As I mentally prepared myself for life without electricity, I expected a week of silence – no music, no audio books. Instead, I really noticed for the first time that nature is absolutely not silent. Constant hum of crickets chirping, bird calls, cows mooing, chickens clucking or crowing, wind rattling and howling, streams rushing, rain roaring. Yes, rain roars on a tin roof. Two nights this week I felt like I was living under Niagara Falls as I tried to drift off to sleep. Periodically, children laugh, cry, or callout. Motorcycles wax and wane as they pass. Mine has a lower growl than most, so I know when Baltazar is coming. That and the motorcycle stops out front. Trucks filled with papas and people rumble past occasionally. Tarps blow in the wind and the metal roof pops and groans.
Instead of unwinding to music or audiobooks, I daydream. It took some practice at first to daydream when I’m not trying to study. I’ve relived memories of favorite places, loved ones I’ve lost, best friends, family vacations, phases of life.
Occasionally deeper thoughts occur to me. I can’t remember the first time I became aware that, as an American, I live in luxury. However, as I swayed in my hammock, forced by my circumstances into prolonged reflection, I am now blown away by the contrast. To be clear, the contrast is not “My life is good. Theirs is bad.” They live in a beautiful mountainside forest with bananas and pineapples in their backyard. They have grown up in the sort of close-knit community that most Americans will never experience. The mechanic who helped me complained that when he lived in the US he had to work all the time. He and Baltazar agreed that here you work when you want to. (Although I don’t think the women would agree with that statement). I don’t think they believed me when I arrived and told them that I had slept 4 hours in 3 nights. I can’t even begin to count the number of nights I’ve worked straight through without sleep. No. It’s not “My life is good. Their life is bad.”
The things that blow my mind are more specific: Not knowing what the internet is, for example. My life revolves around it. I called my mom today to pay a bill on-line, and I don’t even have electricity right now. Without internet, I brought completely the wrong motorcycle. I usually thoroughly vet all major purchases. I buy most non-grocery items on-line. I got through med school googling, and I couldn’t write a paper without the journals I cite from the internet. When I realized the kids don’t know what the internet is, I couldn’t explain it succinctly in English or Spanish. The kids only have limited access to books, can count the number of times they have watched TV or used a phone, and have never really used a computer. How would you describe it? I think I would have to draw pictures.
The limited access to books is another thing that blows my mind, and it’s not a rural thing. They don’t sell them here. One woman recommended I go to Tegu or another town two hours away to find books for the kids. So much of the world they will never hear about or see. Thoughts, ideas, philosophies, and beauty that they may never experience or learn to create.
It’s not the latrines, wood stoves, stick houses, contaminated water, or lack of electricity that surprised or shook me. I saw those coming and have ideas on how to fix them. If you give a person clean water or a toilet, anyone can use those things. Unfortunately, it seems to me that after a window, the likelihood of absorbing or embracing these other concepts and experiences would diminish as you grow up. Maybe it’s not all that different from home. I guess many American kids don’t like to read, but to never have the option of buying a book or going to the library… Where’s the Carnegie of Latin America?
** Post wedding addition**
A friend of Nicole's who is a librarian suggested something like this (here's the New York Times take on it) to me at Nicole's reception:
Yes. Biblioburro = Win.
No comments:
Post a Comment