Rhythm

I drafted this sitting in my new house with my feet propped up on a cardboard box, taking advantage of the only available outlet I have in the house now that my fridge is plugged into the other one.   I'm sending it sitting on the ground outside the free internet cafe in town in between co-teaching at the primary school and running an English Corner at the high school.

 

Last night, my night consisted of the following: come home from a 7 AM-5 PM day in the schools, try to make and eat dinner before all the neighbors and kids start to come over and talk to me and make me feel awkward eating my own dinner in front of them (since they so often feed me), fail at the former endeavor thanks to three kids sitting in my kitchen and telling me stories about going to the river and catching shrimp and fish with spears (which I can’t wait to learn and which they have promised to teach me), plan a Sunday pizza party with the same neighborhood kids, hear my neighbor get home who today filled in the channel in front of my house and fixed my piping just because he’s nice like that, make  neighbor and his wife coffee and tea (and secretly scarf down my dinner while making said refreshments), take a break from drinking coffee to watch my other neighbors chase an animal distantly related to a skunk out of a tree, finish coffee and tea amid more storytelling and musing with aforementioned friendly  next door neighbors, decide to put off doing dishes in buckets until the morning when I won’t have to do it by flashlight, and lock up for the night.  

So there is a glance of my rhythm, which is what I do practically daily.  If I'm not hanging out with my neighbors or keeping my house free of dust and bugs and dirty dishes in my free time, I head out with umbrella and water bottle in hand and see who I run into in town or who I haven't visited in a week.  Between work, which is heavy (I work with teachers in the primary, middle, and high school), and staying in touch with my friends and neighbors, my days are full.  If I don't eat at home I often get offered food at other people's houses.  If I don't have something to do on a weekend, chances are some family will invite me to their house, to their visit their family in another province, or to take an impromtu trip to a nearby river or beach.  In spite of what may seem like monotony within the system, and in spite of frustrations that come daily, I can't complain.  I have good people around me and so much to do.  I'm loving it.

Now accepting visitors!

I have reached that giant step in life where you finally move into to your own place, have somewhere to call your own, do whatever you want with.  Mine just looks slightly different than your typical American starter home.

A couple of days ago, my host mom drove me down in her pickup to the house I will (god willing) be living in for the remainder of my two year stay here in Macaracas.  The house is simple: two rooms, one for sleeping and the other for cooking, eating, and whatever else.  The majority of the walls are made in the old Panamanian style—mud—while the rest are concrete block.  I have an orange tree, a tamarind tree, and tons of pretty plants that the neighbor has planted.  It’s kind of a kooky, Weasley-esque combination, but it suits me.  The woman renting the house to me is a doll, and was absolutely overjoyed that I would be giving “human warmth” to the house after it being empty for nearly a year (she got married and went to live with her husband in a neighboring town).  She left me tables, chairs, a bed, two cots, all the pots and pans and plates I could ever desire, and only a few scary bugs to battle as I move in.

Living alone, especially for a woman, is not something people go into willingly here.  The general reaction I would get while searching for a house was, “but you’re going to sleep by yourself in that house? Aren’t you scared? And you’re going to cook for yourself?”  It is natural for people to live with their families up until the day they get married and move into a house two doors down or a job takes them to Panama City and they are forced to live alone.  Unlike our culture, people don’t favor being alone, and living is much more community style.  Meals are shared, everybody likes to know what everyone is doing, and human noise and warmth is comforting.  Most people are used to carving out a small space in their family homes that they can call their own.  

Yet in spite of having a house where I sleep alone, I am far from being alone here in Macaracas.  I, in my opinion, have the best neighbors in the world and a community that wants to make sure that I don’t feel lonely.  My neighbors, Doris and Donny, have three kids, two grandkids, and a daughter in law, although only two kids still live at home.  Donny is like a dad for me—we rebuilt the latrine together and he fixed my door and installed locks while I hung out trying to help wherever he would let me.  Doris is intent on making sure I don’t starve or lack coffee (she knows that I love it and Donny and I would take “coffee breaks” while we were working on the house before I moved in).  My first morning alone in the house, I heard Doris shout “Chelseaaa! Coffee!” from next door.  I hopped over and she had a cup of hot coffee and toast waiting for me.  Since I’ve moved in, the two basic questions from community members have been: “You don’t get scared?” and “Have you eaten?” followed by an invitation to eat if I haven’t.  

Security, along with an overwhelming amount of sliding locks on the doors and windows, has more to do with neighbors than anything, and again in that respect I lucked out.  The kids on the street always play in front of my house (and come in and invite me to play if I’m home) and the neighbors can hear everything that goes on in the house.  Nosiness is my biggest ally here, and the movement of the whole the neighborhood is watched by, well, the whole neighborhood.

The change has already been wonderful for my mental health, as having a house allows me to be out in the community whenever I want, leaves me uncommitted to a meal schedule or a chores schedule, and gives me a ton of space to work, relax, and play.  I’m 180 degrees from where I was for the first four months here with my host mom.  The house where I was, while extremely comfortable, was also located on the second story of a building and its residents seldom left the house.  In my new neighborhood, an open door is an invitation for neighbors, dogs, and chickens to stroll in and check on you.  In fact, I think since moving I’ve had less privacy than when I lived with other people, but I’m loving it.  There are nearly constantly kids on my front porch or poking their heads in to see what I’m doing (Are you cooking? What are you reading? Is that your computer? The table you built turned out cool.  Chelsea, how do you say this in English? Do you understand this song?) I’m the new kid on the block and everyone is curious and welcoming.  

And now…photos!

bedroom and entertainment center

kitchen

dining room/sitting room

side yard

front yard...

guard dog!

latrine aka my pride and joy

This Turkey don’t dance.

Every Monday and Wednesday night, I give an English course to adults from the community.  What was, at its largest, a class of 20 has dwindled to a steady 8 to 10, but the students are eager and learn quickly, and are willing to try just about any activity I throw at them.  It’s one of the best parts of my week.

The other night, we had a class on celebrations.  I asked students to share their favorite celebrations and what they do.  I love this topic, since it usually brings out funny stories and a lot heckling from fellow classmates.  Why?  Because there is absolutely no shortage of reasons to celebrate in Panama.  After teaching the appropriate questions and discussing the words for various activities, the class turned the table on me.  “Chelsea, what is your favorite celebration in the United States?” someone asked.  I explained Thanksgiving in all its gluttonous glory, and since we’re still at a basic level for listening, the description was simple. “We get together.” “We eat a lot.” “We talk and drink with family.” “And then…we sit and talk some more.”  The students stared back in stunned silence.  I wondered if I had said something wrong.  “Did you understand?” I asked.  They did. “But Chelsea, do you dance on Thanksgiving?” My face twisted into embarrassment and I muttered no.  “Do you dance on other holidays, then?” was the response.  I combed my memories for a celebration where dance just always spontaneously happens.  Zero.

Compared to my students’ descriptions of holidays mine seemed duller than a box of corn flakes.  “Dance” is nearly every Panamanian student’s favorite verb, in my opinion even beating out the universal “eat,” as it is such an essential part of life here.  For every single favorite holiday in the room, whether it was a patron saint festival, Independence Day, or Christmas, or even Mother’s Day, dancing in some form was inevitably included.  As you saw in the slaughter post, it doesn’t have to be a holiday to dance.  It doesn’t have to be the weekend, night time, or three sheets to the wind, either.  I myself was even confounded.  I had spent the past six months in a country where dancing is an integral part of any get together.  As someone who loves to dance, none of this has ever, ever felt uncomfortable to me, has in fact felt quite the opposite.  It felt blasphemous to admit that I like holidays where there isn’t really any dancing.

I don’t think our holidays are dull—I wished I could describe the joy of the warmth of sharing a giant meal with the people I love and bundling up against the cold outside, the hype surrounding a football game, the simple smell of that season.  Here, sharing a giant meal with family is much more common, and later when we spoke after class, my students pointed out that they understood.  In a country as big as ours the simple feat of getting your loved ones all in one place, for many people, makes a holiday.  Suddenly, everything became clearer for both me and my students.  This is why is takes so much work for so many foreigners to come close to looking half as natural as a Panamanian on a dance floor.  We just don’t do it enough.

So here is my challenge to you in your next gathering: let the dancing happen, grab a partner, or don’t, and just go for it.  Be that guy in the family.  Tell people you’re trying to use all that energy you have from the second helping of whatever it was that was on the table.  And then get back to me so I can tell my students that we’re slowly working our way out of this.