. Because I was traveling internationally during one country's time change, I started questioning what it would mean logistically. Would I get an extra hour of sleep or would I end up missing my flight? How could I be sure just what time it was?

What I experienced last week in Mexico was a small reminder of the chaos I experienced during an entire year of "daylight saving" time in Honduras. One of my favorite all time Peace Corps stories I referred to as, "the year I had no idea what time it was." I'm not exaggerating. Honduras has become a prime example of many things gone wrong, including telling time. I will explain the horribly confusing time change a little later in this post. 

There are actually two different time issues I've been referring to: one is the topic of time zones. The other is daylight saving time.

Look at this map of the world. What are the world's largest (and widest) countries? Do they have more than one time zone?

Furthermore, should some of these larger countries have more than one time zone? Look at China. What do you think?

What is my view on time zones? I'm pro. Here's why. 

There were a few questions I was always asked while living in Honduras. How old was I? Where was I from? How many children did I have? What time was it in the U.S.? 

Yep, I was constantly asked what time it was in the U.S. My answer? Well, that depended. Was I going to give the simple answer or the complicated answer?

The simple answer was, "the same time as here." I mean, Honduras is on CST, which is the same time zone as my parents' home (aka the last place I lived before leaving for the Peace Corps). The complicated answer was, "it depends." Because in reality it does depend; on what time zone you're referring to.

 

I had a giant world map on my living room wall (and a U.S. map on the other wall). If I found myself in a "teachable moment" as I often did, then I would casually escort my inquisitive guest over to the living room wall and explain about the many time zones in the U.S. It was also helpful in answering the additional questions I was frequently asked, such as, "what's the weather in the U.S.?" or, "my cousins live in Miami, is that nearby?" Geography for the win.

According to World Time Zones, "in order to efficiently use and measure time, everyone in the world would like to fix noon as the time at which the sun is at its highest point in the sky (i.e. when it is crossing the meridian). However, this seems to be impossible without the use of time zones."1 Well said. I think I'll keep subscribing to the time zone concept.

Which actually brings me to the second issue I mentioned earlier; daylight saving time. Currently, the U.S. is not on daylight saving time; i.e. we are not currently saving daylight. 

In a nutshell, the sun goes down early in the afternoon, so we spend many more hours using lights until we go to sleep; non-daylight saving time is significantly less energy efficient. If I go to bed at 11pm year-round, using 2 hours of lights (from 9pm-11pm) is much less wasteful than using lights for 6 hours every night (5pm-11pm). It's simple math. So, I'm liking daylight saving time so far.

But what happens when a country doesn't have much electricity? Well, I can tell you this from experience; when you don't have electricity, you wake up when the sun comes up and go to sleep when the sun goes down. It honestly does not matter what time the clock says; you can call it any time you'd like. You will still wake up when the sun comes up and go to sleep when the sun goes down. I don't know the last time you lived in a town without electricity, but I can also tell you that when it is dark out, it is dark. Pitch black to be exact. And it is not safe to be up and out after dark. There's nothing left to do except head to bed.

Which is why the Honduran government's (pre-coup government, mind you) decision to institute daylight saving, while grounded in energy efficiency, in reality only led to constant confusion. For example, when I lived in the village without electricity, I woke up naturally when the sun rose at 5:30am. The bus into town also came by at 5:30am. But was the bus (since it was run by a "company" and went into "town") now on daylight saving time? Would it come by at 5:30am sprung forward? How was I supposed to know? 

  
What time is it where?

Imagine this scenario: not knowing what time (the new hour or the old hour) each individual business was using. Honestly, not only did I have no idea what time it was for an entire year but I arrived everywhere an hour early in case they were on the new time. Was the bus going to leave for home at 1pm new time or 1pm old time (12pm new time)? I had no choice but to show up at 12pm and even then the bus drivers themselves wouldn't be sure what time they were leaving. It was awesome. Because I would just take that bus back to the village, where there was no electricity, and just head to bed when the sun went down (which was either 7:30pm new time or 6:30pm old time). Then I'd wake up when the sun came up (which was either 6:30am new time or 5:30pm old time). How are you doing with all this? Does your head hurt yet? Imagine living this way for 365 days. 

I also want to point out something about the sunrise and sunset times I have listed; they are real times. What I'm getting at is that Honduras is almost on the same latitude as the equator. This means that over the course of a year, I knew, to the minute, what time the sun would set and the sun would rise. Honduras always has between 11-13 hours of sunlight every day and 11-13 hours of darkness every day. Honduras didn't exactly need daylight saving time; it seemed run by the sun.

Here's how the internet describes equatorial latitude: If you live near the equator, day and night are nearly the same length (12 hours). But elsewhere on Earth, there is much more daylight in the summer than in the winter. The closer you live to the North or South Pole, the longer the period of daylight in the summer. Thus, Daylight Saving Time (Summer Time) is usually not helpful in the tropics, and countries near the equator generally do not change their clocks.2

I also want to mention the outcome of Honduras' little energy saving pilot. In the end, the program did not save any money or electricity. All it did was create confusion. And let me know that, despite my preoccupation with being on time, it really doesn't matter what time it is. It just hurts your head a little if you try to think about it too much. It also probably means that in order for Honduras to keep up with the rest of the world, most (if not all) of the country should have reliable electricity. But I'm pretty sure that's a different blog post completely.

1. http://www.worldtimezones.com/guides/facts_and_figures_about_time_zones

2. http://www.webexhibits.org/daylightsaving/

ojo rojo

My last morning in Mexico I woke up with tears in my eye. After wiping them away, they quickly returned. I ran to the bathroom to see what I knew was inevitable; an eye infection. Was my eye going to be red, pink, or white? It was white. Phew, I thought, at least I won't stop traffic with my clearly infected eye. Plus, there was still time to wait before officially declaring myself with pink eye, since it wasn't puffy or pink.

I have had conjunctivitis (pink eye) in more countries than I care to count. If you are not prone to eye infections, they can be scary entities. Many people don't like touching their eyes. And an eye infection scares the sh#* out of them.

I am no such person. I've been getting eye infections my whole life. I've also worn contacts (on and off) since middle school. Sticking my fingers in my eyes is common practice for me. I have been known to put a contact back in during the most precarious of situations. Because, believe it or not, the most dangerous place for me to be in is the one where I have no way of seeing. Without prescriptive lenses, I can't see. I'm not exaggerating. My prescription is in the negative double digits and I have never met a person with worse eyesight than mine. I can't even read the clock on my nightstand without lenses.

What the world looks like to me without corrective lenses.

So what does one do when she finds herself with an eye infection in a foreign land? Oh yeah, to make matters more complicated, I was on a small island off the Caribbean coast of Mexico.

I casually went down to my hotel lobby and told the lovely desk agent, "Umm... fijense que estan infectados algunos ojos." (Translation: Umm, I think some eyes might be infected). She quickly told me about a doctor with morning hours, whose office could be found above a pharmacy three blocks away. She gave me good directions (rare in Mexico), and I headed out.

I found the pharmacy, but I was too early. Doctor hours didn't begin until 10am. I had two hours to kill. No problem, I'd be back. But just out of curiosity, I asked the pharmacist how much the doctor visit would cost me. $35 pesos ($3). Yep, $3 to see a doctor without an appointment. I would definitely be back.

This incident reminded me of one particularly silly bout with pink eye while in Peace Corps training. As I mentioned, I have gotten pink eye about once a year my entire life. Sometimes it's bacterial and sometimes it's viral. I used to get pink eye so frequently, I'd travel with my own bottle of sulfa drops - a miracle cure, depending on the type of pink eye you've got.

I had pink eye during field-based training in Danlί, Honduras. One thing we like to tout about the Peace Corps is the free health insurance. So, I was taken one morning via Peace Corps white van to a doctor's office. The Peace Corps staff member with me thought my "ojo rojo" (red eye) was hilarious and everyone else was pretty much freaked out. I was calm. Another bout of pink eye. Would it be bacterial or viral this time? This particular bout of pink eye left my eye red, puffy, and oozing pus. I know, gross. But it was quickly treated.

Honestly, the worst part about pink eye in a tropical climate is not being able to wear contacts. During my normal life in perpetually cold San Francisco, I can wear my glasses every day. But when I want to swim, or even run a long distance, glasses just don't cut it. And I'm not about to go without. So I put in my handy contacts. And I'm good to go. Until I'm not. Because inevitably, I will get an eye infection. I know I will. And I do.

So why didn't I get LASIK all those years ago? Somewhere in between all that travel, everyday life, and eye infections, my eyesight was still getting worse (along with my pesky astigmatism). My eyesight has since tapered off, but now the years are numbered before I'll need reading glasses too. I know many LASIK candidates who wear glasses for driving now. A few years without glasses? I didn't necessarily need that.

Plus, glasses have become a part of who I am. They are me. Just like having brown hair and brown eyes, I wear glasses. It took me many years to be okay with wearing glasses in public (I worshipped my contact lenses for the 10 years I wore them). And I'll still wear them when playing sports. But I've become okay with wearing glasses. And I've noticed many women have as well. No girl had glasses in middle school. Everyone was getting contacts. But now, I have several friends and even an aunt who got married wearing glasses. After all, we don't expect men to get contacts, even for their weddings. So why should women have to?

The answer is we don't. Despite ridiculous websites like this one, a Wikihow entitled, "how to look good in glasses (for women)." Totally absurd. Just wear your glasses. You'll not only look good, you'll also see well. It's win-win.

I am proud of my decision to wear glasses, even if I'll never be able to wake up and see clearly without them. Even if it means sleeping with a watch to be able to read the time while in bed, or wearing glasses in the shower so I can see where I'm walking (and also find the shampoo). And yes, my glasses break. And contacts dry out my eyes. And my eyes get infected. And I'll never have cool sunglasses (I have prescription ones, but because my prescription is so strong, the lenses are in super small frames which looks silly). But, I'll look like me. And that's what makes me the happiest.

swimming lessons

I know how to swim. I'm not a fast swimmer, nor a talented swimmer, but I can hold my own through any body of water. It is important to my dad that his children (and grandchildren) know how to swim. From pools, to lakes, to oceans, I can tread along slowly through a breast stroke or a front crawl. Not many residents of the Yucatán can say the same.

This past week, I've spent every single day in the water. From the Gulf of Mexico, to the Cenote Ik Kil, to the Caribbean Sea, I experience joy every time I dunk my head beneath the water and come up for air. I just swim, without giving it a second thought. The cenote at Ik Kil is 150 feet deep, but I didn't even notice the sign. Instead, I jumped off the side of a cliff (the first time was scary) into the deep blue, and came right back up. I knew I would.

The deep waters of Cenote Ik Kil

This cenote (like all others) sells life jackets. When I first saw the booth for orange life vest rentals, I thought, "what a nice safety net for over-protective folks." As I jumped into the cenote, I saw lots of people floating in the life vests. I saw others clutching the side of the cave. I decided to inquire with these water-loving folks about why they weren't swimming over to the sunny (and warmer) part of the sinkhole. In Spanish, I was told every excuse for not swimming - everything from "I'm scared that I can't feel the bottom" to "I don't know how to swim." That's when I realized - the only people sans life jacket were American. So I asked again- and yes, none of the Mexicans (or Europeans) in the water could swim. But they wanted to enjoy the water. Kudos to them!

While in Honduras, if I was planning to actually go swimming, I would explain to my neighbors that I was going to the river (or lake or beach/sea) to "bathe" not "swim." I always thought this was a colloquialism. That is until I went to the beach with my new Yucateco friends. Just before Jessica got into the water in Progreso, she told me she couldn't swim. Then she ran into the water and hung out for a long while. When she came back I wanted to yell, "you swam in the gulf!" But Jessica didn't actually swim; there were no swim strokes going on. Instead, she went into the water and did what the Yucateco fishermen do before they enter the water every day to fish; they pray for permission to enter the water and pray that they don't drown. These fishermen wade into the water (as deep as they need to) and proceed to work hard to hopefully make their living. Most survive, but several fisherman do die beneath the waves every year.

Fishing boat taking off from El Corchito

These are the fishermen who bait fish and troll, by hand, with hook, line, and sinker. Some fly fish. Many drop nets, from both on land and on water (in their motor fishing boats). All go out to fish in the early morning, as well as at dusk, often times holding a Coleman lantern out over the side of the boat and scooping up squid. One thing's for sure - this is the way many families on the gulf coast of Mexico survive, and have survived, through tough times. In the 1980s, the marine industry exploded as farmers moved up to the coast after the collapse of the local henequen industry. Farmers are now fishers. But they're still not necessarily swimmers. Actually, they can't swim at all. But they enter into the water, no life jackets provided. To be this brave takes dedication, practice, and a little extra praying to the gods.

life before technology

I took part in a sociological study; one that I think about often.

In the village I called home from 2004-2006, a few of my neighbors had
televisions – and cable. What kind of cable tv worked out into the rural
countryside of Honduras? I don't know. What I do know is that one single cable
made its way into my village, and snaked it's way throughout the more posh
parts of town (some streets had nice houses, while others had shacks with no
electricity). 

What's important about this "cable" is that what it truly brought with
it was Telenovelas. If you aren't familiar with a Telenovela, a Spanish soap
opera, it's a 5-6 month long saga that plays out for one hour, four nights a
week (Monday-Thursday).

Here is the opening from one of my town's favorite Novelas: Rubí. It was quite
addictive, honestly.



With the injection of a steady stream of Telenovelas into Pulperias up and down my street, I witnessed dramatic changes. Changes in behavior and vocabulary. Changes in teenage drama and a staggering increase in teen pregnancy rates.

I saw a direct link between the plotlines of these Novelas, and the dramatic issues the teens in my town would complain about. How did I know their problems were Novela driven? 

Let's take a look at the plot of Rubí: Rubí starts dating Alejandro, but when she finds out that he comes from a middle-class background and is not rich, she decides to dump him. She then decides to seduce Héctor, who is wealthy but engaged to a friend. When Hector dumps his fiance, and marries Rubí, she decides several years later she wants Alejandro, because he is now rich (she even kills Alejandro's fiance). These were not the problems common to the teenagers in a rural Honduran village. But they were now the exact problems the students (many my students) would complain about. So and so is rich (a ridiculous concept in Gualaco) and must be "seduced". I could hear the students repeating lines from Rubí verbatim. How did I know? I watched Rubí for background.

What I want to know now is this: what has technology brought and changed? Are the inhabitants of Latin American villages smarter, now that they are "more educated"? Are students who have never set foot outside the village more worldly now? Are their babies healthier because they can look up answers to common infant illnesses?

Or have computers (and the internet) just brought easier, more universal access to Novelas? Are students concentrating on teenage drama and sex scandals more than homework assignments? Haven't Americans been caught doing the same? Perhaps technology really does even the playing field. We can all spy on Kate Middleton bathing nude, if we so choose. We can spend our hard earned Pesos on an hour of internet, instead of on a Coca Cola. There isn't any more money in my village, just another way to spend it. 

I can't wait to see how the Mayan students of the Yucatan choose to spend their limited (albeit no cost) internet search time. Will they look up maps of the world, answer math problems, sign onto Kahn Academy, or read books online? Will they watch YouTube and Vine and Telemundo? Or will they do all these things? I have my suspicions (social networking - but which ones?) 

I can't wait to see how life before computers becomes a fading memory.

a digital revolution (and revelation)

It all starts like this:
I joined the Peace Corps in 2004. I didn't bring a digital camera with me. I didn't have an iPod, iPads weren't invented yet, and I didn't have a laptop. I brought the following gadgets to reside with me in my rural Honduran village for two years:
- CDs (music, media, and blank)
- a portable CD player
- a 35mm film camera
- 4 books

While in Honduras, I acquired the following:
- a digital camera (to replace the film one I had lost during a boozy night at the Mangosta)
- a flash drive (to replace the CDs that melted. yes, CDs melt in the Carribean heat)
- a portable DVD player and pirated DVDs from the street vendors in Tegucigalpa
- a cell phone (there were some family emergencies that I felt necessitated a cheap Honduran cell phone)
- a bicycle (which was stolen when I lent it to a friend)

A typical afternoon spent in my house in Gualaco, Honduras

No technology needed to color, draw, and paint (circa 2005)

In 2014, I head to Mexico for one month with the following technological devices:
- an iPhone (4s, so not totally up to date)
- an iPod (the nano 6th generation is a runner's dream gadget)
- an iPad (that I bought for cheap off Craigslist)
- an Ultrabook (Acer Aspire)
- a DSLR camera and 4 lenses
- 2 physical books for reading (I don't do the Kindle thing, which I'll get to later)
- 3 Harry Potter books in Spanish (for the libraries).
- I plan to pick up a TelCel Sim card while in Mexico (I'm job interviewing & don't want to miss a call)
- a UV water filter

What does all this mean? In a period of 10 years, I've gone digital. And not just digital, but to the cloud. Gone are my physical DVDs. By the wayside are my jump drives. All my documents are on Dropbox. And Google Drive. And iCloud. And on my external hard drive. It's all virtually there, right at my fingertips. Where are all my old, useless (I deem them as having no use) gadgets? Given away to the lovely people of Honduras, thrown away, or, hopefully, recycled. 

I'm heading to Mexico in two weeks to install computers into libraries spread throughout the Yucatan. I'm setting up libraries (my very favorite places on earth, which are filled with books) with computers. Why? I don't know. But, armed with my gadgets, I'm ready to find out.