Tubará

I don’t know how to describe my new home. It’s weird even writing that. Home has always been where my parents are. And home will ALWAYS be where my parents are. But if I’m going to be living for somewhere for two years that place becomes another home, a different home, but a home nonetheless. Home has always been a feeling for me and it’s hard to find one defining feature. Maybe it’s the smell of garlic recently pulled from the garden or the sound of a Giants game playing in the background or the comfort of curling up in the big armchairs in the living room or the sizzle of cooking and the clatter of knives. Home means falling asleep to the quietness of a suburban street with the moonlight falling across my bed. Home sounds like classical music and The Beach Boys. Home is Dad reading cooking magazines in his green chair, marking recipes to come back to, and Mom eating cereal on the front step, basking in the warmth as the sun hits her face and she finally pulls off her worn slippers. Home is running out to the garden to cut fresh herbs or pull up a head of lettuce and letting my feet sink into the cool dirt and having Dad beg me to please, for Pete’s sake, put some shoes on because who knows how many nails and tools have been dropped out there. Home is Dad looking up from reading this, peering over his glasses, and saying “For Pete’s sake? No, for YOUR sake!” Home is Mom’s voice floating up the stairs, calling me down for breakfast and pulling fresh berries from the fridge to plop on french toast or cereal. Home means something different for all of us but we all know the feeling. I think it’s simply the feeling of belonging somewhere.

When I first saw Tubará I immediately felt like I belonged. As we drove up the mountain from the highway along the ocean I had my nose pressed to the glass. Hawks were swooping through the valley and, to me, it looked like they weren’t even hunting; they were diving and playing simply to experience the joy of having their wings unfurled and the wind rippling through their feathers. Of course, they were probably hunting but I was trying to draw some major metaphors to my new life. When we got to the top of the mountain I jumped out of the Peace Corps van. It was hot but there was a nice breeze (a very welcome change from Barranquilla) and big fat white clouds scuttled across the sky. The houses were painted bright colors and the roads were dusty. There were butterflies everywhere. They danced from tree to bush to flower and came teasingly close before floating away in the breeze. The people walked slowly and said hi to everyone. Well, they said “adios” which as most of you know means “goodbye”. But here, in Tubará, the people said goodbye to say hello. It’s endearing. Gabriel Garcia Marquez, famous Colombian author of “100 Years of Solitude” and a multitude of other well-known works, used to come to Tubará to get inspired for his novels. Tubareaños (the people of Tubará) claim that Tubará is the de facto village of his novels. You may or may not know that Gabriel Garcia Marquez was known for his use of magical realism, which is a little difficult to explain. It’s essentially that things are pretty normal, but maybe someone lives for 150 years and maybe you can talk with the ghost of your husband for a little bit. Almost normal, but not quite. Tubará has been here for almost 500 years. I mentioned this to one of my friends and she said, “I mean, that’s not super impressive.” But you forget that the US is only 239 years old. So take everything that has happened since 1776 and double that time. And one of the most amazing things is that a lot has remained the same. The people working in the fields have worked in those fields for hundreds of years (well, the families have). The streets were just paved six months ago. Donkeys are still used to carry heavy loads and word of mouth travels faster than the unreliable internet. People believe in ghosts and almost everyone has a story of an encounter. The neighbor boy was nice enough to tell me he saw a ghost in my house a few months ago. Dwarves and witches apparently run rampant in the town but I have yet to notice either.

The accents are difficult. It’s almost like, after 400-odd years, people no longer need to pronounce syllables or differentiate words. The conversations flows like a literal babbling brook and I am often left nodding along, pretending like I’ve understood even one word. People are patient though. They repeat words and try to find other ways of saying things. And they love it when I try to use costal (costeño) slang. It cracks them up to hear their favorite phrases come out of my mouth with my gringa accent. But what they love even more is that I’m trying. I’m trying so hard to fit in. I’m literally the only white person in a town of maybe 1,500. I recently learned, when my friends came to visit, that if you ask pretty much anyone, “Where does the gringa live?” they will happily point you in the direction of my house. They literally just asked a random person walking in the plaza.

So I might never look like I belong here but I already feel like I’ve been searching for Tubará for a long time and I’ve finally arrived.

Chikungunya

I got it. To save you the time of looking it up this nasty virus, let me tell you the basics.  It’s essentially dengue fever, but a little less intense.  In fact, for the first 4 days, they actually can’t tell the difference, even when they take your blood.  The only way they know it’s chikungunya is if it goes away in under 5-7 days.  If it lasts longer then it’s probably dengue and will finally show up in the bloodwork.

Chikungunya is ravaging Colombia right now.  Several Peace Corps members have already suffered through it.  Almost everyone you talk to in Tubará has had it.  The second I moved here I was essentially playing the waiting game; I knew it would strike I just didn’t know when.  And then it hit me after less than two weeks after moving.  Chikungunya is transmitted through mosquitos, like dengue or malaria.  If you recall from an earlier posting, my blood seems to be particularly sweet to mosquitos and even though I was getting bit a lot less, they still favored me over the Colombians, or even other gringos.

It affects everyone differently, so I can only tell you my experience.  And I got hit with it hard.  Everyone had told me that it was painful, but ultimately not that bad.  My experience was intense and swift.  Here’s how it went down.

Thursday 5 PM: I got off the bus after a particularly awkward, long ride.  I was jammed onto the awful third seat in the very back, meaning there was nothing in front of me except a looooong aisle crammed full of people and every time the bus jerked or braked (i.e. every few seconds) I was thrown forward and had to brace myself with my feet and knees because my hands were full of my grocery bags.  I hobbled off the bus after a rather awful hour and as I was walking to my house my knee was feeling really tight and the joints hurt.  I thought maybe the bus ride had agitated an old soccer injury from two months ago (i.e. I didn’t even have the ball in my possession and stepped with my leg locked and had to limp around for a few days).  I used the walk to stretch it out and by the time I got home I forgot all about it.

Thursday 10 PM: I was mopping all the floors with water and a little bleach.  I had completed the entire downstairs and was just finishing up my room when I could feel my skin break out in a rash. In fact, I was able to literally watch little red dots appear on my arms, legs, stomach, and chest.  It was like watching an army of angry red ants march across my skin.  And even weirder, to me, was the fact that after sweeping and mopping a total of four rooms I was absolutely EXHAUSTED.  I was sweating and feeling a tightness in my chest that was making me panic a little.  I’m in better shape than I’ve been in a while, and yet here I was, clutching my chest and heaving after mopping.  I made a mental note to start working out a little harder because I will be DAMNED if I die from a heart attack from MOPPING at the ripe old age of 22.  I went to jump in the shower to wash off whatever mixture of bleach and sweat was making me break out into a rash and of course the water wasn’t working.  Defeated, I sat in front of my fan for a few minutes and texted my friend “Ugh I think I’ve got the chik.”

Friday 3 AM: In a state of half-consciousness, I realized my joints were aching and I had been tossing and turning for hours.  It was like a combination of the pain you get from an intense workout and the soreness of all of your muscles atrophying after you haven’t worked out for a week or so.  I made a mental note that I definitely had chikungunya and I also remember making a note that I would not cancel the party I had planned for later that day and I would not cancel the brunch and tour I had planned for my friend’s family the following day.  I fell back asleep making mental calculations of when I should start cooking and what I still needed to buy at the tienda.  I vaguely remember muttering “I might have chikungunya but chikungunya sure as hell doesn’t have ME.”

Friday 6 AM: I woke up crying.  Just absolutely sobbing.  I don’t think I’ve ever woken up crying before and I pray that it never happens again.  I was confused and in a lot of pain.  And I couldn’t get up.  My mattress right now is on the floor.  It took me maybe 15 minutes to finally get to a standing position. Why did I get out of bed at all? 1) I had to pee.  2) Kitten had to pee. I needed to take her downstairs and outside. 3) I needed to tell my neighbor, who is also a teacher, that I couldn’t make it to the meeting today (planning for the upcoming school year).  I figured that I could make one trip downstairs to let Kitten out and to have a conversation with my neighbor, since we share a backyard.

But before I got to any of that I needed to get out of bed.  I rolled over from where I was laying on my back (still crying), and tried to see if I could put pressure on my wrists, knees, or ankles.  Chikungunya affects the joints, making them swollen and essentially unusable.  I tried to get on my hands and knees and literally screamed (still crying).  I wouldn’t be able to put enough pressure on ANY of my joints to get up, let alone make it downstairs.  I reasoned it was going to hurt no matter what, and I just needed to take the plunge.  I also realized I needed something to pull myself up off the floor.  And the closest thing that I could use was the sink in the bathroom.  Two bedrooms and a hallway away.  Mentally cursing myself for having the great fortune of living in a huge, two-story apartment alone, I rolled off the bed and onto my hands and knees and started crawling and crying to the bathroom.  I might add that having a playful, two-month-old kitten in this circumstance was the absolute worst because I couldn’t use any effort to swat her away; I just had to crawl and cry and let her playfully bite at my hands and my feet and try to climb my hair swinging back and forth.  I finally arrived at the bathroom, grasped the sink, and pulled myself up (still crying and making a lot of noises). The worst part was, once I was finally standing, holding the sink, I raised my gaze into the mirror and saw what I hope is the absolute ugliest that I will ever look.  Red-faced from crying, red-faced from the rash, red-faced from a dissipating sunburn, disheveled from tossing and turning all night, and lip curled from all the ugly crying (because it wasn’t like, Disney princess crying… it was just all out snotty-nosed, gasping, heaving crying).  I’m not a particularly vain person (I tell myself) but that sight in the mirror did NOT make my morning any better.

Anyway, I finally make it down the stairs (it involved a lot of crying and dramatic grasping at banisters and walls) and open the back door to let Kitten (still haven’t chosen a name) out.  And I realized at that moment that my neighbor was not yet awake. And probably wouldn’t be for another 30 minutes or so.  And that realization set off a fresh round of tears because the idea of getting out of bed again and back down those stairs was literally inconceivable.  And it was so important that I talk to her in person because this was the last day of teacher meetings before the kids arrived and all the teachers had been tasked with bringing one item to the meeting and then we were all going to make the traditional soup, Sancocho, together to signify unity and coming together and all those wonderful things.  I was supposed to bring the spoons and bowls and I had them all sitting in a little pile by the front door.  I told myself I would come back down in an hour and that it would be easier because I knew what I was up against. Wrong.  I hobbled back upstairs, texted everyone that the party was off, and called Gene, another volunteer, who I knew would be up and who had also had chikungunya.

The conversation went something like this:

Me: “Hey Gene!” *keep it casual, keep it light, be chill, don’t cry*

Gene: “Hey how are you?”

Me: “Ohhhh not super great. I woke up with chikungunya. Ummm unfortunately can’t have the party, just wanted to let you know…” and then I burst into tears, tried to crack a joke, cried through it, and tried to tell him, really, no I’m fine, I’m just being silly.

Gene, who lives about 15 km away in a different pueblo, hopped on the next bus and was there in under an hour, with jello and gatorade.

Most of my day was spent in various states of unconsciousness.  I lay in bed upstairs except for twice when I tried to walk downstairs.  I had no appetite but jello seemed nice and soothing.  I ate a whole two spoonfuls before deciding I had overexerted myself and had to hobble back upstairs.  Once, I literally called Gene on the telephone and asked him to bring me water, oh and something to throw up in, if you don’t mind, because I can’t get out of bed fast enough.  I could hear his voice floating up the stairs and crackling through my phone “Oh dear ok be there in a second.”

Day one and day two were similar, with day two being a little less intense.  Rash, joint pain, headache, throwing up, fever hovering around 102, occasionally spiking to 103.  I hyperventilated once because I thought I was going to get a migraine and lose my vision and my neighbors were BLASTING music of course and it was just all very overwhelming.

Day two I went downstairs several times and eventually sent Gene home so he wouldn’t have to spend another night on the couch combating Kitten and the mosquitos.  Day two I also spent taking care of my cousin, visiting from California, who fell victim to The Chik about 24 hours after me.

Day three I walked two blocks to the tienda to get bread and vegetables.  I came back absolutely exhausted and fell asleep almost immediately.  But I was feeling so much better. My joints hurt less, my rash was receding (it came back in full force on day 5), and my headache was barely there.

I’m about two weeks out from when I started showing symptoms.  I’m frequently tired and often take naps. The rash is gone and I get a headache once every few days, but it’s never debilitating (knock on wood).  The joint pain is going to stick around the longest.  Most days I wake up with a little pain in my ankles and nothing more.  Usually it dissipates.  Sometimes it’s a little stronger.  Apparently this is going to go on for about six months.  I think I’m recovering from it a little faster than others, but it’s definitely lingering a little bit.

Sorry for the long post but I thought y’all needed an in-depth description of how many times I cried in one day.  My advice though? Don’t EVER get chikungunya. Also have jello on-hand at all times.

The Internet Situation

So as you may have noticed, I have not exactly been posting regularly.  This is because I have officially been moved to my permanent site for two years.  I will give a long detailed description of my new site, the village of Tubará, in an upcoming blog post.  Right now I just want to explain that posting will be a little more difficult.  My first three or four months in Colombia were not your Typical Peace Corps Experience.  I lived in a very nice house with a very independent family that essentially left me to my own devices. I had fast internet and could watch Netflix and go to the mall and find air conditioning fairly easily.  It was nice but I could feel myself struggling with my experience so far.  Was this really the Peace Corps? Was living this relatively easy life really what I had expected? Mind you, I still had to take cold showers and the mosquitos made me want cry and the heat was oppressive and training was exhausting and Spanish was exhausting and sleeping on a bed where the slats fell every time I moved was exhausting.  So I had it kind of easy, but not that easy.

When I moved to Tubará everything changed, in the best way possible.  I was finally living in a perfect little village and having my Typical Peace Corps Experience.  But that also meant no internet. Ok there’s technically internet.  If I walk into the town square (a whole 3 minute walk), I can sometimes get internet on my phone.  Apparently the mayor was given the funds by the government to give wifi to the entire pueblo.  However, as things often go in these small pueblos with no oversight, the funds seemed to have been redirected into a different sector.  The mayor’s office, which is located in the plaza, gets internet and it extends maybe one block out.  I live about a block and a half away.  Anyway, I would never bring my computer there to answer emails or try to Skype.  It’s not that I feel unsafe or anything like that. There are three reasons holding me back. 1) I don’t want to be that gringa (a term of endearment here, nothing more) sitting on my Mac answering emails and looking at Facebook while people lug chickens and sacks of grain past me.  2) I have also found out that the second the village boys learn that I have a computer or a phone or anything, they swarm me with requests to download games and can they please just hold it for a few seconds I promise I will be careful and I can show you how to download games there are just sooooo many games I can download.  My protest that I don’t want any games on my devices falls on deaf ears. 3) I don’t want to be seen as showing off my possessions.  Even though checking my email in the town square seems innocuous to me I know within a few hours everyone will be talking about the gringa with the silver computer and the iPhone.  It’s a reinforcement of our differences that I’m trying to erase, not compound. And maybe I’m being silly but something tells me I’m not.

A few days ago another volunteer who lives in a pueblo about 15 km away sent me this text: “You were seen holding hands with a guy.  I told my host dad it could not have been you… Right?” WHAT. Ok just to clarify, I WAS NOT holding hands with a guy. In fact I had been sick with Chikungunya, a virus like Dengue (more on that later), for over a week and had maybe left my house 3 times total.  How on EARTH did a man an entire PUEBLO away in a world that BARELY HAS INTERNET hear that I was holding hands with a guy??

So this is the little bubble in which I am living.  A bubble in which rumors spread amazingly fast despite a lack of infrastructure for internet or telephones or anything like that.  Good old-fashion gossip.  I can’t wait to hear who I’m dating next.

Ok ok ok back to the internet thing.  After a month with no internet except frequent trips into Barranquilla I finally cracked and bought a USB modem, which magically gives me internet.  No idea how it works but it’s awesome.  I pay about 20 bucks for 2 GB of internet, which is less awesome.  I don’t know exactly what that means I just know that I can occasionally go on Facebook and check a few emails and that’s about it.

But that’s all I really need right?

(Except when I go into Barranquilla to drink iced coffee and sit in the AC and Skype my parents and hungrily read the New York Times and CNN and the BBC and anything else I can get my news-deprived hands on)