Life can be frustrating. But I live here:

Love in Paraguay... or, Three Conversations in Five Minutes

This is what it’s really like:

My host family sat under their open-air patio, scattered about on different benches, waiting for the rain. There was a cluster of tobacco scraps around Ña Dora, who was spending the time making cigars. She sliced the long broad leaves with an old razor blade, then packed loose, crumpled leaves into the leaf. Finally, she rolled it into a tube about the length and width of a finger, and used a dab of homemade glue (paste made of flour and water) to hold it all together.

Claudia was passing around a pitcher of terere.

The bullshitting started. The day before, Ña Dora’s son-in-law had brought his sister T with him on a visit to Potrero Pucu. We had all sat around talking in the summer heat until the wee hours of the night. She was single. I was single. The jokes were going to come fast and thick today…

Almost as soon as I sat down, Claudia asked me, “Did T send you a text message?”

(She hadn’t.)

There was three minutes of scattered speculation as to whether or not I was being sneaky and T really did text me. This is one of the elements that has been challenging for me here – assigned sneakiness or mischievousness where none exists.

You get to site, and people say, “Santo is a picaflor (player), he’s got so many women!”

And because I didn’t want to come off as a player, I’d deny having a girlfriend, or say I had one in the 

states, or any other number of things. So then people started saying I didn’t like Paraguayan women, which is another piece of tricky gossip. Sometimes it feels like I’ve been walking a tightrope for two years.

But back to Claudia. She’s probably the most ribald woman in Potrero Pucu, a hair over 5-feet tall, and her belly pops out of too-tight tank tops. She always tries to shock me with her jokes –usually about how she’s going to convince one of my American friends to take her away from her husband and five children.

This is another one of those jarring culture clashes that really doesn’t go away. From where I come from, it would be really weird to make continuous jokes about leaving one’s family and one’s kids. But Paraguay has a “rich” culture built around stuff like that. In fact, it’s totally normal. And there are other things too, like the “Dia de Sombrero,” or “Day of the Hat.” So imagine: Paraguayan men have their legitimate girlfriend, right? Well some days of the week are dedicated to the “official” girlfriend. But “Dia de Sombrero” is for the non-serious girlfriend. I’d guess this probably has its roots from the Triple-Alliance War back in the 1860s. Paraguay found itself caught in a slug-fest between Argentina, Uruguay, and Brazil. It was a charnel-house – Paraguay’s opponents slaughtered 90% of its male population. Men became hot commodities afterward.

This has made dating and couples much more cynical, but alternately, it seems to me, also more honest. Monogamy isn’t really expected – almost every man in my site over 40 has had children with two or three different women. My host mom has had eight children, by three different men. My host dad had two children before they got together. Stateside, we frown on this sort of behavior.

But for the most part, all the children get taken care of. Family units exist more for survival than anything else – women guard the house, take care of it, and raise the children, while men do the heavy lifting in the fields raising subsistence crops.

So there are the elements like Hat Day, and also the “Jakare.” Jakare means “crocodile” in Guarani. But by custom, lonely Paraguayan women (or younger women who still have to live with their parents) left their windows open at night, a welcome to gentleman callers.

What was most infuriating when I got here was how ingrained it was. Women bought into it too, to a certain extent, even going so far as to make jokes about their husbands looking for other women when they (the men) were supposed to be working in the fields. I would tease my host dad when he make jokes that pissed me off. “Tesho, if you get a new girlfriend, you know Ña Dora is going to get a new boyfriend, right? You’re old and fat already!”

They always cracked up. I assumed that it never seemed like more than a parlor trick to them, until one day I overhead Ña Dora telling her neighbor about me and how I’d always defend her. Two years, and finally a shred of self-esteem. I’ll take it.

But let us return to my house, and the people who were ribbing me. Immediately after the joking about the text messages, Ña Dora scolded me.

“You let T sleep on the bench! That was really mean!”

(She just wants to see how badly she can make me blush. It works.)

“But you didn’t send her to my house! Had I but known, she could have stayed there!” I counter. “And you would have just slept, right?” Tesho is nodding sagely. “She’s a pretty woman, Santo.”

“Yup, we would have just slept!” I say.

Tesho shakes his head in disbelief.

For months and months I tried to avoid these kinds of conversations. But I finally embraced them. The only method I’ve found that’s even vaguely satisfying is trying to beat them at their own game. If Ña Dora and Tesho make me blush, or shake my head in surprise, they score a point. If I can make them yelp with surprised laughter, I score a point.

I continue, “Didn’t you see my window? It was open! (It wasn’t.) I was waiting to be jakare-d.” (Everyone cracks up at the idea of a woman playing the crocodile to me, especially since I’ve only dated Americans since I’ve been in Potrero Pucu.)

Then the conversation takes another turn for the weird.

“It’s not going to rain,” I said.

“Yes it will!,” my host brother, Elias, shouts. He’s six.

“No it won’t!”

Then his mother steps in. “Check your balls, Santo,” she said. This is Claudia, the most ribald Paraguayan I’ve met yet.

“If your balls fall, it’s going to rain. If they don’t, it won’t!”

I’m blushing again. Paraguay 2, Santo, 2.

“And look at you, what’s that?” Claudia is on a roll, pointing at a small zit on my cheek. “He’s really horny!”

“I am though,” I shoot back, trying to score a point of my own and catch them off guard.

But Claudia’s not about to be thrown off.

“Victorina (her sister who lives in Asuncion) should take him to a quilombo (brothel) in Asuncion,” she tells Ña Dora, who is slowly dissolving into a quivering ball of mirth.

Tesho won’t stop giggling either.

And finally, the rain starts to fall. Sweet relief, the air cool and wet after six weeks of drought.

Claudia can’t resist one more shot.

“Haven’t your balls dropped, Santo? Check! That’s why it’s raining!”

Paraguay 4, Santo, 2. I’ll give it another shot tomorrow.

Big Party! Or, a Tribal harvest festival deep in the Chaco

Paraguay’s Chaco is a vast semi-desert that takes up the northwestern half of the country. At first glance, it is  daunting, dry and dusty. But it is also home to the Arete Guazu – a local carnaval, and a rare chance to see some of Paraguay’s true indigenous culture. As soon as I heard about it I was sold. A few days later I spent eight cramped hours heading north-northwest with a couple of friends, bobbing over uneven asphalt, and sweating into overstuffed upholstery.

I arrived in Mariscal Estigarribia, “The heart of the Chaco” (translation – good luck getting home if you miss your bus.) Mariscal is the last major stop before Bolivia, though it’s still another 200k to the border. It’s a Paraguayan town, populated mostly by people who represent the typical ethnic stock of Paraguay – descendants of Guarani Indians and Europeans. They identify as Paraguayan, not as “indigenous.” A few kilometers south east, however, is the pueblo of Santa Teresita, the home to Guarani Indians, Nivacle, and other indigenous tribal groups.

Coke, available everywhere. Even the Chaco.

The festival is a three day long event, both party and cultural celebration. I woke early the first day and drank some mate. It was cool and just after sunrise. The torrential rains of the last month had turned normally dusty roads into a sticky goo.

My friends and I navigated our way to the first house of the carnaval. A priest made a short speech, followed by one of the tribal elders. Both pleaded with the revelers to have a safe and friendly festival. Don Cevero, the elder, spoke in pure Guaraní, with songlike, chirping tones. Though I speak some Paraguayan Guaraní (which is more of a creole), I could barely make out anything he said besides “Don’t get angry!”

Only then did the dancing start, a three step shuffle, as everyone held hands in a large circle. A group of eight or nine men stood off to the side, beating out a steady tattoo on their drums. At first there was just the one small circle of revelers who’d showed up early. But as I watched, dozens of people started trickling in and the circle became two, three, four. The older women carried flowers and wore floppy hats.

Without missing a beat, a nun walked over to me, and put a small blue Styrofoam heart necklace around my neck. It had the words “Guarani Occidental” written on one side, and ”Arete Guazu 2012” on the other, bordered with a liberal splay of glitter. The gesture surprised me a little, and I was even more so when some of the ladies pulled me into the circle to dance. As an outsider, I'd expected at best to be ignored. But at every stage of the festival, people invited me to participate, in the dancing, drinking, sharing terere, or in simple conversation.

Traditionally, dancers follow the drummers, who visit every house that prepares Chicha – a traditional, yogurt-y drink made of fermented corn. (It involves chewing the corn and then spitting it into a communal cauldron to ferment... and it takes some getting used to.) An elderly woman walked on the outskirts of the circle, smearing cheeks with white talcum powder.

“It represents good,” Anuncio Lopez, the pa’I, told me. “On the third day [during the cuchi-cuchi] they will smear black on our faces too.” “It has lots of symbolism,” he said, representing the fight between the forces of good and evil.

Though at its roots Arete Guazu is an Indian harvest festival, the Catholic Church (which came to the region decades ago) has left its mark. Before the church came to the region, the Arete Guazu lasted much longer than it does now. One señora told me that as long as there was chicha and food, there was drumming and dancing. Then the church came in and all but outlawed it. (After all, there's dancing, alcohol, a vague whiff of sex, and the sort of fun spontaneity that the Catholic Church back home seems to frown upon.) Now it starts with a church service, and ends before Ash Wednesday. The prohibitions seemed to have loosened though, and the church had even co-opted parts of the festival. For example, at one point dancers carried the Guarani cross in a long procession.

It looked like a Celtic cross made of leaves, a circle imposed over a cross. The Guarani belief, the pa’I told me, was that two sticks of wood supports the world. The church borrowed the icon and changed the symbolism so that the cross represented Jesus supporting the world.

“But it’s not very officialized,” Lopez told me. “It’s a new belief.”

The Guarani Cross and some dancers and abueros

While I danced, a small line of other dancers began circling in the other direction, among them a 14-year-old looking girl wearing a white sash with the words “Miss Carnaval,” emblazoned on it.

“Before, there wasn’t a queen…That’s not ours,” said a crinkly señora next to me. “But now the Carnaval has its own queen. It’s an incorporation. All of the carnavals have their queens.”

By 10am there were hundreds of revelers – Nivacle, Guarani, and townspeople from nearby Mariscal. Some sipped chicha, others munched on empanadas or drank terere, Paraguay’s version of iced tea. The rest of us cracked open the beer, cans of Ouro Fino, cheap watery stuff that leaves a hangover before the buzz even arrives.

Then I saw a mob of cone-headed teenagers walking my way. On second glance, it was a group of youth decked out in white clothes and sunglasses, bandannas and masks. These were the “abueros,” who represent the ancestors of the revelers. And every Arete Guazu, the legend goes, they emerge from the forest to find their descendants and pass some time with them. It serves as a chance to reconnect, and to celebrate the year’s fortune. (And some spectacular costumes.)

Wee Abueros

We spent the next few hours dancing and visiting different houses, before finally heading back to catch our breath.

…

Day two was more of the same. Dancing, heat, dust. I spent most of the day hiding from the heat and visiting local friends.       

On the third day (Fat Tuesday) I returned to the festival and I started talking to an old man named Julian. He was 67, from a long abandoned border town called Puerto Casado. He wore a cowboy hat and a blue shirt with thin stripes. We were soon deep into conversation, helped by the bottle of Paraguayan cane alcohol we passed back and forth.

As on other days, the dancing started slow. There was the shuffle, the swirling sand, and the dust settling in throats and pores and eyes. And as before, the steady beat of the drums.

“It’s different,” he said, as he watched. “Now the drummers just repeat the same rhythms. Before there were other melodies.”

Circle dancing

The music isn’t the only thing he said, point at the masked abueros. “[Now] They incorporate whatever they’ve got,” he said, looking at the skulls, monsters, and masks anyone could find in a costume supply store. “Before, it came from the forest.”

An abuero walked by. His mask appeared to be of paper mache, with thick lips and eyeholes that sit high and tight above the mask’s massive proboscis. The masks from earlier fiestas represented spirits of animals – there were dried mummified pig heads, or goat heads, crocodiles, even monkeys.

Some really snazzy looking abueros with traditional masks

Most of the masks didn’t look like that. But some of the old style remained. Walter, who I talked to at the end of the festival, told me about his mask: “Me and my friend killed two ostriches (yes, ostrich) in the woods four months ago,” he said. “We used the feathers to make their masks…I sat down with them and we designed them. They were all made here, not bought.”

While Julian and I talked, a new melody started, the “Koya koya,” a high-trilling flute and drums beating fast and hard.

“It’s time,” he muttered. The cuchi-cuchi was about to start.

This being Paraguay, we waited 20 more minutes. Then, abueros stormed into the courtyard, carrying a banner in front of them. Behind the horde of abueros, ten teenagers raced through the square, covered in muck and slime. The circle of dancers contracted inwards but the pigs (cuchi-cuchi) rushed about, smearing cheeks, faces, and anything else in front of them with mud the consistency of thick pudding.

This repeated twice more. By the end, I had a mud beard and stains up and down my torso and pants.

The younger demons also got into the act, but they used paint and motor oil instead of mud.

“This is a really dirty party, dude,” said Jorge Diaz de Bedoya, a 43-year-old documentary film-maker, after he watched one of the pint-sized abueros squirt motor oil on my glasses and sprint off before I could retaliate. He was one of the only strangers there. He had left Paraguay with his parents – his father is a cancer doctor – when he was three years old and had only returned to the country a few years ago.

I later learned that the mud flinging wasn’t supposed to have happened; (even though none of us minded) it was just a case over-exuberant party-goers.

Then came the most anticipated event of the festival, the toro-toro fight, a staged battle between the “bulls,” or village warriors, and some of the abueros, who changed into black to represent forest demons. The warriors have to win or the community would suffer bad luck for a year. The warriors emerged from behind the house where they had been preparing. They dressed in red shorts. Flautists and drummers led the way, and several women accompanied the group, waving flags to distract the evil spirits and protect their warriors.

The bulls snuck through the last gate, and then charged past the dancers into the ring where the abuero-demons danced away. They were on the hunt. Bodies collided and rolled, and the air became opaque with dust. It was a kaleidoscope of motion, and out of the corner of one eye, I saw a bull tackle a hapless abuero, then sit astride him ram his head into his victim’s chest.

The battle between the warriors and the spirits

While the other abueros and dancers watched, the battle raged on for a few more rounds before the warriors started to chip away at the abuero-demons. Then, almost without warning, the spectacle ended – as everyone realized dusk was approaching. The dancers hustled to the graveyard, where they would burn this year’s costumes, and put the spirits back to sleep for another year.

..............

A quick note: I got a lot of contradicting explanations behind some of the events that took place at the Arete Guazu. I won't pretend to be an expert on Paraguay's indigenous tribes or their customs, so apologies if I got something wrong.

Clarity

Summer dropped into Paraguay two and a half months ago and brought the heat with it. But this lovely country brought us a special treat this year – a two month drought coupled with clouds that pour seemingly everywhere but here. 

The grass has withered thatch-brown but for small stands that remain verdant. The roads, which stuck like glue after rain, have turned to dried silt and sand. When it mixes with the sweat on my feet, it paints them slime brown. Fruit crops, especially guava (which should be in season right now), have plummeted, both in overall numbers of fruits and individual size.

My well, which was full to the brim a few months ago, has dropped, week by week. A few days ago, I could see the clay bottom for the first time of my time here. And work around Potrero Pucu has all but stopped, except for the chores that are absolutely necessary.

Oh for my high-pressure shower and cool basement back home…

The heat usually drops off at night, but from 11am-6pm, there is nothing to do but stay in the shade and try to stay cool. This is not as easy as in the states, obviously. Sometimes relief comes in lying on the cool pavement of my house, other times, liters and liters of terere infused with mint and other refreshing herbs. So I walk through Potrero Pucu in my rolled up jeans, flip-flops, and t-shirt, seeking the shade, a guampa, and some minty terere.

Frustrating as it is, the experience can be sort of bracing. It cuts through the humdrum and the distractions and the silliness. Instead of spending time focused on irrelevancies, all I can think is “It’s hot. How can I cool down? When will it rain? Please let it rain…” And it’s a lesson in patience. How can I expect people to want to work on manual construction projects or more involved cooking practices if it means they are going to spend more time baking in the sun, or working over a stifling fire?

So instead of working, we sit, pass the guampa, and share stories. We’ll get back to work after it rains.

Names, names, names...

Back in the states, I constantly shuffled between two different names. At home, I was St. John, to distinguish from my father, who we call Sinjin (which is arguably the correct pronunciation of the name).

That continued all the way through my second year of college, when I transferred to UPenn, and everyone there started calling me Sinjin. It was less confusing than St. John, apparently.

The fun has continued in Paraguay. When I got here, I took the name “Santo.”  This seemed like a perfectly logical choice – it honored my American name, but it didn’t weigh heavily, and it didn’t sound funny to me like “San Juan” did.

But Santo, without a solidifying second name, lends itself perfectly to Paraguayan improvisation. Over the last two years, I have developed a whole list of “Santo____”isms.

Henrique is Potrero’s plumber and amateur electrician. He’s a shifty looking character with small eyes and his face is all angles but for the mole that pops out of his left jaw. He often pauses at Taito’s house for a few moments, and he’ll spout out “Santo Virgen!” Then I’ll get a lengthy little discourse about my singleness in Potrero Pucu, and how I need to find a girlfriend.

Then, just as it’s winding down, Taito says something like, “Nahaniri, San-Toro!” (Basically, no, he’s St. Bull, or stud, I guess…) There are the jokes “There’s nothing saintly about this saint!,” or “Ugly Saint,” or other examples of Paraguayan ribbing.

Then there’s my host brother, Andres, who calls me Santo Luzardo, after star character in one of the country’s extra melodramatic soap operas. Nestor calls me Santo Torre Alba (St. White Tower), after another soaps star. Hopefully they're good characters - I've never seen the show.

Some people dispense with the name entirely. A civil servant I often see on my bus just calls me “Mister.” (Disconcerting that, reading a book and having someone shout “Mister!” and wave at you… It rolls off the tongue like a bad joke, and doesn’t come close to the poetic ring of “Sir,” or “Señor.”)

To my friend Diego, I am just “Gringo!”, shouted determinedly and enthusiastically. (This was probably the most annoying.) And to the cowboys that pass me by on the road, I am just “Americano.”

The whole situation used to vex me to no end, until I realized that Paraguayans do it amongst themselves too. And their nicknames for each other are sometimes even more interesting, particularly when the names originate from Guarani, which causes so many of the names to be based on animals and nature. Some of the names are startling and perceptive, others just silly. 

For example, my closest neighbor is a man named Ernesto. He’s a powerfully built block of a man, but he has large, lidded eyes with long, full lashes. He has become “Ña Curutú,” which is the Guarani name for a hawk with eyes like his.

I’ve written about my friend Taito before, too. But many people don’t call him Taito, they call him Taito Teju – “Taito the Lizard.” I’ve never understood how he picked that name up, because like Ernesto, he’s a solid, powerful man. Geckos are the last thing he reminds me of.

Ale Gallo “Alex the Rooster,” makes more sense. He’s short, with a small barrel of a belly, and a raspy tenor that carries whenever he explodes with mirth and sound.

Most of these names are harmless, but I would hate to be “Chico Kure,” which means “Boy Pig,” or alternatively, “Small Pig.” That’s Francisco, a handsome, but short man who teaches English and PE in the high school. And his brother Ignacio is “Pajaro Loco,” or “Crazy Parrot.”

And at the very least I escaped Ernesto's old nickname - "Huerova," or "Ox-Face."  Things could be worse.

COS Conference

A little later today, I will be attending my Close of Service Conference. This is something we do three months before we swear out and finish our service.

So it's been two years, minus a week, since I arrived to Paraguay and the Peace Corps. This one of those moments that prompts even more navel gazing than usual. This is a bit off the cuff, but a few thoughts:

It's obviously been a worthwhile experience. If I had to do it over again, I would. I've received this barrage of experiences that I never would have had I not left the states.

Some include
- butchering pigs and chickens
- living without running water
- living in the middle of NOWHERE
- surviving, and thriving, while often being totally confused
- growing my own food for real consumption
- learning to cope with very fractured and broken people
- learning to LOVE very fractured and broken people
- getting addicted to chipa
- loving the tranquility
- learning Spanish and Guarani

On another note, I remember a conversation I once had with a very wise friend of mine who urged me to get out into the world and go somewhere where my moral and ideological compass would receive totally different inputs than they do in the states. Paraguay has certainly done that too. I'll write more about that later, but suffice it to say for now, Paraguay has given me a much broader lens to look at the world.