The boys from our delegation burning off steam among some eucalyptus trees.

Last week, I was accompanying a delegation of high school boys from Boston, Massachusetts. I don’t have any brothers, so it was a very educational experience for me. Apparently, the life of a high school boy involves a lot of hacky sack, guitar picking, references to adult cartoons, and, if he is from Boston, “wicked sick fraps” (in Ohio, we would say really delicious milkshakes). Really, they were a great group of youth, and it was a gift to see them crash headfirst into Salvadoran history, culture and people.

While the boys were here, they had a packed schedule. They stayed for a couple nights in a rural community in the northeastern, mountainous region of the country, visited many historical sites around San Salvador, and listened to the personal stories of many individual Salvadorans. These stories had to do with everything from a person’s experience as a survivor of one of the many massacres the army perpetrated during the civil war in the eighties to the more recent experience of burying young community leaders, killed by the gangs that have significant control over certain streets. After a week of intense immersion and repeated breakings and healings of hearts, the boys’ last day included meeting with national representatives to the National Assembly from both the FMLN, the leftist party that was formed from the people’s guerilla army in 1992, and ARENA, the rightist party, whose founder allegedly ordered many of the massacres and disappearances of civilians during the civil war. El Salvador is a politically polarized country, to say the least.

One of the representatives, after making disturbing comments about the role of indigenous peoples in Central America and his “forgive and forget” policy towards the massacres and disappearances of civilians that happened not even thirty years ago, made a flippant, offhand comment that grabbed ahold of my internal organs and gave them a good shake. He said, “I don’t believe that El Salvador will ever be a first world country.”

For me, the major offense was not the representative’s lack of political correctness. I was totally put off by the fact that this man, who was elected by his people to represent them, does not think that El Salvador will ever become what he hopes it will be. His job is to fight for the well-being of his constituents and to work to better the country in the way they think most adequate, and he does not believe his goals for the country will be accomplished.

This kind of hopelessness is the exact opposite of the attitude that I see among most Salvadorans about the future of this country.

A forum, organized by youth, with the three candidates for mayor of Cacaopera, a small municipality in rural Morazán.

Elections in El Salvador are on March 11. They aren’t presidential elections, but mayors and representatives to the national assembly -including the men who spoke with our group- are battling it out, and hard. Over the last few weeks, almost every day, I have found myself in the middle of some impassioned argument about national policy, the big changes being made to the electoral process this year, or the candidates up for election. There is hope, creativity, and fire behind these discussions. There is also disillusionment, anger, and sadness at mistakes that have been made or politicians’ hypocritical and corrupt practices, but never, not once, have I heard someone say that El Salvador will never become what she or he hopes it will be.

A few nights ago, as I was heading out for pupusas, the national food, I walked right into the middle of a party rally on my block. It was the party of the representative with whom the group spoke, and the participants were waving flags, wearing t-shirts, and wailing along with the campaign song. They were incensed. They were passionate; they were committed to the goals they have for their country.

I spent my pre-dinner journal time at my corner table drafting how to ask them about their representative’s comment. I wanted to know what regular Salvadorans thought about his attitude. I wanted to hear from his supporters how what he had said would make them feel. I sped through dinner, curtido and salsa a’flying…

They were gone when I walked back outside.

Laurel is a new blogger, currently working as the International Relations and Delegations Coordinator at FUNDAHMER in El Salvador.

Now, it really is considered quite rude to turn this offer down, even though it can, at times, turn out that the family that asks you is really only interested in you footing the bill for a massive party, and then being an on-hand bank to fund various stages of the child’s life.  I am not stingy, but I have always made such an effort to make friends through being myself here, rather than by dishing out cash.  So I wanted to be very careful how I played this.

I asked around and got various answers about the level of responsibility and cost that this role would entail: from ‘should anything happen to the parents you may have to take responsibility for the child’, ‘you may well end up having to foot the bill for the whole party’, ‘you may have to pay for the full education of this kid’ etc etc…   I listened to all the advice given to me by locals and foreigners alike, but decided that I didn’t want to be so sceptical.  These people were my friends and I would hope that they had different motives to others.

Me and my ahijada having a fun day dressing up

I decided to simply speak to them openly and honestly about my concerns and ask about the differences between my British perception of being a madrina (basically remembering the child’s birthday and giving a present then and at Christmas along with being a moral role model) and their perception of the role.  Often the request is to be the madrina for a religious milestone – I am not catholic and would definitely not feel comfortable having such a key role in that.  Thankfully, they were asking me to be the madrina for the haircutting ceremony (a tradition here – the hair gets styled into small plaits and there is a party where everyone who comes contributes financially whilst cutting off one of the plaits, supposedly towards the child’s future, but it is often suspected that is goes towards the party costs).  So, we discussed my concerns and what they wanted my role to be in my future ahijada’s life.  Luckily for me, they actually wanted someone to act more along the lines of what my perception of the role was – someone to be there as a moral role model for their child and also as a way of us always having a bond and keeping in touch should I move away from the area in the future.

Something that has always struck me as interesting is some Peruvians’ choice of foreigners over Peruvians to play this role in their children’s lives.  It just seems like a very short-term investment.  There are not many foreigners that end up staying for indefinite periods of time, or come back every year; so even though they may seem a better choice for funding the event itself, will they really play a key role in their ahijado/a’s life?  Mind you, life choices here quite often are for the short-term benefit, rather than for the long-term and to be honest, I can’t blame them – they have lived through periods of gross instability and inflation, so perhaps it is better to just think about the here and now.

I, however, do really want to play a key role in my ahijada’s life and try and spend as much time with her and the family as possible.  From time to time I’ll bring a little gift, but I don’t want to be her ‘fairy godmother’, only associated with showering her with presents.  I’d prefer to be a reliable, stable and loving figure in her life and be there as much for her as being a friend to her parents.

Fran Talavera is currently the International Projects Manager with Latin American Foundation for the Future. For more on her experiences, check out her blog.

Promotional Poster for the 7th Annual Mathapi - designed by Henry Ticona

The community of sikuris in Buenos Aires is, to say the very least, unique. We are our own little world. Though the community has surely always existed, many consider 1992 (the 500 year anniversary of Columbus) a marking point in its history. Over the past two decades it has been growing steadily and in 2005 a small group of sikuris from different bands in the city organized the first Mathapi Apthapi Tinku.

The essence of the Mathapi is reflected in its name. Mathapi and tinku mean ‘gathering’ in Aymara and Quechua respectively and apthapi refers to a tradition in which communities come together to share. The Mathapi Apthapi Tinku embodies these values.  It is the largest gathering of sikuris in Buenos Aires, this year with more than 500 people in attendance, and it is truly a communal effort. So, after playing in my first Mathapi in 2010, I was intrigued by the organization of the event and decided to attend the bi-monthly organizational meetings and to perhaps lend a hand in 2011.

The process of putting together the Mathapi is without doubt one of the most impressive efforts I have ever taken part in. I had put together small events in college but always within and with the help of the university structure. This was a horse of a different color. With no external funding or official platform, the Mathapi is the definition of grass roots organizing. It is completely funded by a raffle and donations of time, goods and labor on the part of participants. Bands even provided communal meals for all sikuris who had travelled long distances (as far as from Chile and Peru!)

In the end, more than 30 bands participated in the two day event, playing musical styles from all regions of the Andes, as varied as  Lakas from Chile, Suri Sikuri from Bolivia, Sikrui Mayor from Peru, and Huaynos Jujeños from the North of Argentina. You can experience a taste of the Mathapi through the hundreds of videos on youtube!

I highly recommend the following (as I appear in all three videos!):

My band IMPA playing Huaynos jujeños: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Gmma8_EV3oM

The ever energetic Lakas del Oriente playing Cumbias from Chile:  http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=99pX5thoxtU

And the poderosos Aymaras Intercontinentales de Huancane Base Argetina with whom I had the pleasure to dance the gorgeous huaynos lentos of Peru: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wW-caFsqTmI

Lauren Deal is a former Fulbright Scholar and Program Assistant at Sustainable Horizon. To hear more about her experiences, check out her blog.

Caracas is a vibrant city, packed with thing to see and do

I’m still not sure I believe it, but I’m done.  I’m hopping on a plane tomorrow morning and heading back home to Raleigh, NC, by way of Miami.  The week has been a blur of despedidas – goodbyes – to the many people who made my time in Venezuela memorable.  I’ve had a lot of variations on the same conversation, which prominently features one question: How was your time in Venezuela?

Wow, what a simple question that has such a complex answer.  Thing is, I’m exhausted.  This country is exhausting to live in.  When I tell my Venezuelan friends how this country has worn me out, they’re rarely surprised or offended.  Instead I usually get a ‘no joda!’ (no shit!) from them, as if I’ve stated the obvious.  It’s the lines for everything (The New York Times actually just featured an article about these Venezuelan ‘colas’), the inefficiencies, the insecurities, the continually delayed public transport.  The banks.  The over-emphasis on physical beauty.  The culture of Blackberrys.  The silicon.  A country which is so… without words at times that there’s a popular website called ‘Solo en Venezuela’ (Only in Venezuela) that features examples of the quirky craziness that happens around here.

But from my tenure here, I also have about ten years’ worth of memories gathered in a fraction of the time.  Some stem from this country’s intangible ‘crazy’, but many others are from day-to-day life.  This country is beautiful.  Beyond words, jaw-droppingly beautiful.  The food is amazing.  The people are passionate, loud, and gregarious.  I’m a die-hard fan of Caracas.  The city has been good to me.  In nine months, with some precautions and a little luck, I haven’t been the victim of any crime.  With the help of friends from across the city and an adventurous spirit, I’ve had the opportunity to explore all different facets of this incredibly diverse city.  I’ve been to barrios, and some of Caracas’ hottest nightclubs.  I’ve hiked the Ávila – the mountain marking the north border of Caracas – and explored the city’s beautiful and internationally famous museums.  There is so much to do here.

I feel a little sad every time I run across a gringo or European tourist who scurries through Caracas, staying in the city only because their airline routed them there.  The city has its dangerous side, absolutely, but I remain as in awe of it as I was the day I arrived.  I arrived a ‘gringa’ but leave Venezuela a ‘caraqueña’.

Lianne Gonsalves just finished her work as a Fulbright English Teaching Assistant at the Centro Venezolano Americano in Caracas, Venezuela. To hear more about her experiences, check out her blog. This is not is not an official Fulbright Program blog. The views and information presented are Lianne’s own and do not represent the Fulbright Program, the U.S. Department of State, or any of its partner organizations.

The gentlemen of the Taller Ulises Bicicletas: oh, how I hate them. Their store is located at the entrance to my building, and each day, coming or going, I’m subjected to a barrage of catcalls, hisses, off-color comments, and annoying, badly-pronounced English phrases (O, mai god! Hey beiby!). Those guys manage to wipe the smile off my face every day, be I ever so cheerful and sunny when I leave the house.

Calle Central, Santiago de Veraguas, Panama.

In an article I read recently, Linda Marin Alcoff (a professor of philosophy at CUNY) discusses, in the wake of Dominique Strauss-Kahn’s recent scandal, how cultural relativism can alter the perception of harassment and abuse to extreme degrees. Indeed, the creepy old man who whispers linda in my ear as I pass would probably be offended to learn that he makes me vomit a little in my mouth each time. Most likely, he’s done it his whole life and considers such “compliments” part of normal protocol for the fairer sex. Does he assume that women enjoy, or expect, piropos (flattering comments)?

In any case, this kind of behavior is widespread, even among acquaintances. Last month, while waiting at the public notary, I watched a young woman endure the attention of a much older male colleague — who treated her in such a way as to sexualize everything she did. Leaning over her from behind, winking, and squeezing her shoulders, he casually declared that she had captured his heart, and openly hinted at his desire to cheat on his wife with her. To most observers, this might have seemed like a harmless, playful exchange between a “cute” old man and his pretty colleague. She remained graceful, professional and polite; I say she “endured,” because surely, despite cultural relativism, this young woman would rather be taken seriously in her workplace than be treated as a plaything.

If I were in her place, the burn of indignation and internalized rage would have melted my shoes right into the linoleum floor.

On the street, I try to reduce the burn by mentally taking control of the situation. I pretend that the words are not directed at me, or fantasize that one day they’ll “get their come-uppance.”  I make believe that these men are doing snake and parakeet impressions, blindfolded in a soccer field, enthusiastically looking for their “animal groups” at Peer Leadership Camp (possibly in order to perform trust falls).

Often I crack myself up by imagining comically violent reactions: I attack with Kurosawa/Tarantino-esque samurai-sword slashes, ambush with Buffy style beatdowns, or – my personal favorite – turn around, sprout razor-sharp tarsi, and skewer the offender from behind (much like the unfortunate Dizzy Flores in Starship Troopers).

But however much I might wish that there were something I could do, the rule book for Latin American street safety dictates that I endure as silently and meekly as I’m expected to.  Any reaction is foolish, even in the safest of circumstances, and probably only serves as encouragement. Perhaps the best and wisest method to desahogarse (vent) is … writing!

For more on dealing with “machismo” in South America, check out Megan Kaseburgs’s follow up post “Does machismo exist in Argentina? Or is this a cultural misunderstanding?“, “Warning to Women: Thicken Your Skin, Machismo Awaits in Costa Rica” by Sebastian Kindsvater or “Watch out for  What, Exactly?” by Lizzie LaCroix. Nereida Heller just started a new gig in Santiago de Veraguas, Panamá, with WorldTeach. For more about her experiences, check out her blog.

The border was little more than a hut, and the immigration officials, bored, had started feeding the local foxes. We had arrived at their lunchtime, it seemed.

Afar, a bus carcass mimicked the train graveyard we had seen just days before. “Hay baños?” I asked. “In the back,” replied the immigration official, and waved behind him as he sat outside on the curb feeding the foxes raw meat from his hands. I made my way behind the desk, past the stacks and stacks of collected visas, and new visas, and what seemed like oh-so-important paperwork. The last three days had been salvaged only by my company, which had been Sarah, the girl I met in La Paz and convinced to come to the Salar, and the two guys on the tour with us. I was relieved to be out of the Salar, out of Bolivia, which, though gorgeous in its nature, is hard on your stomach, your senses, and, as it happened with me, my expectations.

Thirty minutes later, having just gotten into the car that was to take us to Chile, one of the guys joked, “Watch, we’ll know when we get into Chile because the roads will be paved, and it’ll suddenly get warm, and then we’ll eat delicious food and drink cheap wine.” Exactly 100% of those things happened. Thirty seconds later the car passed a bump, and the road smoothed out, as we all unbundled out jackets and the driver nearly opened the windows to deal with the heat. The change was notable, and instantaneous.

I’m now in Buenos Aires, a place I’d like to get to know better by living and working here. In the next couple of weeks I’ll be writing a lot about the differences between Argentina and the smaller countries of South America, so if you have anything specific you’d like to hear about, let me know.

Oh yes: if you’re in Caracas running late, don’t waste time with the buses, a clogged metro, or an expensive, traditional taxi – the adrenaline-filled moto-taxi is the ride for you!  Pop on a helmet and swing a leg over the back, while a mototaxista revs the engine and takes you for a ride that will make you cherish your life.  While anything with four or more wheels in Caracas is trapped by the permanent gridlock that covers the city, the two-wheeled motos are bound by no such limitations, and weave in-and-out of traffic , often squeezing between two cars’ side mirrors with centimeters to spare.  A friend asked me if we had mototaxis in the US.  I replied that it was rather unlikely, given that in the States, motorcyclists actually had to drive in the lanes.  He looked at me like I was crazy: after all, what’s the point of having only two wheels if you can’t use them to your advantage?

A line of Motorcycles waiting for customers on a rainy evening in Caracas

As for the riders?  Depends on who you ask.  I was warned against having anything to do with mototaxistas.  They were all ‘malandros’ (bad guys, robbers); friends told me of having been on the back of a motorcycle and having their drivers squeeze between cars to rob their occupants.  They’re less-inclined than the average Caraqueño driver to follow the rules of the road, and the malandro drivers travel in roving bike gangs at all hours (picture the leaders popping wheelies in the middle of a city street).  But, as always, there are two sides to every story.

A moto-riding friend explained that the Motocross-esque weaving between cars is actually a safety mechanism for motorcyclists.  It’s dangerous for them to stop moving or be caught between cars; without the protective shell of a tinted-window car around them, they’re vulnerable to being robbed or worse.  My own ride was with this same friend, definitely more trustworthy (and invested in my survival) than the average biker off the street.  However when I asked him how he learned to drive, he laughed and told me ‘video games’.

Lianne Gonsalves is currently a Fulbright English Teaching Assistant at the Centro Venezolano Americano. To hear more about her experiences, check out her blog. This is not is not an official Fulbright Program blog. The views and information presented are Lianne’s own and do not represent the Fulbright Program, the U.S. Department of State, or any of its partner organizations.

The Expats Solidarios 2011 NGO fair was held this Saturday, helping to connect the expatriate community living in Buenos Aires with local NGOs. Networking events like can be great opportunities for volunteers and NGOs alike. By bringing together individuals searching for volunteer opportunities and NGOs who rely on volunteer manpower to operate, Expats Solidarios created a small sense of community in what is otherwise a huge city.

At the event, our table received a warm reception from North Americans who instantly recognized the Habitat for Humanity logo and wanted to know more about what Habitat was doing in Argentina. Interestingly, for many South American nationals it was the first time they had heard of Habitat for Humanity and this gave us a chance to speak about the type of work we do to a new audience. The most common question was “What is Habitat and how can I help?” closely followed by “So you guys build houses, right?” Always a daunting task to explain a non-profit’s mission in three sentences or less, my coworkers and I tried our best not to sound like NGO robots.

Since I spend the majority of my time communicating with volunteers via email, it was refreshing to meet potential volunteers face to face and listen to their stories. There were all kinds of people at different stages in their careers. Exchange students, backpackers, 20-somethings teaching English, professionals on sabbatical, entrepreneurs and retirees, all giving the Buenos Aires lifestyle a try. Some were searching for volunteer opportunities to fill up their schedules and while others saw it as the next step in their career development. Individuals from the business community were also present and I found it extremely encouraging to speak with business owners interested in organizing volunteer events for their employees.

I also learned more about other volunteer programs in Buenos Aires, including those who accept volunteers on a short-term basis. The Fundación Banco de Alimentos is constantly seeking volunteers for help organize food donations and support their mission of helping individuals suffering from hunger. There is no minimum time commitment or volunteer fee.  If you are interested in education, Fundación Leer accepts short-term volunteers to promote youth literacy. All in all, the NGOs represented a broad spectrum of issues and communities served and for a complete list, you can visit the Expat Solidarios website.

Did anyone else attend this event? What did you think? Did you find it encouraging, useful or disappointing?

Megan is currently the International Volunteer Coordinator with Habitat for Humanity Argentina. To hear more about her experiences, check out her blog.

Beans and Pulses - sold by the gram.

My first taste of the Guatemalan basics came at the local market in Guatemala city; this consisted of dark brown refried beans, some fried plantain, a bit of scrambled egg and some papas fritas (that’s chips or french fries depending on where you’re from). This medley is something of a hefty Guatemalan breakfast, and I have to say, that full feeling you get is very satisfying; it makes a nice change to my usual bran flakes and raisins!

typical Guatemalan breakfast

One of the things I love so much about hot-weather countries is the readily available fruit shakes; it’s quite an expensive venture in the UK to have a cold, blended drink made with fruit. But here in Guatemala it takes moments to knock up a fresh pineapple shake and usually costs less than 15 Quetzals (that is one UK pound or so).

Three gallons of strawberry milkshake

Wandering around touristy (but nonetheless very pretty) Antigua is thirsty work, and I will never get bored of paying a few pennies to see someone squeeze some fresh orange juice into a little baggy! The same goes for other sweet-toothed items; there are myriad options for your average glutton. From little deep-fried bananas or plantain sprinkled with sugar, to the readily available iced coffees made with (you guessed it) freshly ground local coffee…neither of these usually sets you back more than Q10.

3000 calories — all worth it.

Lunch and dinner are obviously cheaper by eating local, but it’s funny how one bout of ‘bad-tummy’ (that’s putting it very politely) really puts you off eating from the street carts. The next available options are the fairly omnipresent cheap-o-restaurants that offer all the usual suspects: tacos, burritos, enchiladas, quesadillas…I’m not sure I can ever get bored of flat bread filled with cheese and pan-fried.

Carbs plus carbs plus avocado

I am, however, avoiding tacos like the bubonic plague right now. I think it’s the spooky meat and (seemingly) pre-chewed nature of it that puts me off. Still, there’s nothing wrong with enjoying a country’s dishes minus the animal flesh. If anything, it’s a little cheaper on the purse-strings which, as a back-packer, is always welcome.

Antigua - that was my seventh juice of the day!

P.S.  Note to self: despite what anyone says, avocados are full of good fats and given that no one does guacamole like the Guatemalans, I’m going to keep eating it like it’s going out of fashion.

Alex Harker is a pastry chef from Cardiff, Wales, living in Mexico and training as a dive instructor. To hear more about his experiences, check out his blog.

Things that I used to consider simple tasks now take planning, or at least a little creativity. Take the issue of addresses for example; getting my mail has turned into an interesting ordeal. In Costa Rica few houses actually have addresses. If I ever need a cab I have to tell them “it’s the little yellow house 100 metres north of El Gallo bar, with the Virgin Mary out front” and hope they know where I’m talking about. I use the place I work as my mailing address, forcing friends and family to cramp their hands while trying to send me a postcard.  El Centro de Aprendizaje para la Conservación en Sarapiquí doesn’t shorten so well.

In the past few months I’ve certainly learned to slow down, take thing as as they come and really appreciate a good hot shower. It doesn’t hurt that the country’s motto ‘Pura Vida’ basically means pure living – a phrase that is used to express everything from greetings and farewells to resigning yourself to a fact.

It's hard not to relax here (Manuel Antonio)

When someone asks how you are, this is an appropriate response whether you’re doing great or feeling awful. Even when a bus is 2 hours late and people have been standing around in the baking hot sun they greet each other with a genial “pura vida!”

Although most things take longer, are more difficult and you need some creativity to get anything accomplished, life here is actually less stressful and much more relaxing.

I’m down here to teach English, but I have a feeling I’m learning a few things too.

Jen Johnson is from Calgary, Canada. Currently, she’s living in Costa Rica and working as an EFL coordinator at a conservation center.