STOP! Don´t put that crab´s pincer on your nipple!

A traditional weaving of a Panamanian hat made with natural fibers.

Manly men! Learning about fish farming

In my defense, my blog is not as outdated as the Newsweeks I read in my hamack. Yesterday I was reading one, finding the news relevent and interesting when I flipped to the front cover and discovered that it was dated December 8, 2008.

The last month has held a lot: My one -year mark. (if Peace Corps were a hill, better said, a mountain, I would be hiking down. We all know hiking downhill hurts your knees.) I went on a great vacation with some buddies (I was the 7th wheel, in fact, for three couples. Fortunately there were no flats.) We snorkeled, cooked and ate great food including fire-side banana foster and Panamanian cacao fondu with mangos. We laughed, raced crabs, caught up and wound down. It went too fast.

Soon I was back in site and Vaca Sagrada!! my garden was growing, winter squash, lettuce, radishes, green beans and cucumbers. I hardley dare to believe it. This is boring to you right? or maybe you can count the times I´ve expressed boyant hopes for my gardens and therefore can reasonably deduce the outcome... Interestingly enough though, one year later and I find myself doing the same things that I did a year ago. Ex: School garden (thanks to a great seed drive that a school we are coorosponding with state side did), organic pesticides, compost, heavy pasearing. I rarely fill my days to capacity. By the time it rains I am usually snug in my house with my nose in a book and my cat on my lap. But I stress about that free time less than I did last time round. I feel more accomplished with the little things that get done every day. Shooting the mierda witht the kids at school for an hour or two while we plant in their garden beats 7 hours stressing over what else I should be doing. Also marginly successfull: the school garden. Thank you Cathy!
The other night I awoke to my host family´s 7 dogs attacking something that sounded vaguely like a gasoline powered electrical plant, RIGHT outside my house. (Later my host dad would define the sound as roncar, the same word used for snore). Ok, so this thing snored loud. In a matter of seconds my host family had ran up to the rucous. I waited a while before I got out of bed to go investigate, not exactly sure I was up for whatever cultural experience awaited outside. It sounded like one of the dogs was getting eaten alive. My flashlight beem did little to illuminate the snorer. It looked like a grey, bulbous balloon wiggling back forth emiting a skunklike stench snoring like a semi truck motor. ¨Come see it,¨my host sister says.

An armidillo. The kind you dont eat, they explain to me. I retired to bed to listen out the last of the show. Dog teeth on shell. SNORE! whack! whack! and then finally, shink (that´s what machetes say.)

The next morning it was quartered and boiled and given to the ravenous dogs for breakfast. One ugly, stinky little beast.
Speaking of animals... I´ve become well aquainted with Ngabe animal lore. I´ve given up, more or less on my self-esteem classes witht the sixth graders, surcumbed to the blank stares, silent answers and the dawning realisation that it was all for my benifit anyway. I´ve settled for just having fun with the kids. I asked each student to go home and talk to their grandparents about stories, and to bring their favorites into class. They will rewrite and illustrate each story which will then be sent state side to our friends who sent us the seeds. This story exchange idea is my most recent brain child. Seemingly a great idea... What could possibly unsurp this? Not leaf cutter ants, and not shitty soil.

Until the kids brought in the stories and read them with these, oh so telling smirks. They are not being devious, but for all that they are reading they could be trying. I must be clear, their stories are some of the funniest I have ever heard, much funnier than any fox trying for some grapes, anyway. But they would not receive a warm reception in US classrooms. Every one is violent and sometimes brutal. The Grimm brothers would approve; to avoid predjudice we must reflect on the grusome beginnigs of our own cherished fairytales.

There are too many to share so here´s my favorite. Remember, this is academic.

Why the Vulture is Bald
Once upon a time a horse, tired from a day´s work layed down for a nap. Up above, a vulture circled in the sky, looking for lunch. Upon spotting the horse the vulture made the incorrect assumption that it was dead and began his decent. The vulture landed on the horse and promptly (information inserted for city folk: vultures eat the softest parts of the body first, being the eyes and the, well, the behind) inserted his head and neck into horse´s behind with the intent to dine. The horse who of course was not at all dead, woke up, was frightened and began to run, all the while squeezing his cheeks with frear. The vulture flapped and flapped his wings, but with each flap the horse ran faster. Finally the poor creature could run no more and fell to the ground exausted. Out popped the vulture´s head completely bald and smoking. And the vulture with his newly gleened knowledge says: ¨Lo juro, por Dios, que el ojo primero en vez del trasero.¨
Translation: ¨In the future when I go to dine, I´ll taste the butt only after the eye.¨

I´ll make copies of a complete book of Ngabe fables available soon!

The authors

The completed bean storage facility

Ojo de Gallo, a fungus that affects coffee