At the moment I'm drinking alkaseltzer and listening to the Christian rock play from our next door neighbors - one of the town's larger Evangelical churches. It's nice to hear the band finally playing the songs they have been practicing since I first arrived. Before leaving I'm going to ask what the one they play most is called, since I feel like it's been the background soundtrack to the past three weeks in Costa de Pajaros and that I'll miss it once I go.
And the alkaseltzer is one of the many remedies my host family prescribes for (despite my silent skepticism) migraines. I've had one of the wildest migraines for the past two days, which I think came from the intense sun, though who knows. Could have been from dehydration, doing too much reading and writing in a dark room, or the smokeyness of the neighbors burning their trash.
Getting ill over the weekend leaves me feeling less guilty about not getting out to do interviews, but also leaves me in a home with (at the least) three screaming children, whose mothers spend a fair amount of time screaming back. While it's been so wonderful to be able to live with this family, and especially to get to live with young kids for the first time really ever, I've come to realize in how many ways I've been spoiled by getting to live on my own. The comfort zones I have created for myself (such as a calm, quiet, cool place to be alone) are very out of the question here.
For many years, I used to get raging angry every single morning, often so angry I wouldn't be capable of speaking for an hour or so. The anger came from no where, every morning, and I can't really explain where it came from. Similarly, the overwhelming sadness I feel every year before my birthday that leaves me in tears for hours, without fail. The emotions make sense, but come without warning and without real reason. I think the anger was from my peace being disturbed and others seeming happy about it - starting their days, having conversations, and not giving me the space and quiet I felt I had the right to.
The same rage still wells up occasionally, and within a short while is gone again, and I haven't really figured out a pattern. One of my greatest anxieties when coming to Costa Rica was that I would lose time and energy to that same anger. Luckily, I haven't. And also being in a very different set of situations has helped me realize certain things that do trigger these emotional responses that I can't control. Space and quiet has been one - space actually meaning time to myself, during which I don't feel like anyone is listening to me or watching me. Feeling as though I am autonimous (within reason - there's the catch..) of what I am doing with my own life. Meeting the expectations I set for myself as well as those I set for others, and others set for me.
People who are overly dominant in social situations, physically or verbally, even if it's not towards me leave me feeling threatened and fuming. I am really unsure of where this comes from, though I believe it may be from having grown up in a home without the sort of male dominance I encounter elsewhere in the world, and as a teenager living for the most part with my mother. I'm realizing gradually how huge of an issue this has become, in a way, since I am virtually threatened by every man I meet. That's actually a huge exageration, but though this project it has certainly surfaced in a new light as I am trying to accomplish a project involving men and women, and simultaneously live and fit myself into a large host family full of brothers and husbands and fathers.
Though now that I think about this, it's not entirely true. I am very comfortable approaching men on my own, rather it is when being approached that I quickly become what I can only assume is over sensitive, though at the same time I do not think it is unwarranted..
As much as I love the feeling of growing older, and I welcome the new certainty of likes and dislikes that for so long I felt vague about, some still are unexplicable enough that I feel more frustration than any sort of resolution. Maybe it's part of being older, not being stupid and innocent enough anymore to be bemused by everything and everything, but I find it kind of tragic how things I enjoyed in the past now leave me feeling like a miserable cynic. Though sometimes it makes the beauty of situations that much more beautiful - like Juan playing guitar for me.
Juan (or Juan Diablo "John the Devil" or Juan Picaro "John Mischief-maker" as he told me to note his name) is my host sister's alcoholic grandfather, who dropped his entire life (a degree in law and anthropology, a job in the police force, and a family) for the cheap little plastic bottles of vodka they sell everywhere. Juan sleeps in an alley outside the home of an old friend, drinks off his pension, a catheter and one pair of clothes, and eats three meals a day made by his son's ex wife and children. Juan comes with his long carved cane at 7 am, 12 pm, and 4 or 5 in the afternoon, whittling every day a new tool used by fishermen to repair their nets here.
I've tried conducting an interview with him as he has lived here for over 30 years, but have given up since he is incredibly difficult to understand and always starts trying to woo me. A quote I wrote down quickly while he was describing his love for me was "un amour tant lindo, tant speciale, tant educado, tant divino..." ("a love so beautiful, so special, so educated, so devine"). One day I was sitting outside with a friend who was playing songs on the guitar to see what I knew, when Juan came up. After listening for minute or so, he asking if my friend new a certain song - he didn't and so Juan took the guitar, slung his barefooted leg up onto the tile patio, and with arthritic fingers and dirty nails began to strum and old lovesong, and after a moment began so sing.
The neighbors were burning their garbage, but the sun was setting and the atmosphere was incredibly beautiful. I later asked whether my friend new that song, and he replied no, that it is much to old. To have been present and able to hear Juan play such an old song, for probably the first (and maybe the last) time, I feel incredibly lucky. And because of the circumstances, I recognize how rare that moment was. I wish I had taken a photo of the moment, though there are so many moments I wish I could take pictures of, and somehow a camera would spoil them all.
I think I'm going to go socialize and eat dinner. My host mom has figured out that I like arroz con leche and platanos, and has been making both an incredible amount that's probably terrible for my health.. Anyways, I don't really know what I came here to write, or if I've written it yet. But I've definitely written more than enough for today. Tomorrow I'm going to try and take some photos of my town before I go!
Saturday, November 26, 2011
Photos
I haven't taken very many photos over the last month, but what I have taken I've put up on Facebook..I can post the public link to the new photos, and you don't have to have an account to see them (I don't think):
Here's my album from block II (the three weeks of traveling all over Costa Rica) -
And here's my album from Monteverde, the cloud forest -
Wednesday, November 23, 2011
Today's thoughts on sexual harrassment
This morning I was sent an article about sexual harassment and its effects on young women. I read it (and others linked to it) in a rush before I race-walked to the town's colegio, to give my series of sexual education quizzes to classes of students for day-two.
When I first arrived in Costa Rica, I sought out more information into past research on the psychology of machismo and gender roles, and in particular their presence Latin America. There wasn't very much, as far as I could tell from the various databases, and I ended up giving up for another day. And I'm vaguely familiar with the movements in the US surrounding the Slutwalks, and Hollaback, but only just.
And in the past two weeks since I've been encountering so much ignorance about sexual health, I've been doing research on my own and exploring the little plethora of English-speaking and girl-oriented sex-ed sites. There's a surprising amount launched by organizations in the UK, which is very cool, though it doesn't really serve my needs (I'm seeking out sexual education information for Spanish-speaking teens, and in the end have had to essentially write my own).
I myself remember visiting Gurl.com, and having a subscription to an independent girl magazine called Luna (I think! I can't seem to find it online now!). I once even got something published in their "Howling at the moon" section, which was all about 12 year old girl-power.
Reading these little Internet articles, I felt more empowered than I have in a very long time. My 12-year old self was wiggling with joy at the words on the page, and I felt incredibly informed and uplifted. My stories connecting with the stories of other young women, as well as women universally, I felt as though there was some sort of justice, and a solution to the anxiety and fear I realize now I've felt since I first started walking alone in the city and first began hearing sexualizing comments about my body.
I still remember the map I had created in my head of side streets I wouldn't walk down if I didn't have to, because of the people that hung around certain stores or outside certain stairwells. I still remember the sense of triumph when I could walk down those same streets in the company of my father and stare those who'd earlier made comments in the face.
Until I came to Costa Rica, I felt like the amount of sexual harassment I receive in public has gone down. Now thinking about it, it's more likely that I've just adapted to avoid it, or even just disregard it. One strategy I've used in the city of Amherst, that I've had mixed feelings about - some friends have told me that this is by far the best option while others told me is exactly the opposite of what is should do - is to politely engage those who are yelling at me on the street and demanding my attention. In Amherst, this (at least on the surface) seems to give those asking for my attention whatever they have been seeking, and they stop yelling and conduct themselves with relative normality.
I wouldn't go so far as to say that is the right choice, advise others to do the same, or even say that there is a right or a wrong way to respond to sexually aggressive comments and behavior, but at times it has made me more comfortable. At least I am confronting their behavior, which personally makes me feel better about myself - though it is only because I am in a public space and in daylight that this is even a consideration or possibility. Also, in the familiar atmosphere of Amherst, where I am often seeing the same people again and again changes the way I perceive strangers on the street. Everything seems safer, more familiar, and seeing some of these people interact normally with men in town makes me feel that some sort of communication could and should be had.
Costa Rica has been an entirely different story, but I truly didn't encounter any really remarkable sexual harassment until arriving in Costa de Pajaros. This town only has one road, and it's long, dry, and dotted with people sitting in the shadows of the trees and buildings alongside, out of the heat of the sun.
I should preface by saying that since I was a 12 year old walking down said specific streets in the city, I've seen a lot, said a lot, read a lot, grown a lot. I'd like to think I notice a whole lot more than I did then, and the majority of my energy is spent trying to learn. And I'm a lot more confident than I was. I've gone from not really knowing what confidence was, to being devastatingly aware of how little I had, to thinking I had confidence and violently shoving who I was at the time down every one's throats, to realizing that I have very little clue who I am most days other than the same familiar set of memories. But every day I find something new I can do and something new I want to be doing with the time I've 'been given'. And sometimes I am even proud of the things I have managed to do and which I am fortunate enough to call my own, though more to know that I have these people, these experiences, and that this is who I am. In a nutshell, I am so happy. It's taken a really long time, and I'm not trying to be dramatic or self-involved, but it is my blog after all - so yes, frankly, I'm thrilled with where I find myself today.
At the risk of sounding too much like a self-absorbed teen, I'm going to try and move on from that. But I've never written that before, and it felt kind of nice to. Let's continue with the less good stuff.
The sense of humility as I walk past large groups of men, extremely self conscious of my physical body and presence in this town, as well as what significance their aggression towards me may have to them makes me extremely uncomfortable. Many follow me on their bikes, stop their cars, and yet not one has ever tried to talk to me. When I walk with others who are from the town, there are occasional comments, but for the most part it is as though I am invisible. It is like a totally different town when I walk with a friend.
I don't know what bothers me more - the remarks or that I can see that those making them are sitting or standing around with sons and nephews, and more importantly daughters, girlfriends and wives. Everyone is watching, listening, and learning. And no one says anything except for these men.
Also - there are clearly many different people in the world, and there are so many wonderful people in my town. Wonderful men as well as wonderful women, and many strong, intelligent people, some of whom have said the most beautiful and wise things I've ever heard spoken in my life. But I'm not going to lie and say meeting them hasn't been that much harder do to how uncomfortable I am walking down this one road.
I think I've already written about how awkward I feel in this cultural crossroads when it comes to sexual harassment, and anything mildly sexual actually. I feel like many of my values (which are already probably a bit different from most) have been completely reversed, leaving me speechless while I try and figure out my next move. I find myself clipping my conversations with friends and family here as I listen to myself and begin to edit out entire topics and ways in which I speak about them.
What must these people think - this random girl coming into their town with a color hair they've never seen, who is too tired to make much conversation since she's been spending every minute of her day asking people what they know about sex. She doesn't have kids, isn't married, and apparently doesn't believe in God (but she'll capitalism the name and try and be vague for one reason or other). And she has tattoos, & she won't become friends with you on Facebook, and you don't know why (but it's because the problems that you speak of that are driving this town to ruin are casual past times for bored teens all over the United States and everyone has a camera these days). She said something about abortion and another thing about gay marriage the first couple days she was here, and she hasn't said much worth talking about since but it's clear she's got some pretty revolutionary opinions.
I feel like I met this girl when I was in my freshman year of high school - she was strong and not interested in getting to know me really, because she was there on her own terms (and dropped out or picked up and moved soon after she arrived). I was just as baffled, and probably as threatened by her coming into my world as some of the people here have been. But she was in an entirely different situation (not to demean it - but it was high school, in Maine - quite a trip in itself though not on the same scale). The things they think I'm bringing are on a whole other level. And for that exact reason, many are also embracing my presence here. It's a strange lil' mescla.
But this 'cultural crossroads' has made gauging situations so hard for me. I just want to understand, and I keep getting conversations and situations thrown in my face when I least expect them, and that I don't think will ever make sense as an outsider.
For example, after reading these articles, I went to the colegio, like I was saying (much) earlier. The walk over was peppered with cat calls, whistles, kisses, shouts and honks. My jubilant mood slowly deflated & my jaw tightened as always. I think I've ground down my molars significantly over the past three weeks. But this is the Costa, and this is what it is like for me here, and though I can keep being startled and disgruntled and even upset at times, that's not getting me far. If I can keep a straight face (about a quarter of the time, the comments I get make me smile after I think about them - half nervously, half derisively), I've been making eye contact with the people harassing me. Especially since it's the day time, and half the reason I'm being harassed is because I'm A) a female but more importantly B) a female foreigner they've never seen before, this shuts people up sometimes, especially asshole young guys just showing off. The older men I don't even look at anymore. The time I got mauled in the libreria by an alcoholic while trying to print, an experience that left me sore, bruised, and incredibly angry for days (and subsequently changed the direction of my project) left me extremely wary of the fishermen in my town, which is a shame since they are literally the 99% of money-makers.. I also have come to realize I can set my own boundaries though, and I don't have to throw everything to the wind in the name of anthropology, and that my own comfort is most important. Funny but sad how the things we get told over and over and over never sink in until we've experienced why we were told them time and time again.
But more about the colegio. This was the third time I've been there, and every time I've raised my eyebrows more and more at the extremely provocative clothes that these (incredibly) beautiful young female teachers are wearing. And these teachers happen to be some of the brightest, conscious, and stable of everyone I have met in Costa de Pajaros, and in Costa Rica as well.
One teacher, the Spanish language professor whose name I can't remember, I first came across while walking up the dirt road to the town school which is set back into the forested hills. From far away I saw a girl not wearing a uniform, rather tight white (leather?) pants, shiny white 6 inch heels on platforms, and a purple shirt cut down the back. She was carrying a lunchbox in one hand, a cell phone in the other, and was clearly not going to make it to the top of the hill before me, despite her significant lead. I flapped past in my flip flops with a smile, super mystified by her choice of attire.
And 5 minutes later I was lead by the principal, who herself was wearing a cut down tank top, skinny jeans, and chunky platform pumps to the classroom of this Spanish teacher. While her class of 15 year olds giggled over questions no one has ever bothered to ask them about their personal lives, the 25-or-so year old Spanish teacher teetered over on her stilts like a rare species of flamingo, wearing three different shades of eyeliner. She told me that this is the first school that she has felt she earns respect from her students, and that elsewhere students are disrespectful to the point of violence. The last class she taught, which is located in a city less than an hour away was remplete with gang violence.
The same thoughts of safety within the community as well as innocence within the student body was reiterated to me by the director. Today she brought her daughter (who she has enrolled in an American school in a nearby city ), and was wearing bigger wedges, though less tight jeans, and a blue shirt I can only describe as ripped and draped. She's probably 29, has got freckles and purple stripes in her curly dark hair, a large birthmark stretching from her eyebrow over her temple to her hairline, and long pink fake nails that have diamonds glued onto the corners. She's intimidating, incredibly beautiful, over-indulgent with her daughter, knows the names of every student in the school, and spoke with an authority and sincerity about the limits of her power as an educator in Costa Rica that influenced my opinions about the public systems culpability in the amount of ignorance and lack of interaction with students personal lives greatly.
But I'm looking at these crazy exotic bird ladies as an outsider, who is astonished at the amount of young female power present leading this coastal fishing town's school. How do the students look at these teachers? What does this mean for the young girls when they see these women as their role models? How do the young boys see them? To me the answer is obvious, though I don't know about the repercussions. I hadn't really thought about it until I actually passed through the gates into the school for the first time.
Maybe I am just as bad as the men on the street for talking about these women and picking them apart this way. But it has been so foreign to me, as I believe in the US I associate successful women with a sort of mandatory desexualization, and with teachers even more so. One of my teachers at Hampshire openly advertises her obsession with makeup and other petty things that we women in America, and undoubtedly men as well, tend to notice and judge as a mark of character. Her having to confront her own tastes and represent who she is and wants to be as a form of self-defense and the preservation of her image seems almost worse to me than these stilted professors may have it.
I believe, though it is only my guess, that they are more comfortable wearing what they would like and dressing how they wish here than they would be elsewhere - and that it is part of the innocence of this fishing village that lets them feel they can express themselves. And it is not like they are dressing informally in any way, but rather their dress attire is on a whole other level that I have only ever encountered in clubs. In my eyes, I'm more curious to know where they are learning to dress this way, and then who they are teaching this to. I can't figure out whether it is my own sense of Puritan ethics that makes me think that the Spanish teacher might receive even more respect if she didn't dress this way, or whether it is the fault of society for potentially indulging the male gaze over others. Whether students should not be (or already are not?) sensitive to this the same way I may be..?
I just don't know! But it's dinner time, so I'm going to go eat something delicious and watch a television show where women dance around in sports bras and men in swimming trunks and t-shirts, and everyone tries and accomplish a lot of physically demanding contact sports. Costa Rica's number 1 show! I don't even know..
When I first arrived in Costa Rica, I sought out more information into past research on the psychology of machismo and gender roles, and in particular their presence Latin America. There wasn't very much, as far as I could tell from the various databases, and I ended up giving up for another day. And I'm vaguely familiar with the movements in the US surrounding the Slutwalks, and Hollaback, but only just.
And in the past two weeks since I've been encountering so much ignorance about sexual health, I've been doing research on my own and exploring the little plethora of English-speaking and girl-oriented sex-ed sites. There's a surprising amount launched by organizations in the UK, which is very cool, though it doesn't really serve my needs (I'm seeking out sexual education information for Spanish-speaking teens, and in the end have had to essentially write my own).
I myself remember visiting Gurl.com, and having a subscription to an independent girl magazine called Luna (I think! I can't seem to find it online now!). I once even got something published in their "Howling at the moon" section, which was all about 12 year old girl-power.
Reading these little Internet articles, I felt more empowered than I have in a very long time. My 12-year old self was wiggling with joy at the words on the page, and I felt incredibly informed and uplifted. My stories connecting with the stories of other young women, as well as women universally, I felt as though there was some sort of justice, and a solution to the anxiety and fear I realize now I've felt since I first started walking alone in the city and first began hearing sexualizing comments about my body.
I still remember the map I had created in my head of side streets I wouldn't walk down if I didn't have to, because of the people that hung around certain stores or outside certain stairwells. I still remember the sense of triumph when I could walk down those same streets in the company of my father and stare those who'd earlier made comments in the face.
Until I came to Costa Rica, I felt like the amount of sexual harassment I receive in public has gone down. Now thinking about it, it's more likely that I've just adapted to avoid it, or even just disregard it. One strategy I've used in the city of Amherst, that I've had mixed feelings about - some friends have told me that this is by far the best option while others told me is exactly the opposite of what is should do - is to politely engage those who are yelling at me on the street and demanding my attention. In Amherst, this (at least on the surface) seems to give those asking for my attention whatever they have been seeking, and they stop yelling and conduct themselves with relative normality.
I wouldn't go so far as to say that is the right choice, advise others to do the same, or even say that there is a right or a wrong way to respond to sexually aggressive comments and behavior, but at times it has made me more comfortable. At least I am confronting their behavior, which personally makes me feel better about myself - though it is only because I am in a public space and in daylight that this is even a consideration or possibility. Also, in the familiar atmosphere of Amherst, where I am often seeing the same people again and again changes the way I perceive strangers on the street. Everything seems safer, more familiar, and seeing some of these people interact normally with men in town makes me feel that some sort of communication could and should be had.
Costa Rica has been an entirely different story, but I truly didn't encounter any really remarkable sexual harassment until arriving in Costa de Pajaros. This town only has one road, and it's long, dry, and dotted with people sitting in the shadows of the trees and buildings alongside, out of the heat of the sun.
I should preface by saying that since I was a 12 year old walking down said specific streets in the city, I've seen a lot, said a lot, read a lot, grown a lot. I'd like to think I notice a whole lot more than I did then, and the majority of my energy is spent trying to learn. And I'm a lot more confident than I was. I've gone from not really knowing what confidence was, to being devastatingly aware of how little I had, to thinking I had confidence and violently shoving who I was at the time down every one's throats, to realizing that I have very little clue who I am most days other than the same familiar set of memories. But every day I find something new I can do and something new I want to be doing with the time I've 'been given'. And sometimes I am even proud of the things I have managed to do and which I am fortunate enough to call my own, though more to know that I have these people, these experiences, and that this is who I am. In a nutshell, I am so happy. It's taken a really long time, and I'm not trying to be dramatic or self-involved, but it is my blog after all - so yes, frankly, I'm thrilled with where I find myself today.
At the risk of sounding too much like a self-absorbed teen, I'm going to try and move on from that. But I've never written that before, and it felt kind of nice to. Let's continue with the less good stuff.
The sense of humility as I walk past large groups of men, extremely self conscious of my physical body and presence in this town, as well as what significance their aggression towards me may have to them makes me extremely uncomfortable. Many follow me on their bikes, stop their cars, and yet not one has ever tried to talk to me. When I walk with others who are from the town, there are occasional comments, but for the most part it is as though I am invisible. It is like a totally different town when I walk with a friend.
I don't know what bothers me more - the remarks or that I can see that those making them are sitting or standing around with sons and nephews, and more importantly daughters, girlfriends and wives. Everyone is watching, listening, and learning. And no one says anything except for these men.
Also - there are clearly many different people in the world, and there are so many wonderful people in my town. Wonderful men as well as wonderful women, and many strong, intelligent people, some of whom have said the most beautiful and wise things I've ever heard spoken in my life. But I'm not going to lie and say meeting them hasn't been that much harder do to how uncomfortable I am walking down this one road.
I think I've already written about how awkward I feel in this cultural crossroads when it comes to sexual harassment, and anything mildly sexual actually. I feel like many of my values (which are already probably a bit different from most) have been completely reversed, leaving me speechless while I try and figure out my next move. I find myself clipping my conversations with friends and family here as I listen to myself and begin to edit out entire topics and ways in which I speak about them.
What must these people think - this random girl coming into their town with a color hair they've never seen, who is too tired to make much conversation since she's been spending every minute of her day asking people what they know about sex. She doesn't have kids, isn't married, and apparently doesn't believe in God (but she'll capitalism the name and try and be vague for one reason or other). And she has tattoos, & she won't become friends with you on Facebook, and you don't know why (but it's because the problems that you speak of that are driving this town to ruin are casual past times for bored teens all over the United States and everyone has a camera these days). She said something about abortion and another thing about gay marriage the first couple days she was here, and she hasn't said much worth talking about since but it's clear she's got some pretty revolutionary opinions.
I feel like I met this girl when I was in my freshman year of high school - she was strong and not interested in getting to know me really, because she was there on her own terms (and dropped out or picked up and moved soon after she arrived). I was just as baffled, and probably as threatened by her coming into my world as some of the people here have been. But she was in an entirely different situation (not to demean it - but it was high school, in Maine - quite a trip in itself though not on the same scale). The things they think I'm bringing are on a whole other level. And for that exact reason, many are also embracing my presence here. It's a strange lil' mescla.
But this 'cultural crossroads' has made gauging situations so hard for me. I just want to understand, and I keep getting conversations and situations thrown in my face when I least expect them, and that I don't think will ever make sense as an outsider.
For example, after reading these articles, I went to the colegio, like I was saying (much) earlier. The walk over was peppered with cat calls, whistles, kisses, shouts and honks. My jubilant mood slowly deflated & my jaw tightened as always. I think I've ground down my molars significantly over the past three weeks. But this is the Costa, and this is what it is like for me here, and though I can keep being startled and disgruntled and even upset at times, that's not getting me far. If I can keep a straight face (about a quarter of the time, the comments I get make me smile after I think about them - half nervously, half derisively), I've been making eye contact with the people harassing me. Especially since it's the day time, and half the reason I'm being harassed is because I'm A) a female but more importantly B) a female foreigner they've never seen before, this shuts people up sometimes, especially asshole young guys just showing off. The older men I don't even look at anymore. The time I got mauled in the libreria by an alcoholic while trying to print, an experience that left me sore, bruised, and incredibly angry for days (and subsequently changed the direction of my project) left me extremely wary of the fishermen in my town, which is a shame since they are literally the 99% of money-makers.. I also have come to realize I can set my own boundaries though, and I don't have to throw everything to the wind in the name of anthropology, and that my own comfort is most important. Funny but sad how the things we get told over and over and over never sink in until we've experienced why we were told them time and time again.
But more about the colegio. This was the third time I've been there, and every time I've raised my eyebrows more and more at the extremely provocative clothes that these (incredibly) beautiful young female teachers are wearing. And these teachers happen to be some of the brightest, conscious, and stable of everyone I have met in Costa de Pajaros, and in Costa Rica as well.
One teacher, the Spanish language professor whose name I can't remember, I first came across while walking up the dirt road to the town school which is set back into the forested hills. From far away I saw a girl not wearing a uniform, rather tight white (leather?) pants, shiny white 6 inch heels on platforms, and a purple shirt cut down the back. She was carrying a lunchbox in one hand, a cell phone in the other, and was clearly not going to make it to the top of the hill before me, despite her significant lead. I flapped past in my flip flops with a smile, super mystified by her choice of attire.
And 5 minutes later I was lead by the principal, who herself was wearing a cut down tank top, skinny jeans, and chunky platform pumps to the classroom of this Spanish teacher. While her class of 15 year olds giggled over questions no one has ever bothered to ask them about their personal lives, the 25-or-so year old Spanish teacher teetered over on her stilts like a rare species of flamingo, wearing three different shades of eyeliner. She told me that this is the first school that she has felt she earns respect from her students, and that elsewhere students are disrespectful to the point of violence. The last class she taught, which is located in a city less than an hour away was remplete with gang violence.
The same thoughts of safety within the community as well as innocence within the student body was reiterated to me by the director. Today she brought her daughter (who she has enrolled in an American school in a nearby city ), and was wearing bigger wedges, though less tight jeans, and a blue shirt I can only describe as ripped and draped. She's probably 29, has got freckles and purple stripes in her curly dark hair, a large birthmark stretching from her eyebrow over her temple to her hairline, and long pink fake nails that have diamonds glued onto the corners. She's intimidating, incredibly beautiful, over-indulgent with her daughter, knows the names of every student in the school, and spoke with an authority and sincerity about the limits of her power as an educator in Costa Rica that influenced my opinions about the public systems culpability in the amount of ignorance and lack of interaction with students personal lives greatly.
But I'm looking at these crazy exotic bird ladies as an outsider, who is astonished at the amount of young female power present leading this coastal fishing town's school. How do the students look at these teachers? What does this mean for the young girls when they see these women as their role models? How do the young boys see them? To me the answer is obvious, though I don't know about the repercussions. I hadn't really thought about it until I actually passed through the gates into the school for the first time.
Maybe I am just as bad as the men on the street for talking about these women and picking them apart this way. But it has been so foreign to me, as I believe in the US I associate successful women with a sort of mandatory desexualization, and with teachers even more so. One of my teachers at Hampshire openly advertises her obsession with makeup and other petty things that we women in America, and undoubtedly men as well, tend to notice and judge as a mark of character. Her having to confront her own tastes and represent who she is and wants to be as a form of self-defense and the preservation of her image seems almost worse to me than these stilted professors may have it.
I believe, though it is only my guess, that they are more comfortable wearing what they would like and dressing how they wish here than they would be elsewhere - and that it is part of the innocence of this fishing village that lets them feel they can express themselves. And it is not like they are dressing informally in any way, but rather their dress attire is on a whole other level that I have only ever encountered in clubs. In my eyes, I'm more curious to know where they are learning to dress this way, and then who they are teaching this to. I can't figure out whether it is my own sense of Puritan ethics that makes me think that the Spanish teacher might receive even more respect if she didn't dress this way, or whether it is the fault of society for potentially indulging the male gaze over others. Whether students should not be (or already are not?) sensitive to this the same way I may be..?
I just don't know! But it's dinner time, so I'm going to go eat something delicious and watch a television show where women dance around in sports bras and men in swimming trunks and t-shirts, and everyone tries and accomplish a lot of physically demanding contact sports. Costa Rica's number 1 show! I don't even know..
Friday, November 18, 2011
Update
This moment might be the first in this house (that I have now been living in for two weeks and three hours) when I can't hear the padding of babies feet on tile, women gossiping, someone showering, or the tv crackling in the background.
And it's already over. A friend and cousin is now wandering through the house spreading the smell of his fresh aftershave, singing and arguing with my host mother while she sorts her bills, disputing whether he's related to another cousin's baby daughter, and now another cousin and daughter-in-law (with whom I conducted one of my morning interviews) is playing music on her cell phone and flapping her flip-flops in boredom.
It's funny that I believe (somewhere deep down) that I connect with my host-mother most of all. I've only had a few long conversations her, after all. I doubt she'd believe it to, though I think she recognizes that we both apreciate calmness and the times of day when it is quiet, when the tv isn't yet buzzing and the sweat hasn't started dripping. Before the first baby whines. She and I are coming at it from separate sides of the spectrum - she's lived an incredibly full 40 years, full of so much noise, so many babies yelling, greasy hands grabbing, family coming and going. I think the only noises I remember from my childhood is music, traffic, and the sounds of animals ruffhousing. Neighbors outside, but within the home has always been relative stillness and quiet. I don't know whether I miss the stillness of the homes or winter more, or whether they're actually the same thing.
Over the past two weeks, something has shifted and settled, leveling out my aspirations and leaving me smooth, less easily roused. They've been two slow, hard, incredible, and incredibly lazy, sweltering weeks, and I don't feel like I've come nearly far enough, just that I've been walking up this endless uphill slope in the heat, and there's no where I can keep going except forwards for another week. What I've decided to dip my toes into out of interest for my own project are much deeper than I could ever have imagined.
I've surrendered to that though. I realize that this is three weeks of my life, and that I must take as much from it as possible without getting lost in it. The only thing that still trips me up is the worst of the sexual harrassment I've found myself on the recieving end of. I'd say I don't deserve to be bothered and so upset since I haven't been living in this community for as long as most, but I don't think that's true at all. Someday I'll write a whole essay about machismo, maybe I'll feel better. Right now it's just not worth thinking about, especially when I consider how much more I get since everyone knows I'm not from here. There's only so much I can worry about in a day. If this were my own community, I would never deal with this the way I am now, but since it's not I don't see myself as having much of a choice. The structure is so much bigger than I am.
But more about the project itself -
I don't even know where to begin, except to say there is no such thing as adolescent pregnancy. This is not a revelation to me (or to anyone else if you actually think) - but rather it is part of the creeping answer that has been growing in the back of my mind since about day three, and I am still trying to pick it apart with fingers and teeth. Adolescent pregnancy is just a symptom of much greater social problems, not just a symptom but also inversely a cause. There is no way to address adolescent pregnancy without looking at the complex web of how society affects individuals, families, communities, regions and countries.. I'm overwhelmed and exhausted even trying to create a visual.
But my interviews are going very well. I've had to change my methods slightly, focusing more on personal interactions rather than a series of group workshops, due to the slowness of this town, how difficult it has been to reach out to and communicate with mothers (of all ages), and the time and resources I have here to accomplish this project. The truth is that I set out to undertake a project much greater than myself, and therefore what I am hoping now (and more realistically) to come away is enough to meet my own personal goals. Now it is time to be systematic, and patient, and
All of the above..
It's too hot to be writing right now and I'm grossed out by how lethargic the heat has made me. I needed to write some sexual education quizes for teenagers and got upset at how few resources there are online in Spanish and haven't gotten back on track since.. I suppose I could do a couple interviews and walk for a while. Drink some juice. It's Friday, after all. And the house is a little too quiet. I'll write in greather length about my goals and aspirations on a cooler day.
And it's already over. A friend and cousin is now wandering through the house spreading the smell of his fresh aftershave, singing and arguing with my host mother while she sorts her bills, disputing whether he's related to another cousin's baby daughter, and now another cousin and daughter-in-law (with whom I conducted one of my morning interviews) is playing music on her cell phone and flapping her flip-flops in boredom.
It's funny that I believe (somewhere deep down) that I connect with my host-mother most of all. I've only had a few long conversations her, after all. I doubt she'd believe it to, though I think she recognizes that we both apreciate calmness and the times of day when it is quiet, when the tv isn't yet buzzing and the sweat hasn't started dripping. Before the first baby whines. She and I are coming at it from separate sides of the spectrum - she's lived an incredibly full 40 years, full of so much noise, so many babies yelling, greasy hands grabbing, family coming and going. I think the only noises I remember from my childhood is music, traffic, and the sounds of animals ruffhousing. Neighbors outside, but within the home has always been relative stillness and quiet. I don't know whether I miss the stillness of the homes or winter more, or whether they're actually the same thing.
Over the past two weeks, something has shifted and settled, leveling out my aspirations and leaving me smooth, less easily roused. They've been two slow, hard, incredible, and incredibly lazy, sweltering weeks, and I don't feel like I've come nearly far enough, just that I've been walking up this endless uphill slope in the heat, and there's no where I can keep going except forwards for another week. What I've decided to dip my toes into out of interest for my own project are much deeper than I could ever have imagined.
I've surrendered to that though. I realize that this is three weeks of my life, and that I must take as much from it as possible without getting lost in it. The only thing that still trips me up is the worst of the sexual harrassment I've found myself on the recieving end of. I'd say I don't deserve to be bothered and so upset since I haven't been living in this community for as long as most, but I don't think that's true at all. Someday I'll write a whole essay about machismo, maybe I'll feel better. Right now it's just not worth thinking about, especially when I consider how much more I get since everyone knows I'm not from here. There's only so much I can worry about in a day. If this were my own community, I would never deal with this the way I am now, but since it's not I don't see myself as having much of a choice. The structure is so much bigger than I am.
But more about the project itself -
I don't even know where to begin, except to say there is no such thing as adolescent pregnancy. This is not a revelation to me (or to anyone else if you actually think) - but rather it is part of the creeping answer that has been growing in the back of my mind since about day three, and I am still trying to pick it apart with fingers and teeth. Adolescent pregnancy is just a symptom of much greater social problems, not just a symptom but also inversely a cause. There is no way to address adolescent pregnancy without looking at the complex web of how society affects individuals, families, communities, regions and countries.. I'm overwhelmed and exhausted even trying to create a visual.
But my interviews are going very well. I've had to change my methods slightly, focusing more on personal interactions rather than a series of group workshops, due to the slowness of this town, how difficult it has been to reach out to and communicate with mothers (of all ages), and the time and resources I have here to accomplish this project. The truth is that I set out to undertake a project much greater than myself, and therefore what I am hoping now (and more realistically) to come away is enough to meet my own personal goals. Now it is time to be systematic, and patient, and
All of the above..
It's too hot to be writing right now and I'm grossed out by how lethargic the heat has made me. I needed to write some sexual education quizes for teenagers and got upset at how few resources there are online in Spanish and haven't gotten back on track since.. I suppose I could do a couple interviews and walk for a while. Drink some juice. It's Friday, after all. And the house is a little too quiet. I'll write in greather length about my goals and aspirations on a cooler day.
Tuesday, November 8, 2011
Johnny, la gente esta muy loca
Lauren, my host sister, just reminded me I can turn on the fan if I'm hot. Sitting in this little bedroom, with floral sheets covering the windows to keep the sun from heating up the shiny tile floor, that would be too sensible. It would spoil the Pacific heatstroke my body is going through, every sweaty second of which is a sticky heaven. It would wipe the sweat-stache off my top lip, and probably dry the gritty fishy sand stuck to my ankles off. To put it in other words - ¡Soy bastante feliz (sin ventilador).
I don't know how to describe Costa de Pajaros without sounding like an enamoured tourist. Which (..I keep reminding myself to remind myself..) I am..but I also am just a girl who likes things like fish bones, eating with your fingers, chipping paint, and sweaty weather. So I'll try and describe everything with honesty. Well, firstly, this place is full of the bluntest honesty. I just came back from the weather-beaten wooden home of the sister of our tourguide from the mariposario (the butterfly gardens). Anabelle, our guide, had told our entire group (when I asked about womens access to birth control and teen pregnancy rates here during our first visit) about her own sister - whose first baby was born at 14, and who now is pregnant with her 7th at age 26, after being refused surgery by a doctor who told her at 23 after her 4th that she was too young and beautiful. I believe I may have already written about that.
When I came to Costa de Pajaros, I mentioned Anabelle and that story, but didn't realize that not only does the whole town know her (and each other), but that Anabelle's sister, husband, parents, and 6 children are next door neighbors to us, that I've seen this woman's childrens walking up and down the street, and that Anabelle herself lives about as far away from our house as the Pacific Ocean (20 feet?). In fact, one of the two times I've been taken out on my host brother's fishing boat Anabelle was apparently watching me from her window and remarking that my comfort in the fishing boat showed a steadfastness that will help me with my project. Good thing I love messing around with boats ("or in boats, simply messing").
Anyways, today, my host mother brought me to see Anabelle. We wandered up and down stairs made of flour sacks full of sand piled down the precarious hill to the beach, litterred with dogs, garbage and chickens, around which clusters of huts and homes look out across a view Julia Roberts and Mel Gibson pay billions for.
Anabelle was brushing the hair of one of her sisters "monton de ninos" (to quote Anabelle - monton means lot, but which makes me think mountain of children), and looked less than enthralled that I was there. Her seriousness, and the stares from my host mother (which is one-eyed), as well as Anabelle's sister (who Anabelle blatantly introduced in reference to her previous lecture) and many dirty, itchy children made me incredibly nervous. I felt as though I could hear them thinking, honestly, what does this little white girl need? Why is she asking it of us? And why is she asking questions with no answer, and that we have never once thought about? Like where she should begin her own vague project?
I realized quickly that she wouldn't be the source of information or inspiration that I was searching for..that no one will be. And that I needed to get over myself, which I did. And as soon as I had pulled myself together and managed to be more coherant about my goals, and a little more earnest about the places within my project where I see holes, she began to open up as well, and to show the support for my project that I've been wanting to see.
I left joking with her sister and children, and I'll be going back to speak with her mother some time about the history of this town. And felt like I was on a better path. I got out all my nervousness somehow facing Anabelle, who in my mind somehow was transformed into some sort of expert official on my project when in reality she's just a stressed mother taking care of more than her fare share. And her sister being there helped me as well, as she practically represents the entirety of my project, and exactly what intimidates me most. I don't feel comfortable writing more about her online, this whole blog already makes me so uncomfortable now that I've found out how to see how many people are reading it. Someone with so many problems does not need more speculation placed on her, in my own opinion, though I'd be happy to answer questions, if there are any.
I let my own host mother go back to the shade and comfort of her home, and went to CINCINAE (an acronym I can't seem to remember ever), which is an organization that gives milk to poor mothers as well as lunches to pregnant women and children. There, I caught the director & nutritionist on her way out for the week, who was distracted but delighted that I am doing this project. Obviously I could come and do interviews in the morning, she told me, and gave me a calendar with more information about when she'll be back next and when we can go over the organizations files together to look closer at rates of adolescent motherhood. Sadly, she and the man I spoke to won't be there every day, and tomorrow I have to go through the nerve-wracking process of introducing myself and representing my project well in a language I've just barely begun to grasp, but it could be worse. I could still not know that I am welcome and that there is some immense support in this community for the project I am doing.
What is left for me now is (HUGE), but firstly to go to the other town centers, such as the town management (desarollo - means development but Anabelle told me when I asked that it was the equivalent of a town committee), and the health center to speak to doctors, nurses, and pharmacists, as well as the police station, and middle and high schools. A whole lot of presenting myself..but at least I now have a foothold at the CINCINAE, and a place at which to start.
I also have a list of 50 questions which my host sister and friends helped to translate since the town's whole wireless and cellular system was down...I suppose it sounds insestuous to call her my host sister though, since she's married to my host brother and is the daughter of my host mother?...I should just use names. My host mother is Maritza and is a relatively-divorced 45 year old, and her daughter Lauren lives in the house with her husband Danny, and they have a 1.5 year old little girl. Lauren is 5 days younger than me, and I'm not sure about Danny. He is a shrimp fisherman by night, and hangs out with us and plays with the baby during the day, and they all take turns cooking the most delicious meals I've ever had. Many of Maritza´s other children live nearby to the house, so other daughters in law are always coming through with their kids, as well as cousins and husbands.
The house has five rooms like most Costa Rican homes - a kitchen, a living room, and three bedrooms. Considering that at one point this house had 7 or 8 people in it, that's a little wild to picture. My own room is now a guest bedroom, with two beds covered with thin foam mattresses which are probably many years older than I, and brightly colored sheets which don't get used since the nights and days here are so hot. Above my bed, I have a little carving of a wooden kitchen and roof, with a little carved man sitting and watching while his aproned wife cooks dinner. The walls open up to the tin roof, which is open to let out the heat. Lauren says frogs jump from the trees and through the sides of the house, but I haven't decided if I believe it. Though thinking about it, the thumb-sized scorpion that I found in my backpack could have gotten there much more easily from the cieling than from the ground.
I am relishing getting to walk around in barefeet, and that I can go get passion fruit fresco (the seeds float and are so crunchy and tart I just want to die eating them, that delicious) from the fridge whenever I want. It's the family's first time hosting and they're having a great time doing it. They even got Daniel's brother to bring over his big desktop computer, which they put together for me and which even has wireless thanks to a little USB plug in. Daniel and his brother Joseph's mother works at the mariposario, and is also eagerly trying to help me - though she lives in Chomes which is about an hour away and can't do too much. But it let me get access to a computer to sign up for classes. Oh, which look like they will be a riot - here they are: Latin American Social Movements, Law and Politics of Housing, Producing Violence, and Environmental Justice on Native American Land. Looks AMAZING, and at the same time, I haven't even had a chance to look at classes in the 5 colleges yet. But Producing Violence is only on Monday nights, so I have space for another. If not, I could leave out that or Law and Politics of Housing to take something more specifically focused to what I'm interested in if my advisors tell me I need to reign it in. But I'm supez psyched, to say the least. Also Latin American Social Movements is in espanol!
I haven't finished talking about Costa de Pajaros though! Well, here is their blog..http://costadepajaros.blogspot.com/
And this is what the fishing boats look like..
Here is the colegio, where I'll be going tomorrow to introduce myself. These are all pictures I've found by Googling 'Costa de Pajaros'..haven't taken any myself yet..Don't know if I will be taking many since I might have forgot my camera charger, though I do have several film cameras for my project I could use.
Here is an old, but still very accurate picture of the coast. Today I walked home along the beach, and was more overwhelmed by human trash than I have been in a long time. This weekend or next, or whenever I get the time, I'm just going to take a trash bag and walk up and down the beach picking up everyone's gross stuff.
Somehow it doesn't suprise me how careless people here are. It almost makes the natural beauty more beautiful, somehow, to see how undervalued it is by the people who live off it. Here the water is full of dead yellow-tailed sardines that the fishermen have killed while netting shrimp, and which the pelicans didn't dive to catch fast enough. The beach is littered with intricate bones and shining fins, and the water in the heat smells like the jellyfish and fish bodies that have melted into it. Or maybe that's the sand. There's glass in the sand, as well as plastic bags, and the majority of fishing boats are tied giant fallen logs. The plastic soda can holders that I remember learning would strange seals are snagged on the logs, and this is the one place I've felt very stupid to be walking barefoot. I'm relatively sure I won't step on any needles here - I don't think there's the steady rconomy here for that kind of drug use - but between angry dogs protecting shanty homes, and broken pottery and shells from and full of littered food remains, it's pretty stupid.
But just so beautiful. I didn't find a good photo of the coast line, but picture the Pyrenees (layers of shades of light to dark navy blue jagged mountains) surrounding a clear pool of bright ocean water. That's the Gulf of Nicoya. And at sunset, which I got to watch last night from a friend's house on a nearby mountain (nbd) picture the blue mountains interrupted by bright shocks of red, orange, yellow and pink light streaming out of the clouds and onto the red sea.
And Daniel took us in his boat across the bay to feed crocodiles old fish gills, and the first time we went out he drove us through a flock of 200 albatross.
I have to go for a walk!
That was a great walk!!!
I went with my host mother and her sister, who I've added to my list of these amazing strong women I meet whenever I travel anywhere and who always blow me away with their life stories and the fact that they're interested in what I'm doing and what I have to say. This one was married at the age of 15, and had her first three babies in the next three years, and was the first person I've talked to here about my project who made the connection to self-esteem for young women. Which was great since I somehow didn't know the word autoestima, but immediately recognised it for what it was.
But she also emphasized teaching so much, while I dragged my heels and was all about the not-aggressively-going-in-with-an-agenda-since-I-am-nobody, but her emphasis made a really big impression on me. They also opened up more than anyone else has to my probing about the machismo that was rampant here years ago, with marriages arranged by fathers and women being forbidden from leaving the house. It all seems surreal to think and hear about, especially due to the passive way with which they talk about it, like it was Cinderella or something but she's okay now. I don't expect whispers about it either, but I do wonder about sensationalism sometimes. I don't know what women would have to gain by sensationalizing the past - maybe some sort of collective strength.
But on the other hand, the machismo here is WILD. I have never in my life been cat called and had so many vulgar things said to me in the street, especially not by so many old men. It was absolutely wild to me the first time I stepped out of the house to take a walk and some deep breaths (it was chaotic getting here to say the least), and suddenly I was surrounded by men breathing down my neck. Obviously I understand that I am a stanger, and that the townspeople know that at first glance, and that it is oh-so-fun to sit and check out ladies and make them uncomfortable, but it still is not something I can let go of easily. Some of these guys I just want to start screaming my lungs out, or push them off the fence post they're sitting on, or spit in their faces.
But that wouldn't be very kind, and in a small town like this it would probably not be very good for business. When we were coming back though, I did get a marriage proposal by ways of translation. Some random 14 year old asked my host mother whether I'd like to get hitched with a real Tico.
What else? Over dinner a gecko ran across the table and ate a beetle that was near my arm. And tomorrow I am going to translate more questions and head over to the CINCINAE to start doing interviews. I need to also go to the clinic tomorrow, if there's time. Which of course there will be, but accounting in the extreme heat as well as the trip home to eat with my host family (ceviche, ceviche!), some hours will be lost along the way.
I don't know how to describe Costa de Pajaros without sounding like an enamoured tourist. Which (..I keep reminding myself to remind myself..) I am..but I also am just a girl who likes things like fish bones, eating with your fingers, chipping paint, and sweaty weather. So I'll try and describe everything with honesty. Well, firstly, this place is full of the bluntest honesty. I just came back from the weather-beaten wooden home of the sister of our tourguide from the mariposario (the butterfly gardens). Anabelle, our guide, had told our entire group (when I asked about womens access to birth control and teen pregnancy rates here during our first visit) about her own sister - whose first baby was born at 14, and who now is pregnant with her 7th at age 26, after being refused surgery by a doctor who told her at 23 after her 4th that she was too young and beautiful. I believe I may have already written about that.
When I came to Costa de Pajaros, I mentioned Anabelle and that story, but didn't realize that not only does the whole town know her (and each other), but that Anabelle's sister, husband, parents, and 6 children are next door neighbors to us, that I've seen this woman's childrens walking up and down the street, and that Anabelle herself lives about as far away from our house as the Pacific Ocean (20 feet?). In fact, one of the two times I've been taken out on my host brother's fishing boat Anabelle was apparently watching me from her window and remarking that my comfort in the fishing boat showed a steadfastness that will help me with my project. Good thing I love messing around with boats ("or in boats, simply messing").
Anyways, today, my host mother brought me to see Anabelle. We wandered up and down stairs made of flour sacks full of sand piled down the precarious hill to the beach, litterred with dogs, garbage and chickens, around which clusters of huts and homes look out across a view Julia Roberts and Mel Gibson pay billions for.
Anabelle was brushing the hair of one of her sisters "monton de ninos" (to quote Anabelle - monton means lot, but which makes me think mountain of children), and looked less than enthralled that I was there. Her seriousness, and the stares from my host mother (which is one-eyed), as well as Anabelle's sister (who Anabelle blatantly introduced in reference to her previous lecture) and many dirty, itchy children made me incredibly nervous. I felt as though I could hear them thinking, honestly, what does this little white girl need? Why is she asking it of us? And why is she asking questions with no answer, and that we have never once thought about? Like where she should begin her own vague project?
I realized quickly that she wouldn't be the source of information or inspiration that I was searching for..that no one will be. And that I needed to get over myself, which I did. And as soon as I had pulled myself together and managed to be more coherant about my goals, and a little more earnest about the places within my project where I see holes, she began to open up as well, and to show the support for my project that I've been wanting to see.
I left joking with her sister and children, and I'll be going back to speak with her mother some time about the history of this town. And felt like I was on a better path. I got out all my nervousness somehow facing Anabelle, who in my mind somehow was transformed into some sort of expert official on my project when in reality she's just a stressed mother taking care of more than her fare share. And her sister being there helped me as well, as she practically represents the entirety of my project, and exactly what intimidates me most. I don't feel comfortable writing more about her online, this whole blog already makes me so uncomfortable now that I've found out how to see how many people are reading it. Someone with so many problems does not need more speculation placed on her, in my own opinion, though I'd be happy to answer questions, if there are any.
I let my own host mother go back to the shade and comfort of her home, and went to CINCINAE (an acronym I can't seem to remember ever), which is an organization that gives milk to poor mothers as well as lunches to pregnant women and children. There, I caught the director & nutritionist on her way out for the week, who was distracted but delighted that I am doing this project. Obviously I could come and do interviews in the morning, she told me, and gave me a calendar with more information about when she'll be back next and when we can go over the organizations files together to look closer at rates of adolescent motherhood. Sadly, she and the man I spoke to won't be there every day, and tomorrow I have to go through the nerve-wracking process of introducing myself and representing my project well in a language I've just barely begun to grasp, but it could be worse. I could still not know that I am welcome and that there is some immense support in this community for the project I am doing.
What is left for me now is (HUGE), but firstly to go to the other town centers, such as the town management (desarollo - means development but Anabelle told me when I asked that it was the equivalent of a town committee), and the health center to speak to doctors, nurses, and pharmacists, as well as the police station, and middle and high schools. A whole lot of presenting myself..but at least I now have a foothold at the CINCINAE, and a place at which to start.
I also have a list of 50 questions which my host sister and friends helped to translate since the town's whole wireless and cellular system was down...I suppose it sounds insestuous to call her my host sister though, since she's married to my host brother and is the daughter of my host mother?...I should just use names. My host mother is Maritza and is a relatively-divorced 45 year old, and her daughter Lauren lives in the house with her husband Danny, and they have a 1.5 year old little girl. Lauren is 5 days younger than me, and I'm not sure about Danny. He is a shrimp fisherman by night, and hangs out with us and plays with the baby during the day, and they all take turns cooking the most delicious meals I've ever had. Many of Maritza´s other children live nearby to the house, so other daughters in law are always coming through with their kids, as well as cousins and husbands.
The house has five rooms like most Costa Rican homes - a kitchen, a living room, and three bedrooms. Considering that at one point this house had 7 or 8 people in it, that's a little wild to picture. My own room is now a guest bedroom, with two beds covered with thin foam mattresses which are probably many years older than I, and brightly colored sheets which don't get used since the nights and days here are so hot. Above my bed, I have a little carving of a wooden kitchen and roof, with a little carved man sitting and watching while his aproned wife cooks dinner. The walls open up to the tin roof, which is open to let out the heat. Lauren says frogs jump from the trees and through the sides of the house, but I haven't decided if I believe it. Though thinking about it, the thumb-sized scorpion that I found in my backpack could have gotten there much more easily from the cieling than from the ground.
I am relishing getting to walk around in barefeet, and that I can go get passion fruit fresco (the seeds float and are so crunchy and tart I just want to die eating them, that delicious) from the fridge whenever I want. It's the family's first time hosting and they're having a great time doing it. They even got Daniel's brother to bring over his big desktop computer, which they put together for me and which even has wireless thanks to a little USB plug in. Daniel and his brother Joseph's mother works at the mariposario, and is also eagerly trying to help me - though she lives in Chomes which is about an hour away and can't do too much. But it let me get access to a computer to sign up for classes. Oh, which look like they will be a riot - here they are: Latin American Social Movements, Law and Politics of Housing, Producing Violence, and Environmental Justice on Native American Land. Looks AMAZING, and at the same time, I haven't even had a chance to look at classes in the 5 colleges yet. But Producing Violence is only on Monday nights, so I have space for another. If not, I could leave out that or Law and Politics of Housing to take something more specifically focused to what I'm interested in if my advisors tell me I need to reign it in. But I'm supez psyched, to say the least. Also Latin American Social Movements is in espanol!
I haven't finished talking about Costa de Pajaros though! Well, here is their blog..http://costadepajaros.blogspot.com/
And this is what the fishing boats look like..
Here is the colegio, where I'll be going tomorrow to introduce myself. These are all pictures I've found by Googling 'Costa de Pajaros'..haven't taken any myself yet..Don't know if I will be taking many since I might have forgot my camera charger, though I do have several film cameras for my project I could use.
Here is an old, but still very accurate picture of the coast. Today I walked home along the beach, and was more overwhelmed by human trash than I have been in a long time. This weekend or next, or whenever I get the time, I'm just going to take a trash bag and walk up and down the beach picking up everyone's gross stuff.
Somehow it doesn't suprise me how careless people here are. It almost makes the natural beauty more beautiful, somehow, to see how undervalued it is by the people who live off it. Here the water is full of dead yellow-tailed sardines that the fishermen have killed while netting shrimp, and which the pelicans didn't dive to catch fast enough. The beach is littered with intricate bones and shining fins, and the water in the heat smells like the jellyfish and fish bodies that have melted into it. Or maybe that's the sand. There's glass in the sand, as well as plastic bags, and the majority of fishing boats are tied giant fallen logs. The plastic soda can holders that I remember learning would strange seals are snagged on the logs, and this is the one place I've felt very stupid to be walking barefoot. I'm relatively sure I won't step on any needles here - I don't think there's the steady rconomy here for that kind of drug use - but between angry dogs protecting shanty homes, and broken pottery and shells from and full of littered food remains, it's pretty stupid.
But just so beautiful. I didn't find a good photo of the coast line, but picture the Pyrenees (layers of shades of light to dark navy blue jagged mountains) surrounding a clear pool of bright ocean water. That's the Gulf of Nicoya. And at sunset, which I got to watch last night from a friend's house on a nearby mountain (nbd) picture the blue mountains interrupted by bright shocks of red, orange, yellow and pink light streaming out of the clouds and onto the red sea.
And Daniel took us in his boat across the bay to feed crocodiles old fish gills, and the first time we went out he drove us through a flock of 200 albatross.
I have to go for a walk!
That was a great walk!!!
I went with my host mother and her sister, who I've added to my list of these amazing strong women I meet whenever I travel anywhere and who always blow me away with their life stories and the fact that they're interested in what I'm doing and what I have to say. This one was married at the age of 15, and had her first three babies in the next three years, and was the first person I've talked to here about my project who made the connection to self-esteem for young women. Which was great since I somehow didn't know the word autoestima, but immediately recognised it for what it was.
But she also emphasized teaching so much, while I dragged my heels and was all about the not-aggressively-going-in-with-an-agenda-since-I-am-nobody, but her emphasis made a really big impression on me. They also opened up more than anyone else has to my probing about the machismo that was rampant here years ago, with marriages arranged by fathers and women being forbidden from leaving the house. It all seems surreal to think and hear about, especially due to the passive way with which they talk about it, like it was Cinderella or something but she's okay now. I don't expect whispers about it either, but I do wonder about sensationalism sometimes. I don't know what women would have to gain by sensationalizing the past - maybe some sort of collective strength.
But on the other hand, the machismo here is WILD. I have never in my life been cat called and had so many vulgar things said to me in the street, especially not by so many old men. It was absolutely wild to me the first time I stepped out of the house to take a walk and some deep breaths (it was chaotic getting here to say the least), and suddenly I was surrounded by men breathing down my neck. Obviously I understand that I am a stanger, and that the townspeople know that at first glance, and that it is oh-so-fun to sit and check out ladies and make them uncomfortable, but it still is not something I can let go of easily. Some of these guys I just want to start screaming my lungs out, or push them off the fence post they're sitting on, or spit in their faces.
But that wouldn't be very kind, and in a small town like this it would probably not be very good for business. When we were coming back though, I did get a marriage proposal by ways of translation. Some random 14 year old asked my host mother whether I'd like to get hitched with a real Tico.
What else? Over dinner a gecko ran across the table and ate a beetle that was near my arm. And tomorrow I am going to translate more questions and head over to the CINCINAE to start doing interviews. I need to also go to the clinic tomorrow, if there's time. Which of course there will be, but accounting in the extreme heat as well as the trip home to eat with my host family (ceviche, ceviche!), some hours will be lost along the way.
Thursday, November 3, 2011
Before I go!
Whaddup universe.
My nerves are twanging louder than Joanna Newsom's harpstrings and vocal chords combined right now. It's been a whole long time since I've been this nervous. I can't even remember the last time. Eating food finally made me feel at least a little less trembly and feverish, but I still think I might pass out from my heart beating too hard against my chest. Yay, great.
It's basically because I've avoided really thinking deeply about the intensity of the independent project I am setting out for myself for the next three weeks. It is really very, very intense. At the same time though, it is going to be (hopefully) absolutely-fucking-fascinating an fun as hell. But first I have to go, get settled in, and get started. And that is scaring the living daylights out of me right now.
But no one in the world really knows (except for my classmates and professors and some strangers far away who will be receiving me tomorrow) what exactly I am planning to do over the next three weeks. As fun as it sounds, maybe I won't keep shrouding myself in mystery. It's not actually that I've expressly been this mysterious recently, I've just been so overwhelmed! So much is going on, and so much that I want to pay attention to! I finished final exams though, and the last of my projects and presentations and papers, and now all I have left to do is pack. And so obviously I laid all my clothes out on my bed in neat piles and am now avoiding looking at them by coming here.
At least packing is the one constant that keeps me coming back to this blog, right? And how crazy my thoughts get sometimes and how much I now realize I need the time to process through the single-stream-therapy method of writing it all out. Who knew that this is what I've been needing my whole life?
Not I, said the little red-head.
So maybe it's time I just blurt out what I'm doing. Alright. It's making my stomach hurt thinking about it, but I should be repeating it and repeating it as much as I can, til I am as comfortable talking about my proposed project as I am saying the alphabet backwards (thx Mr. Springer!)
SO: I am going back to Guanacaste, to the town of Pajaros (birds!) also known as Costa de Pajaros. When Columbus (or whomever planted his flag) first landed he was pretty excited about how many albatros there were nesting in the trees. A whole lot apparently - hence the name.
So I am going to Costa de Pajaros to do a series of workshops with young adolescent mothers there. Costa Rica has some of the highest adolescent pregnancy rates in Latin America, as well as the world. Adolescent pregnancy remains the leading killer of women age 14-19, and 99% of these deaths occur in developing countries like Costa Rica. Women's health is an area that still needs HUGE attention worldwide..over the past 40 years a lot of progress has been made, particularly in terms of addressing the health of women of reproductive age (sorry - I'm not going to bother to give ANY of my sources right now. I'll attach the rough draft of my paper proposal as well as bibliography for those who may be interested). But women of old age, or who are post-menopausal, or adolescents continue to receive less-than-adequate attention. And in areas where there is poverty, political or environmental conflict, migration, or natural disasters, the likelihood of women's health coming into jeopardy rises exponentially.
So I am going to an area which has suffered a whole lot of social and political upheaval, as well as environmental degradation, and a whole lot of poverty. Costa de Pajaros is situated in the Gulf of Nicoya, where essentially everyone has lived off fishing since time-immemorial, and where the machismo was so strong that women couldn't leave their houses - in fact, when their husbands left to go fishing they'd have to accompany them on the boats and help repair nets while trying not to make any eye contact with males who might cross their path. Recently, much has changed. The government of Costa Rica officially has been addressing the issue by sending in educators to change the ways that women think about themselves, and in particular how they can contribute to their families. Cause there's no more fish. Not that the same crisis isn't occurring everywhere else in maritime waters, but the citizens of Costa de Pajaros are kind of at a dead-end. When we were visiting, we got a tour of one of the government and UN small-projects fund funded projects (whoop!) which involved creating a butterfly garden to attract tourists, and which also can (or will) give tours of the mangrove forests along the coast, as well as send butterfly pupae to international butterfly enthusiasts. These women created their own small business in order to maintain their standard of living without having to leave their small town (and therefore their family) to work in a hotel, or some other job.
Anyways, beyond that, when we visited we spoke to one of the women about a school that has been set up for adolescent mothers to go back to school at night and obtain their equivalent of a GED. But the attitudes surrounding these women were really interesting, addressing their behavior (having gotten knocked up) as an act of "rebelliousness", and seemingly incredibly problematic. Which it is, but I believe so for an entirely separate set of reasons. Number one: these girls aren't able to vote, don't own property, don't have an education, and haven't necessarily even their own room, but from them are coming Costa Rica's newest generation. Beyond the long list of health risks, these girls simply occupy this negative space (or a blank space, not to get all arty on y'all) in Costa Rican society. They own nothing, except they own the future of the country, in a way. And they're being faced by all these really important issues, which I am 100% sure they have opinions about, though they may not have ever really been asked to think about them before. So that's what I'm doing.
I'm doing a participatory ethnographic project, where with a small group of girls I will discuss different themes of their lives, mainly focusing on body image - meaning how they view themselves and where they are physically and psychologically positioned in Costa Rican society - meaning everything from their family, their town, their church, their school, their work, to their larger government. I want to know what is most important to them, as well as their future goals. I also want to give them the space to tell me, through alternative mediums such as drawing, writing, and lastly doing a photographic project, what is meaningful in their lives. These they will share, not just with me but also with the group, to stem further discussion and reflection. I'd really like for them to come out with several works that they can be proud of, that have given them the time and space to define their own voice and thoughts, and which has nothing and at the same time everything to do with their lives.
Beyond working with these girls (and I think I might do 2 or 3 different small group workshops), I will also be networking in the community, attending the school to see what a sexual education class is like here, as well as interviewing pivotal figures in the community about their opinions about some of the issues these young women are facing. I will also be visiting homes and interviewing mothers and families about the issues these young women face, to gauge what the community sentiment towards adolescent pregnancy (and motherhood) is. Since 1 in 4 of the babies born in this area are born to young mothers (and there is a whole network of factors that can be connected to why this may be, which I'll go into another time), many of these young women end up relying on their families or the families of their boyfriends/husbands in order to take care of the baby. Beyond what happens once the baby is born, undoubtedly the mothers and families of these younger-mothers have opinions about why and how their daughter came to be in this position. I want to gauge more the atmosphere in these homes, and see what these young women might be dealing with on an every day basis.
I don't really think I should write anymore. I need to keep packing so that I can leave in a little bit to spend my last night with my other ICADS students before we all leave for all-corners of the country. I leave so early tomorrow, too! On a bus all by myself! Even though in the end I'm going to be only half-an-hour by boat from two of my classmates..And when I arrive in Costa de Pajaros, after some very vague bus changes in a port city that I don't know at all (Ahh!), I am going to be greeted by the women's association who work in the butterfly garden and present my project to them. Which is absolutely wonderful, since then I will have the beginnings of the social network I need to start completing this project! And hopefully one of them will take me to church with her on Sunday, and another will tell me where I can go to the clinic to meet with doctors, etc. Lots to do. And also luckily I don't really have to begin working on this project until Monday or Tuesday, which gives me two and a half days to situate myself in the town, and literally and figuratively begin mapping out where I am and where I am going from there.
SO exciting and so scary. Not really that scary. But I speak so little Spanish, and I am going to be doing so much talking! Doesn't a smile say a thousand words though? Probably none of them are about teen-pregnancy though. Too bad. Hopefully word travels fast around this small town, and as soon as they see me (the only redhead ever, probably) they'll know to hide their women and children if they don't want me lingering around asking questions. Or the opposite, is actually what I hope...I don't know what I'm talking about anymore. I need to go pack!
I have a cell phone number though! It's going to be super expensive for anyone to call me, but if you want my number let me know and I'll give it to you, especially if you want it in case of emergencies (and you want to call me in Costa Rica and tell me the whole story, ya know).
AHH! Alright. Wish me luck!
My nerves are twanging louder than Joanna Newsom's harpstrings and vocal chords combined right now. It's been a whole long time since I've been this nervous. I can't even remember the last time. Eating food finally made me feel at least a little less trembly and feverish, but I still think I might pass out from my heart beating too hard against my chest. Yay, great.
It's basically because I've avoided really thinking deeply about the intensity of the independent project I am setting out for myself for the next three weeks. It is really very, very intense. At the same time though, it is going to be (hopefully) absolutely-fucking-fascinating an fun as hell. But first I have to go, get settled in, and get started. And that is scaring the living daylights out of me right now.
But no one in the world really knows (except for my classmates and professors and some strangers far away who will be receiving me tomorrow) what exactly I am planning to do over the next three weeks. As fun as it sounds, maybe I won't keep shrouding myself in mystery. It's not actually that I've expressly been this mysterious recently, I've just been so overwhelmed! So much is going on, and so much that I want to pay attention to! I finished final exams though, and the last of my projects and presentations and papers, and now all I have left to do is pack. And so obviously I laid all my clothes out on my bed in neat piles and am now avoiding looking at them by coming here.
At least packing is the one constant that keeps me coming back to this blog, right? And how crazy my thoughts get sometimes and how much I now realize I need the time to process through the single-stream-therapy method of writing it all out. Who knew that this is what I've been needing my whole life?
Not I, said the little red-head.
So maybe it's time I just blurt out what I'm doing. Alright. It's making my stomach hurt thinking about it, but I should be repeating it and repeating it as much as I can, til I am as comfortable talking about my proposed project as I am saying the alphabet backwards (thx Mr. Springer!)
SO: I am going back to Guanacaste, to the town of Pajaros (birds!) also known as Costa de Pajaros. When Columbus (or whomever planted his flag) first landed he was pretty excited about how many albatros there were nesting in the trees. A whole lot apparently - hence the name.
So I am going to Costa de Pajaros to do a series of workshops with young adolescent mothers there. Costa Rica has some of the highest adolescent pregnancy rates in Latin America, as well as the world. Adolescent pregnancy remains the leading killer of women age 14-19, and 99% of these deaths occur in developing countries like Costa Rica. Women's health is an area that still needs HUGE attention worldwide..over the past 40 years a lot of progress has been made, particularly in terms of addressing the health of women of reproductive age (sorry - I'm not going to bother to give ANY of my sources right now. I'll attach the rough draft of my paper proposal as well as bibliography for those who may be interested). But women of old age, or who are post-menopausal, or adolescents continue to receive less-than-adequate attention. And in areas where there is poverty, political or environmental conflict, migration, or natural disasters, the likelihood of women's health coming into jeopardy rises exponentially.
So I am going to an area which has suffered a whole lot of social and political upheaval, as well as environmental degradation, and a whole lot of poverty. Costa de Pajaros is situated in the Gulf of Nicoya, where essentially everyone has lived off fishing since time-immemorial, and where the machismo was so strong that women couldn't leave their houses - in fact, when their husbands left to go fishing they'd have to accompany them on the boats and help repair nets while trying not to make any eye contact with males who might cross their path. Recently, much has changed. The government of Costa Rica officially has been addressing the issue by sending in educators to change the ways that women think about themselves, and in particular how they can contribute to their families. Cause there's no more fish. Not that the same crisis isn't occurring everywhere else in maritime waters, but the citizens of Costa de Pajaros are kind of at a dead-end. When we were visiting, we got a tour of one of the government and UN small-projects fund funded projects (whoop!) which involved creating a butterfly garden to attract tourists, and which also can (or will) give tours of the mangrove forests along the coast, as well as send butterfly pupae to international butterfly enthusiasts. These women created their own small business in order to maintain their standard of living without having to leave their small town (and therefore their family) to work in a hotel, or some other job.
Anyways, beyond that, when we visited we spoke to one of the women about a school that has been set up for adolescent mothers to go back to school at night and obtain their equivalent of a GED. But the attitudes surrounding these women were really interesting, addressing their behavior (having gotten knocked up) as an act of "rebelliousness", and seemingly incredibly problematic. Which it is, but I believe so for an entirely separate set of reasons. Number one: these girls aren't able to vote, don't own property, don't have an education, and haven't necessarily even their own room, but from them are coming Costa Rica's newest generation. Beyond the long list of health risks, these girls simply occupy this negative space (or a blank space, not to get all arty on y'all) in Costa Rican society. They own nothing, except they own the future of the country, in a way. And they're being faced by all these really important issues, which I am 100% sure they have opinions about, though they may not have ever really been asked to think about them before. So that's what I'm doing.
I'm doing a participatory ethnographic project, where with a small group of girls I will discuss different themes of their lives, mainly focusing on body image - meaning how they view themselves and where they are physically and psychologically positioned in Costa Rican society - meaning everything from their family, their town, their church, their school, their work, to their larger government. I want to know what is most important to them, as well as their future goals. I also want to give them the space to tell me, through alternative mediums such as drawing, writing, and lastly doing a photographic project, what is meaningful in their lives. These they will share, not just with me but also with the group, to stem further discussion and reflection. I'd really like for them to come out with several works that they can be proud of, that have given them the time and space to define their own voice and thoughts, and which has nothing and at the same time everything to do with their lives.
Beyond working with these girls (and I think I might do 2 or 3 different small group workshops), I will also be networking in the community, attending the school to see what a sexual education class is like here, as well as interviewing pivotal figures in the community about their opinions about some of the issues these young women are facing. I will also be visiting homes and interviewing mothers and families about the issues these young women face, to gauge what the community sentiment towards adolescent pregnancy (and motherhood) is. Since 1 in 4 of the babies born in this area are born to young mothers (and there is a whole network of factors that can be connected to why this may be, which I'll go into another time), many of these young women end up relying on their families or the families of their boyfriends/husbands in order to take care of the baby. Beyond what happens once the baby is born, undoubtedly the mothers and families of these younger-mothers have opinions about why and how their daughter came to be in this position. I want to gauge more the atmosphere in these homes, and see what these young women might be dealing with on an every day basis.
I don't really think I should write anymore. I need to keep packing so that I can leave in a little bit to spend my last night with my other ICADS students before we all leave for all-corners of the country. I leave so early tomorrow, too! On a bus all by myself! Even though in the end I'm going to be only half-an-hour by boat from two of my classmates..And when I arrive in Costa de Pajaros, after some very vague bus changes in a port city that I don't know at all (Ahh!), I am going to be greeted by the women's association who work in the butterfly garden and present my project to them. Which is absolutely wonderful, since then I will have the beginnings of the social network I need to start completing this project! And hopefully one of them will take me to church with her on Sunday, and another will tell me where I can go to the clinic to meet with doctors, etc. Lots to do. And also luckily I don't really have to begin working on this project until Monday or Tuesday, which gives me two and a half days to situate myself in the town, and literally and figuratively begin mapping out where I am and where I am going from there.
SO exciting and so scary. Not really that scary. But I speak so little Spanish, and I am going to be doing so much talking! Doesn't a smile say a thousand words though? Probably none of them are about teen-pregnancy though. Too bad. Hopefully word travels fast around this small town, and as soon as they see me (the only redhead ever, probably) they'll know to hide their women and children if they don't want me lingering around asking questions. Or the opposite, is actually what I hope...I don't know what I'm talking about anymore. I need to go pack!
I have a cell phone number though! It's going to be super expensive for anyone to call me, but if you want my number let me know and I'll give it to you, especially if you want it in case of emergencies (and you want to call me in Costa Rica and tell me the whole story, ya know).
AHH! Alright. Wish me luck!
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