thefutureisred

Water, Water Everywhere, What Are We Going To Drink?

I love water. Love to drink it, swim in it, cook with it, occasionally fill a water gun with it to shoot my cat when she tries to steal food.  And while I may not shower everyday, I don't know what I would do without water to bathe in.

Water. Water. Water is one of the main reasons we decided NOT to live in Bocas del Toro, Panama. The water pumped into our taps from the city tank isn't really potable. Sure, many drank it, and no one became terribly ill, but the water from our sink, shower and toilet flowed yellow and smelled awful. Those who drank it, tended to walk around with constant stomach trouble.

Even in a place like Bocas, where rain fell abundantly year round, sometimes incessantly for weeks on end, still, people wouldn't have clean water because rain water catchment isn't cheap. I supposed you could set out jugs and bowls to collect water, but how long can you leave them sitting in a place when dengue fever or other mosquito born illness are real health issue.

The idea, though, of buying every drop of water used for consumption is simply inane. For one, it's expensive. That, and there's nothing like carrying five gallon jugs of water from store to tiny boat then climbing onto rickety dock to keep you entirely aware of how much water you actually drink in a day.  Mostly, though, the idea of having to purchase what should be a free commodity is just wrong.

Unfortunately, that is too much the reality. We are lucky. We had the choice to simply go somewhere else, but this is not the case for most.

Perhaps that is why Charity:Water -- dedicated to making sure people worldwide have clean water to drink -- strikes such a chord with me. 

Scott Harrison and a group of Twitterfolk who are organizing Twestivals all over the world to raise money for this worthy cause. I ask, what can I do to help?

There's a Twestival in Buenos Aires, but I am over a thousand miles from there.

I did what I always do when far away from home, without many contacts and not sure who to call or ask for help or support. I go online. First, I went to couchsurfing.com, to the Couchsurfing Buenos Aires Group. It's a wonderful community. And a large community. And a community that supports charity and community projects just like Charity:Water. Thus, I was surprised to find not a single mention of the Buenos Aires Twestival.

(There is one now!)

Then to Twitter. I wrote to where people connect through 140 characters (or less) of typing, showing once again how such small gestures create huge impact. Contact @twestival for the main Twestival information. Or @twestivalba for the Buenos Aires Twestival information

But it seems there's not as much overlap between my two communities as I thought. So, Buenos Aires Couchsurfing meet Twitter. Twitter meet Couchsurfing. Come out for a good cause.

If you're in Buenos Aires, please join these lovely Twitterers to support this event. If not in Buenos Aires, please spread the world.  You'll find an entire listing of all the Twitter profiles for every Twestival worldwide on the main Twestival website along with options of how you can get involved. Join the event. Donate. Volunteer. Or just spread the word.

Even the smallest gesture means everything.

Buenos Dias, Argentina... Am I Making Any Sense At All?

I thought I understood Spanish when we lived in Panama. Until I crossed the border into Costa Rica when I sat in a guard booth just after crossing into Sixaola chatting with the border patrol while Noah went back into Panama to stamp the passports we forgot to stamp. All of a sudden, not a single thing made sense.

This last time in Panama and Costa Rica, I understood everyone. So again, I thought I understood Spanish.

Until we landed in Buenos Aires.

The pace of the language is different. Here, they use a more elegant Spanish and incorporate far more words than you hear on a daily basis in Panama or Costa Rica.

In Panama, it's Buenos when you want to say hello, morning, noon or night. Buenos Aires, not only do you have to know whether it's morning, noon or night, you have to remember how to conjugate the masculine or feminine forms of the greeting. Dias, masculine Buenos Dias. Afternoon, feminine, Buenas Tardes. Which is all well and good when I can go and look it up in a book or online, but generally, I don't have that kind of time when saying a quick good morning.

But it's really the prononciation that kills me. What really gets me is that "double L." As in villa, zapallito, zapatilla, muelle, orgullo and endless other words I've used in the past and been understood. Stress on in the past.

Villa, easy right? Vee-Ya. That's how I'd say it in just about every other Spanish speaking situation I've encountered. Not so now. Now it's Vee-zha. Zappa-zhito, moo-zhay. And if you don't say it that way, you won't be understood.

As if I would have been understood using the Panamanian version of words. Fresa. Maracuya. Mantequilla. That would be strawberry, peach and butter respectively. But mantequilla would not be pronounced in the Argentinian Man-Teh-Key-zha, because that is not the word for butter here. It's manteca. Fresa becomes fruitilla. Melocoton becomes durazno.

Of course it does. And I've heard tell that things change once again when you leave the city.

I have now truly mastered the Blank Look, No Entiendo method of communication. I'll be teaching lessons in the fall.

And now that I've probably confused all of you as much as I have myself, I'm off to take my first all Spanish yoga class.

Parenting Crosses All Cultural Boundaries

We just got back from two days in the San Blas islands, part of the comarca (independent territory) of the Kuna Yala indian tribe of Panama.

The Kuna are known for being "fiercely independent." They define their rules strictly and no one can force or cajole them into changing their minds. The Smithsonian Institute used to based themselves in Ukutupku, a man made island of houses on poles, connected by walkways. They were kicked out. Apparently, the current debate in the tribal council is whether or not to allow Colombia to put in high tension power lines through their territory. I believe the answer is NO. And I've heard from many that they are not always so friendly to visitors, though that was not our experience.

You fly first into Porvenir (meaning afterlife in Spanish), a small island, but larger and more populated than most of the region. You're greeted by a throng of people as you walk out and everyone offers you a place to stay. We chose a nearby island and went with a man named Orlando, who was, well, a very decent and wonderfully good natured person.

First he situated us in our room, a small cabin room with a very rare private bathroom and actual plumbing instead of outhouses placed directly over the water. This is why it's best not to snorkel and swim by these populated islands. Then he took us to the dining hall where his sister served breakfast.

Afterwards, we walked around the village, saw the pigs, dogs and visited every woman in town who sold something. Molas (the front and back panels of the traditional shirts women wear), masks, leg and arm beads and jewelry. One woman gave me a lesson on how to put them on. In truth, it's just a simple string with small beads on it. Somehow, they're woven onto your arm or leg in the most amazing patterns. This woman watched and helped as I put one on, unwound it, tried again. All the while, giving patient "Umhmms."

Let me also warn you, these woman from this matrilineal society are a hard sell. Don't be fooled by the sweet abuela who doesn't seem to speak any Spanish. She drives a hard bargain, but you will get what you pay for. When you chose a mola for 20 dollars, it is a far better quality and strength than one of 10 dollars. That you can count on.

This island is the second place I have ever felt comfortable leaving Lila to run around on her own. She was joined by a group of maybe 15 Kuna kids and it was a joy to watch them all play. Even though they didn't speak a common language (Lila still refuses to speak any Spanish), they communicated without a problem.

Last night as evening fell, I sat with a group of five girls.The men and women danced a traditional dance with reed flutes while an audience (literally set up in rows of chairs) watched, applauded and then paid a dollar for each picture taken. We didn't take any of these pictures, but I do have many of the surrounding area.

Lila stood up and danced. Then came back to the group of girls and instructed one, "It's your turn." The girl got up to dance something that looked very much like the dance her mother, perhaps aunt, danced in the larger performance. Then the next girl went and the next and then it was Lila's turn again. By the end, we were all cracking up.

While this was happening, Noah played ball with the boys. They loved how hard and far he could throw it. Couldn't get enough.

Had we not traveled there with Lila, I think we would have preferred to stay on one of the islands farther out where you literally sleep in a shack on the beach with almost no one around. You get three solid meals as part of the price to stay, but if you want water, juice, soda, drinks and snacks, you better bring your own. There is no tv and usually no electricity either. It is indeed rustic, but would have been nice to be all alone on a private island. With Lila, it was better to be with other people, others closer to her own age. 

She would disappear with the pack, running back and forth, from place to place. We always knew how to find her, though, because we heard men, women and children calling "Lila! Lila! Lila!" all over the island. Who is this little girl who can turn strangers into friends, play in the dirt and run around barefoot? It's Lila, Lila, Lila. And I believe Noah and I were more welcome at Wichaub Huala because of her.

I Love This Language

You have to relax to speak Spanish. Words are lazy. The sharp V sound of todavia is todabia, drawn out and unhurried, even when the speech itself is so fast you can’t believe it'snotjustonelongword.

Still, Spanish flows from my lips easily and people understand me, even if my grammar is horrible, my prononciation off or even if I have the wrong word. Just yesterday, I bought a necklace from Diego, a Colombian man now living in Bocas selling jewelry. We spoke of la gobierna, la vida en Colombia y mi hija. From him, I learned the word desarolla. And for a while, i didn't even realize the entire conversation was in Spanish.

"I usually don't understand Spanish so well," I told him.

"It's not about the words," he replied. "But the sense, the logic. It comes from right here." And he tapped his forehead, right between his eyes.

People look in your eyes, treat you like this is your language as much as theirs and are always patient to stop, repeat a word, perhaps even slow down for a bit, but always returning to the quick beat especially when talking politics, home country, and love.

Words of love are something else. They come with a tone of their own. I can’t quite get my head around what that tone is, but it’s palpable. Even when I don’t understand the words, I know what is being said because of the sudden swaying movement of the language.

French is different. Precise. Clean. Rather unforgiving. Accents don’t vary much from Paris to Provence, although the people down south are more forgiving and speak more slowly and clearly. They’re happy to help you, but there’s always that unspoken patience of a teacher with with a student who seems unable to pick up the lesson. Repeat. Try again. Non. Un autre temp. Repetez après moi s’il vous plait. It is so lovely that you attempt to speak our language. No cynicism there. It’s just a fact.

Spanish: I cannot tell you how many times I’ve been told I speak very well. I know it’s not true. I assume those who lavish this praise upon me know as well. That alone, makes it infinitely easier to learn the language. It can be spoken simply if so desired, and you will be equally understood, but there are such subtle undertones to the language -- things of which I have only begun to become aware -- that lend levels of meaning that can't ever be adequately translated into English.

I taught Gabriel Garcia Marquez’ Chronicle of a Death Foretold. It’s a wonderful book to teach because it is so simple. The story line is straightforward. The language easy. Not a single big word to look up. I thought it would be a good choice to start my Latin American reading in Spanish. But the verbs, ones that I understand, but tend to use only present tense for first and second person, those verbs threw me with their complexity wrapped in such an easy looking package.

In three months of learning Spanish, pretty much beginning with only the most rudimentary understanding of anything, a couple signs I saw on the subway in NY (No se apoye contra la puerta. Piso Mojado.), I find I'm speaking almost as well as French. My French background? Three years in high school. Three in college, where I both read literature, wrote entire papers in that language and then three months speaking almost exclusively in French with people all over the countryside.

Spanish is accessible, open and friendly. French is like ordering a hamburger with ketchup in Paris. You’ll eventually get what you want, but you will receive it with disdain. You need to fit in to the culture, the language, the sense of life that is, without doubt, a wonderfully sensuous, luxurious way of life, and I can understand why the French would not want that marred with American cheese and Ritz crackers.

Even the supermarkets reflect the same. In France, the cheapest, lowest grade chocolate found on grocery aisles excels the best Hershey has to offer. We found five bars of exquisite dark chocolate, fit for gifts, for less than a euro wrapped in rather nondescript packaging. The markets in Panama, reflect the tastes of those who want to buy. M&Ms, saltines and Budweiser. In fact, many assume that as an American, I prefer the American products to that which the average Panamian would buy.

In truth, I prefer Balboa to Bud. I’d rather seek out a fish from the ocean (if you can find someone to get one for you, or procure a boat to fish for yourself) than the frozen shrimp at the Super Gourmet at the very end of main street in Bocas.

Yes, the super gourmet. With its baked beans, bags of pasta, Jif peanut butter (reduced fat variety) ketchup and even, I swear, White Rose chick peas. Do you know White Rose? It’s the bargain brand found while shopping in the US.

I shudder to think of even mentioning these things in the Intermarche, where you’ll find in addition to the prepackaged cheese in cold case near the milk products, a deli with hundreds of gourmet fromage. Ten kinds of goat cheese.

"Vous etes Americains? N'est ce pas?" said the woman behind the counter. "Oui." So she picked a goat cheese she felt would fit my American tongue. It tasted like water. Nothing like excellent strong goat cheese we found in Saint-Remy-en Provence, the kind that tastes like goat and makes your tongue curl. The kind infused with rosemary or lavender and comes from goats that live not too far away from where you buy.

There were six kinds of brie. Camembert. Morbier. Raclete. And so on and so forth. Don’t tell the Cheese Lady, but I made a roux of our leftover cheeses to make, perish the thought, Mac & Cheese for Lila’s dinner.

Fruits and vegetables are also political there. Each one marked with a label telling you from which country the produce originated. We bought French, or in a pinch Italian.

Here, I wonder why star fruit, guayabana, and pineapple are not more plentiful. Isla Carenero, where we live, used to be part of the Bocas Fruit Company banana fields. The road from Almirante to Changuinola is lined with banana plantations, each of the huge bunches wrapped in blue plastic to protect them from weather, insects and banana pilferers. Whatever falls off these bunches in transport is sent straight to the shelves of the chinos in Bocas.

I love it here. I love it there.

I miss tooling through the French countryside soaking in the well-kept manicured beauty. Everywhere you go, no matter how remote – the ruins of an abbey half an hour away from a small town -- you’ll find a place to dine on food unequal to none accented with nothing but the finest wine and coffee.

When we leave here, I will miss the freedom. To say what I want. Walk or swim where I want. Weather sets the only guideline. If it's sunny in the morning, go kayaking then because waiting for the afternoon may well mean kayaking under drizzle or downpour. To quote Marcel, the father of one of Lila's friends from school, "You sit and relax. When you're hungry, pick a banana from the tree. Dinner time, a fish swims by. What's there to worry yourself about."

The only thing that’s not tolerated, complaints. Here, we Americans live a far more luxurious life to many of the locals. We have air conditioning, water tanks, how dare we complain about our living conditions because what does that say about our opinion of theirs?