Adios, El Salvador (a conclusion of my time in ES)

My apologies (to the many who have pointed it out) for not really concluding this blog...towards the last month of my semester there seemed to be so much to take in that I never got a chance to put it into writing.

I spent the majority of my last month getting very close to many of the Salvadoran scholarship students who had accompanied us through a lot of our journey (but up until that time I had been a bit shy around...its contageous!) My Salvadoran thanksgiving was comical-with 200 people gathered together (about 50-60 Americans, the rest Salvadorans-rather confused, but more than happy to join in the feast) at beautiful out door tables by candlelight--I felt more grateful than I ever have. Missing my family as I piled my plate with my greatly missed all-American favorite foods, I couldn't help but laugh at the massive basket of about 300 tortillas that sat at the end of the table (I shouldnt have been surprised...)

In some of my last days at praxis in Mariona, I realized that although at one point four months seemed like it would be an eternity, it was not nearly enough time with the three amazing families who welcomed me into their lives. The kids in my english class were ecstatic when I recorded us singing all of our all-time favorite english songs together (everything from the alphabet, head-shoulders-knees-and toes, to "if you're happy and you know it") burned it onto a CD to play in class, and promptly told them they were famous-but they'd better use it to keep singing without me. (Yes, I do listen to their adorable voices on my itunes singing "hedd-show-das-neez-an-towzzz" and tear up from time to time...what can I say, I'm still just as sentimental)

I wrote papers in a frenzy and stayed up late painting gifts to leave behind with my families, and watched "UP" in Spanish with my Salvadoran friends--secretly wishing I could take them all home with me in my pocket. (they are almost a pocket-sized people after all)

In our last week we had three "despedidas" (goodbye parties) one with my Mariona family (complete with pinatas, cake, overly excited children, and my singing-as requested) a large mass with all of the praxis communities (my first time as an untrained bilingual eucharistic minister) and a pool party with the scholarship students in which I sang a duet in spanish with one of my good friends, Tomas (rather comical).

http://www.facebook.com/profile.php?ref=profile&id=639350128#/video/video.php?v=253426180128&subj=639350128 (see my video on facebook: "Sin Miedo a Nada")

The goodbyes were even harder than I had imagined, but I was happy to be heading home to my fabulous family and friends for Christmas. I thought back to two years ago when I read the Casa pamphlet that said "come, let your heart be broken" and realized what they meant-

that now no matter what country I was in, I would be missing my family somewhere else.

While saying goodbye to my many Salvadoran mothers, fathers, sisters, and brothers, even my much improved Spanish was incapable of expressing my gratitude. I hoped that my tearful smile, my song, my millionth hug, would somehow let them know how much they had shared with me. I cringe a bit now to use or hear the word "service" in relation to my part in this experience--for as much as each of them thanked me for my presence, for what I shared, what I truly walked away with was an understanding of receiving, the gift witnessing and experiencing what it means to be in relationship, in solidarity with others. The Salvadoran people have shown me the beauty of unshakable faith, the compassion that is borne of great suffering, and a limitless love that often left me (and still leaves me) without words.

I am so grateful, and so very blessed.

all i can really say is, in the ever-repeated words of the Salvadoran people:

"Gracias a Dios" (Thanks be to God)

(my families waving goodbye to my bus window on the last day of praxis)

P.S. Thanks to everyone who read, and who sent me love and support (either in words or thoughts) from afar, I felt it strongly, and was thankful for it every day. That spirit was with me in every beautiful and challenging moment.

p.p.s--for those interested:

A previous CASA student is currently working in ES and creating podcasts about the issues in the country for NPR local in Milwaukee. I did an English voice-over for his interview with a Salvadoran woman who was a victim of the flooding that took place in ES during my semester. It is a profound representation of what I tried to explain in my earlier blog (clearly it is much better said in the words of people who experienced it)
http://www.wuwm.com/programs/lake_effect/view_le.php?articleid=870

Click on the link "Audio postcard: Post-Ida Rebuilding in El Salvador"

(i'm the voice of the third interview, about her flooded home, and later-her child's shoes)

con paz, amor y solidaridad,

Maurita

the hope of the martyrs

Wow. It’s hard to know what to catch up on since it’s been about a month since I’ve blogged. Although I don’t like the random list of events approach I’ll throw that in to give an idea of what’s been keeping me from the internet, and much time to catch up at all!
At the end of October we had our vacation, in which I spent a beautiful and adventurous 5 days in Belize with 5 girls from my program. A few highlights:
I had a brief (and slightly less threatening but nevertheless stressful) experience as an apparent illegal immigrant in Guatemala (story later…) swam with headlamps through a cave, held a boa constrictor around my neck, survived a 360 degree flip/face-plant while tubing with an overly enthusiastic Belizean guy, visited Mayan ruins, snorkeled, enjoyed the randomness of conversations with fellow hostel guests (mostly from France and Germany) and realized that Belize by far beats El Salvador as the hottest country I have yet to visit (didn’t think it was possible…)

The following weeks filled up with classes, soccer, praxis days, reflections, and what seemed like less and less time to really think about what is happening. My reflection time happens on the grimy walk to the UCA, in quick, cold showers, and on long bus rides to Mariona-passing by tiny garage like homes and long reaching fields of sugar cane.
Before I knew it my dear friend Maggie was here to visit me! It seemed odd to look back over the semester; I had always held this far off image of the day I’d have a visitor—when I would be the one sharing this place rather than the one with all the questions, the day I would stand with my American family and Salvadoran one in the same space. She arrived on the day of the Casa talent show, which felt like the perfect summary of my experience in community here. There were goofy group dances (including a perfect group rendition of the dance at the end of the movie Little Miss Sunshine) original poetry, live music, and even some unexpected drag queens. My house (all women) wrote and performed our own spoken word poem (like slam poetry) about our experience here, which brought down the house. The day before the show I had honestly believed I could get away with not opting to sing anything at the show, but the women in my house wouldn’t let me get away with it that easy. I had sat around trying to think of what I could possibly force myself to sing, knowing that I would have no accompaniment or time to prepare (not to mention that singing in front of groups is still high on my fear list.) What I really love about being here is I’ve adopted more of a willingness to do things that the little voice in my head thinks are just a little too scary (see the aforementioned swimming in cave/boa constrictor encounter) Now, unless a part of me screams “that is a terrible idea!” I can hear another little voice that says “why not?” –and I must say, we are starting to chat quiet often.
So in the end I stood up before a much larger crowd that I had anticipated (probably about 60 people, US and Salvadoran students alike) and in nervous Spanish explained the meaning of the song I chose to sing, “May I suggest” by Susan Werner. I remember looking out to Maggie, and all of my close friends here who were just smiling as I sang—and as nervous as I was, I was never so happy to share a song.

Just two days after Maggie’s departure my dad flew in on his way home from Uruguay to join me and my community for the activities in memory for the Jesuit martyrs of the UCA. Again, I had the joy of getting to share this space—my friends here eagerly awaited the arrival of the famous “Frank” and my dad finally got to meet my heroic meditation guru, Oti, and Salvadoran father-figure, Lolo, among others. It felt surreal to finally be walking through the streets around the UCA with my dad and eight thousand Salvadorans holding candles and singing. Earlier on in the day I had been informed that I was picked to represent my program by reading a petition at the vigil mass. A part of the old Maura voice said that you couldn’t pay me a million dollars to read in Spanish in front of 8 thousand people at the most important mass of the year, but luckily another part realized that it was more than an honor, but an incredible gift to be able to take part in that—such an amazing gift that being terrified didn’t justify refusing. Although in that moment I was entirely too afraid to look out from the stage into that mass of people-I stepped off and walked back into the crowd feeling more a part of it than I ever could have imagined.

Both of my years at SJU I have travelled to the vigil in Georgia on this same week in remembrance of the martyrs in El Salvador. I remember feeling this pull to come here, to be even closer to that beautiful remembrance of the lives lost in this country- and the hope found in that sacrifice. Finally being present for those events was amazing, but I realized that what meant most was that the people here have been showing me how to remember the martyrs every day since I’ve arrived. I think our tendency in the US is to create one special day that highlights something but forget to live that out in the everyday. Here, the martyrs faces are painted on the murals we pass on the highway and their names are sung in every popular song—Romero’s face is framed on every tiny kitchen wall, it smiles back at me from t-shirts and prayer cards. “La esperanza de los martires,” the hope of the martyrs, is a Salvadoran favorite phrase…it seems to be the air that people breathe here. Twenty years after the deaths of the Jesuits it seems like life here is still so hard for so many people, but instead of giving in it seems the people are even more willing to pick up that cross of the martyrs and carry it for each other. (This seems a little ambiguous and cheesy…I’ll explain a bit…)
The week that the worst of the floods hit El Salvador we started getting a lot of calls and messages asking if everyone in the program was OK. I remember being surprised, because I hadn’t even thought to call and reassure anyone that I was fine-never once had I felt threatened by this disaster. I sat at my praxis cite as my family there listened to the radio list off updates on the numbers of the dead, I packed some clothes into a collection box for families with nothing, I read the headlines—and I felt deeply and prayed for the people who are suffering here. But the sad reality is that I still know my own privilege, and as an American student here I am not in a position to suffer personally from a natural disaster. The lives that are lost are those who live in conditions that aren’t dignified for human life, the people with nothing now are the ones who hardly had anything to lose as it was-people who live on the side of mountains because it is the only land left to work on. I sat at a community mass that Sunday and heard Dean Brackley’s homily as he told the people “this is not a natural disaster, it is a human disaster” it is a disaster that we have allowed people to live in areas, in homes, in situations, that are so fragile, so easily swept away. And that same Sunday another community had prepared for its long anticipated celebration of the martyrs—they had gotten up early to make food to share at a beautiful party in which they could recognize this legacy of hope and solidarity that these men and women had left behind. A few of my friends later told me how touched they were as they stood amidst this community that morning and listened to them unanimously decide to cancel the celebration of the martyrs and walk together with the food they had prepared into the nearby rural area of Las Nubes to meet the needs of their neighbors. It was so clear that to talk about solidarity would mean nothing if you weren’t living it. For many of us that story, more than any activity or prayer service in memory of the martyrs showed us what they have left here. It lives out Romero’s quote spray painted on the sides of abandoned buildings of San Salvador:
“If you kill me, I will rise again in the people.”

campo part 2

After my first long soccer-filled day in the campo, having survived three rather awkward meals with shy Salvadorans and language barriers, I was relieved when Lidia invited us to join her for “el rezo,” a small community prayer service she was heading out for. Just barely catching her words about what it entailed, I grabbed my flashlight and we headed out into the dark. I was feeling a bit adventurous as we walked down the dirt road with our flashlights, wondering how far we’d be going. Little did I know I was in for quite a journey.

About thirty seconds in we took a turn off the unlit path to climb a small stone wall into the forest. It was at this point that I started thinking about all of the horror movies I’ve avoided watching for my entire life, and gave myself a pat on the back. We walked, and walked, and walked. I could see nothing beyond the tiny circles from our flashlights, and wondered how this little woman could have it all mapped out in her head. Down hills, through trees, on rocky descents, over more walls—something made me feel like this must be some historic pilgrimage, or epic rescue…As we were crossing through a corn field a huge flash of lightening lit up the entire sky-and I looked around, seeking the relief of knowing where we were, only to see nothing but fields and sky. It was one of those moments where you just give in, like “here I am on the side of a mountain, in the middle of a pitch black field, following this little Salvadoran woman to God knows where…and it could start pouring, or I could fall on any one of these dumb slippery rocks, or she could have no idea where we are--and there would be no backup plan-no cell phones, no one to hear us-hell, we can barely understand each other!” And in all of that uncertainty there was this incredible sense of liberation.

When we finally got back on the road I began to see the others, we joined them and there was this quiet, beautiful, slow formation of believers on the porch of someone’s home. As they talked I just took it all in, studying the faces. Sitting in the limited number of chairs were some of the oldest women I’d ever seen, there were mom’s with sleeping kids on their laps, and giggling teenage girls. Around the dark outskirts of the porch were tired-looking men still in their work clothes. In so many ways it was just like how my faith community gathers, but at the same time it was so very different. They had travelled through the dark, at the only precious time of the day without oppressive heat-at the only time when no work was obligatory—they had come together without announcements, bulletins, refreshments or childcare. They just gathered.

I kept wondering when that awkward “here are our American students visiting to see how we live” part would come up, but it didn’t. There were no introductions, and something felt like that would be unnecessary because the only thing that mattered to them was that we wanted to be there. I kept looking up at the sky, calculating the chances that it would pour on the epic walk home. I realized that it was pretty likely, but my friends and I were probably the only ones thinking about it. To everyone else it seemed like darkness, and rain, and prayer and community were all just this package gift. And I felt blessed to receive it.

Over the next few days Bridget and I became a part of the very slow, quiet life of living on a farm in the campo. With Lidia’s husband and grown son out working all day, we were present to her daily life alone at home. Although so much of it seemed new and romantic to a city girl like myself, I began to pick up on a pattern as the days went by. She was always up before dawn—(if necessary to kill and prepare meat) she made tortillas from scratch and home-made corn coffee alongside a full breakfast, milked the three cows, hand washed clothes and dishes in time to make tortillas yet again, and a full lunch, which only left more dishes. Almost every afternoon I’d be relieved at the first time I saw her sit down-but even this was to do work. She would get out her embroidery kit and sit on the hammock, working on a child’s t-shirt to be sold in the US. One day I went out to sit and watch the rain and chat with her. At one point we sat in silence, and I wondered why she would want to have me there. For me the week was a series of urges to help--wishing I could somehow take a part of this daily load off her hands, wanting to think that my trying to milk a cow or laughing at my failed attempts to make a proper tortilla was doing more than just slowing her down. My desperate attempts to wash the dishes and make conversation couldn’t possibly make up for this feeling that I was just another mouth to feed.

I ran her day through my mind and realized what bothered me. It was that nothing Lidia did was a choice. There was no part of her routine that could be much changed or altered. There was little creativity, nevertheless an “I don’t really feel like it right now” or “day-off.” Even if by some miracle I swept her away for a day-cows would still need to be milked and her family and the animals fed. She was bound to this in a way that I couldn’t grasp because I’ve never been bound to anything. I racked my brain desperately to think of one thing in my life that I HAD to do and couldn’t find one example. My choices and opportunities were so vast that even things I feel obligated to do are consequences of things I have chosen. And that moment, more than any conversation about privilege, or statistic about US wealth, or cheesy quote about freedom—that moment just sank in in a way that I knew I would not forget.

I looked at her and realized the only thing she had really chosen was to have me here, to open up everything she had to us—as a gift. And it seemed funny that with all of the things that I have, I had so little that was tangible to give to her. But it was in our little chats on the porch, and walking the cows back to the field that I felt that something grow—and even though I wouldn’t quite be able to put it into words, I felt like I was giving.

Campo part 1

So for the past month or so the word “campo” hung over our heads as that ominous week when we would be dropped off in the rural El Salvador to live alongside a family we didn’t know, and experience the reality that so many live here every day. The idea had seemed very romantic when I read about it in the Casa pamphlet, but as the day drew near my stomach started turning in knots at the thought of living with complete strangers in the middle of the most impoverished part of the country for days on end. Looking back on my campo week it’s hard to condense my experience into one blog, so I’ll break it into “memorable moments” here, and reflect a bit more in a follow up.

So after a long drive our bus dropped us off to walk the 25 minutes into the town of Carasque. In the afternoon heat I was beyond grateful that someone was driving and dropping off our heavy backpacks and cestas (a basket with our week’s worth of food supply each, around 30 lbs-5 lbs sugar, beans, rice, etc.) But as we finally arrive at the bottom of a mountain, my partner Bridget and I are told that our family lives at the top, so we’d be carrying our bags and cestas halfway up the mountain we had just come down. I smiled-at least these people had a sense of humor right? Maybe this week won’t be so bad after all! Except the thing was- they weren’t kidding.

We met our host mom-Lidia: the strong silent type, she barely came to my shoulder and weighed 115 pounds max. She smiled, and proceeded to put one of our 30 pound baskets on her head, suggesting that the two of us each take a handle and share the weight of the other. Huffing and puffing up the 60 degree hill, we stopped to switch handles. I looked back to see how Lidia was holding up to find her walking in her slip on-sandals, the cesta balanced on her head, hands at her side…she hadn’t broken a sweat. That’s humbling, I thought.

That night I woke up at 3 am to one of the most disturbing noises I have ever heard. I lay in the pitch black on my little cot as the shrieking squeals of a pig carried on for what felt like forever. I felt silly being scared, but I couldn’t imagine what could possibly elicit that noise from any animal. When I woke up in the morning this became abundantly clear. Walking onto the kitchen/porch area I saw what remained of the largest pig I had ever seen in my entire life. The counter, kitchen table, and multiple buckets were filled with our dear friend Wilbur. A small river of blood ran through the backyard. Talk about a culture shock. I sat down at the breakfast table, and was the lucky recipient of the very first cooked piece of pork. I tried my best not to look at the pool of blood, smell the uncooked meat, or listen to the little snorts of the two remaining pigs just feet away as I smiled at Lidia and mustered the most sincere “Gracias!” I could. (if you’re wondering how it tasted, it was still damn good)

Later that day my friend Annie and I opted to play in (rather than watch) the town’s all girls soccer tournament. I was fighting an urge to punk out as we got to the field, which literally overlooked the mountains of Honduras, and realized that I’d rather embarrass myself than say I passed up the opportunity. I walked onto the field as the awkward gringa, clearly wearing a borrowed jersey-but three games later we were the champions of the tournament. Early on the girls pegged me as the go-to girl for all penalty kicks (pushing it, considering I probably shouldn’t be playing at all). The first time I was sure I must be mistaken as they set up the ball and called “Maura!” It was confusing enough that the names I’d learned thus far on the team were as follows: Mari, Mira, Mirna, and Maritza. But I’m glad I was too awkward to refuse; for the rest of the weekend I grinned shyly when Salvadorans asked “hey, weren’t you one of those girls that scored in the tournament?” well, yea...I mean you could say that.

But that was just day one! Many more thoughts on this later…
Spanish word of the week: liso=slippery
Also useful in the campo, balar =to moo (why don’t we have a verb for that?)
Missing and loving you all

a few highlights...

Wow. There’s a lot I could say, but given the limited time I’ll just catch up on a few highlights…

So after getting settled in Mariona, we began teaching our afternoon English class to a small group of kids from the area. There are about 10 kids (depending on the day), which for three of us is cake—the only more difficult part is that the ages range from 3-11, which is obviously an inconvenient development gap. Although we planned to split into groups, we find that the kids really have the most fun just being together, and taking part in the kind of creative learning that they don’t get in schools here. Last week I was tickled at how much they enjoyed our “parts of the body” class. After many, many thrilling renditions of “head, shoulders, knees, and toes” we played a game where the kids got to label the parts of the body with post-its. Given that we had a small white board, but no marker for it, we opted to use student models instead. The kids jumped out of their seats when they recognized the English word, and giggled at they put post-its on their friend’s faces. Upon completing the exercise, the orange post-it covered kid would stand grinning as everyone rushed up to take them off so we could start all over. After class they run off smiling, but no one leaves before giving me a “high-five” (which I taught them the very first class-I still have my priorities straight)…my heart gets all warm and fuzzy every time I see them run around yelling “HI-FI!” and slapping each other’s hands.

Spontaneous soccer games with Casa students and the Salvadoran bacarrios usually happen on Thursdays, but I had been so busy (slash maybe a little too timid) to go until last week. I was exhausted, and hesitant to give up my one free weekday afternoon, but I thought “when in Rome” right? Well, when in El Salvador-you play soccer. As the game started I quickly realized how much I missed playing this sport, I was feeling more bonded with some of the Salvadorans in the first half hour that I had in the past month (sports are so universal). Not surprisingly, the afternoon sky started looking a bit ominous, but no one else seemed to take notice. Neither did anyone seem concerned as the rain came down, and I smiled to myself thinking “oh, El Salvador…” But within the next ten minutes the afternoon sprinkle had turned to a downpour, and soon after-a legitimate storm. The game went on. We kicked the ball through puddles, then Rivers in the middle of the field…I rung out my hair and made nervous jokes in broken Spanish about how maybe we should call it quits—but no one was leaving…So I just stood there in a puddle of mud laughing and hoping to God the bolts of lightning kept their distance. It was the highlight of my week.

A while back a group of us discovered a nearby bar/restaurant called “La Luna” that can best be described as a Salvadoran hipster hang out (about as counterintuitive as it sounds) with live music of different genres. Having scoped out their calendar on our first visit, we spotted “Beatles night” and no more needed to be said. So last night we ventured out and took our rightful place as the overly enthusiastic American’s in the front row. Despite the fact that even the band members themselves (all wearing matching Black Beatles t-shirts) pronounced Beatles in phonetic Spanish “BEET-LEZ” they really did justice to a number of great hits. They were more than thrilled to have some gringos in the crowd, and even humored us-upon request, playing the most comical “happy birthday” for two of our friends, with personal shout outs to “Chela y Kati.” We were bummed to leave before they finished (it isn’t a good idea to stay in the city too late) but made a dramatic exit, waving to the lead singer who grinned proudly and said “See-you-later!” into the mic.
This country is full of surprises…

Mariona, and a few thoughts on feet

After two weeks (four visits) at my praxis site in Mariona, I realized that it is far past time to share this beautiful place with all you fabulous people back home.
I was thrilled to be placed in my first choice site for praxis-the two days a week that I will be spending in a Salvadoran community as one of my classes this semester. Mariona is an urban area about 6 miles north of San Salvador. It is home to the largest male prison in the country, as well as about 150,000 people living in 18 small communities.
Myself and two other girls (Arianna and Betsy) are there every Monday and Wednesday from about 8:30-3:30. We are hosted by Oti, a middle aged Salvadoran woman who runs the Meditation Center for the women of the community. The center is an open space for meditation, yoga, and massage—there is no charge, since women in this community struggle to make ends meet as it is. It is Oti’s life work, her gift to the people around her. It is her effort to alleviate some of the struggles of daily life for the people here who (like Oti) have experienced the brokenness of war and the constant struggle of poverty, among other difficulties.
Our first two visits were spent getting to know the few families and individuals who we will be closest with this semester, and this week we started our afternoon English classes that we will be giving the kids (more on that soon) but what I really wanted to write about was yesterday morning. First we dabbled a bit in yoga and a brief meditation. Then the three of us and Aida (Lolo’s wife) learned massage from Oti. Taking time to both give and receive that kind of attention to each other under her guidance was itself a really beautiful experience-but what happened next is something I will never forget.
Aida said that since Oti had shared this with us, she too deserved a massage. I fully agreed, but something deep down in me felt a little awkward about the four of us non-experts attempting to massage my most recent idol. We split up, and I found myself taking my place at Oti’s feet-and here something changed. It reminded me of Holy Thursday at my church when we read the passage about Jesus’ washing his disciples feet, and then do this as a community.

As I held her feet in my hands, I starting thinking about what that act really signifies.
We usually think of feet as smelly, something useful-but not particularly beautiful, not something worthy of much thought or attention. But in a way, they really are. Our feet carry us, our weight (literal and figurative) rests on our feet…they move us. I thought about Jesus tending to the feet of his closest friends, and what that was really saying.

To me it recognized shared suffering:
“your burden is my burden, I take that weight in my hands”
It recognized beauty: “to me, no part of you is ugly or unworthy”
It said: “I will care for the parts of you that even you yourself have forgotten or neglected”

It was suddenly the most beautiful way to care for another person. A part of me wanted to start running around the world to touch everyone’s feet (yes, I recognize how absurd that sounds)
But at the time it just seemed right. Like maybe so much of the brokenness we feel is hidden there, and maybe healing could start their too.

As we finished, Oti stood up, embracing each of us and thanking us. Thanking me.
I am continually at a loss for words in this place where people thank ME after sharing everything they have with me. She had exemplified for me what my own faith has tried to get across to me for twenty one years: “so you should do as I have done for you.”
It wasn’t just words, or nice ideas…it was tangible.
It was in my fingers, I could feel it in my Toes.
And she had thanked me. How could I respond to that? I thought…
I’m still thinking…

wash, rinse, and repeat: life without a washing machine

To keep some kind of diversity in my blog entries, I thought (and trust me, there was plenty of time for thinking) I would share the joys of hand washing laundry with those who might not have the pleasure of this learning experience. Upon embarking on this exciting journey, I imagined, as I often do at times like this, my life as a movie. It looked something like a split screen consisting of my former and current experiences “lavando la ropa”

On the left: American Maura casually tosses a large pile of clothes in the washing machine.

On the right: Salvadoran Maura carries the ominous pile to the pila—a large outdoor split sink (one side filled with clean water, the other used to actually scrub each article of clothing and rinse) soaks the load in a sudsy bucket, and picks up wet article of clothing number one.

Left: American Maura proceeds with her day…gets a snack, calls a friend, picks up her room

Right: Salvadoran Maura scrubs, repeats, rinses, repeats (and tries to ignore the fact that she’s already broken a sweat)

Left: American Maura tosses wet laundry into nearby dryer

Right: Salvadoran Maura scrubs, rinses, rinses…wonders if those left over bubbles could possibly have been her imagination, and considers pouring the clean water over her head rather than the bubble-happy layers of skirt before her.

Left: American Maura goes for a run, takes a shower, and returns to fold the dry laundry

Right: Salvadoran Maura scrubs, rinses, and decides that a few remaining bubbles might even help keep the clothes clean longer-thus postponing future clothes washing.

Left: American Maura completes a variety of simple and/ or relaxing activities.

Right: Ten bucks to whoever can guess one of the two things Salvadoran Maura is still doing.
Anyways…you get the idea.

Contemplating the pros and cons—I came up with the following
Bonuses:
-Both the washing and (especially) ringing out process are a real arm workout! In four months I’m going to have the Michelle Obama arms that all of the magazines talk about (although with my daily intake of tortillas and rice-the rest of my body might not look like hers)
- in this process, I find I never lose the match to each sock—don’t you hate when that happens? I hang dry each one next to its proper mate on the line outside without fear that it will soon join the dismal pile of loners.
-I also decided that this process likely serves as birth control in this country-if I lived here and had to do this for more people than just myself, I would seriously debate having any children at all (just kidding…kind of)
But in all seriousness, the entire process can actually be a nice meditation—and when done in the early hours of the morning, a fine time for a solo sing along (at least I thought so) There is a really valuable and enriching aspect of completing the process.

Downers:
-being a foot taller than the average Salvadoran, the leaning over the pila takes a toll on ones back.
-remember all of the fun things American Maura did during this process? Given that I’m still scrubbing and rinsing, things like this blog have fallen lower on my to-do list.
-Remember when American Maura’s clothes were dry? Yeah, then add 4-24 hours (depending on the fabric)
-Don’t get me started on TOWELS.

Spanish word of the day: puchica: an exclamation like “no way!” or “that’s cool” (pronounced with an emphasis on the CHEE—pu-chee-ca)
i.e. if someone where to tell you “Maura went to her first hip hop class yesterday” the appropriate response would be “¡puchica!”