El día de la entrega

Someone of some prominence must have said at some point, "your love is like a roller coaster baby baby, I wanna ride!" This quote fails to capture anything I want to talk about in this blog, but does mention the words "roller coaster," which are indeed of utmost importance in this blog. Poor introduction aside, I wanted to tell you all about today because it was particular full of triumph and tragedy, awkwardness and delight, good and slightly bothersome.

I remember the volunteer I visited way back when I arrived here in Panamá spoke extensively about the hassle that was "el día de entrega" or delivery day for a latrine project that he was orchestrating. Back then, oh so many activities ago, I thought I would never have a delivery day. Either I would not be capable to get a project going or it was just too far in the future to comprehend. Wellp, today was my "día de entrega" and I am in the midst of a whopper of a project. Who'da thunk? For me it wasn't so much a hassle, but it was sure a roller coaster.

With the alarm set for 5:50 I woke up at 5:00 rearing to go, excitement dominating my chances at sleep. I made my new speciality Dutch baby for breakfast and wolfed down todo anticipating mayhem. The mayhem that one can withstand with a powder-sugared, eggy and rich Dutch baby is significant. Lunch, pasta and sardines, was in a Tupperware already. All my things were laid out so as not to forget: cell phone, miscellaneous PVC parts, the project pickaxe with it's newly varnished handle, the receipts to prove I was the buyer, the laptop to show folks pictures of the trabajo que viene, hacksaw and extra blade, cement float and so on.

One thing you have to understand about this project is that it keeps an open door. Our pool of participants is everyone the new gravity-fed system can reach who does not have a connection to the existing community aqueduct. Among this group, the bag is as mixed as can be: some could care less, some could care medium and some care lots. So when one of my good campesino buddies, who is in the care medium group and still on the fence about participating, stopped me on my hike to the toma area, I heard him out. A slightly paranoid fellow, he is convinced someone cuts his tubes every time he connects somewhere. In his mysterious way of weaving the truth, I caught the paranoia fever as well. The rest of my hike I fell into dark thoughts of what to do if no one showed. With $1400 spent and gone, this was a dismal prospect.

I sweated profusely and when I rounded the bend into Papayal a cold wind and misty rain chilled my already cool thoughts. At the toma I looked around, stamping on this dirt and that dirt para ver if it was firma or not. I walked the salida over the hill, looked for Más Movil signal to call the hardware store later and sat down on a rock. Eight o'clock, the start time, came and went, I scratched Carmencita's ears. This was the low. Could it be that I had misinterpreted months of meetings and preparation work? Would I be stood up like a buffoon?

Both the president and secretary of the directiva brought horses. I was so relieved I could have hugged all four of them had tradition not dictated to be more appropriate a handshake among men and a general abstaining from hugging horses unless your that girl from National Velvet or tienes ganas de ticks. The thing you should to know about la hora panameña is that it is not the same as la hora norteamericana. You arrive late to just about everything and sometimes church too. As it got later, our numbers swelled and even paranoid campesino dude showed up with his two awesome daughters to participate.

Much relieved we rocked the excavation of the toma like it was going out of style. Our delivery was scheduled for 10:00 am. One thing I learned about la hora panameña is that there are few exceptions, sometimes not even church. As such we established the plan to work on the digging until such time as the materials arrived and then change our goal to the carga. I called at 9:30. Had they loaded the truck? "Hold please." So have you loaded the truck? "What's the name on the order?" The name is The Only Person Ordering 150 Lengths of Tube and Asking You to Deliver It On Time to What Most People Consider the Middle of Nowhere in the Jungle Today, is what I wanted to say, but thought better of it. I concluded the conversation by practicing my Spanish direct commands: "load the truck and bring the materials here."

Digging out the toma.

They actually made good time and at 11:30 or so paranoid campesino's daughters flagged down the truck. The muchachos were even nice enough to bring the thirteen bags of cement up to the caseta for us. I let them sweat it as I looked back across the valley at where we had to get everything, a good half a mile down to the creek and then back up, by nightfall or rainfall, which could happen a lot sooner.

A family carrying tubes.

Caballos to the rescue!

The thing you should know about campesinos is that they can work hard and carry the most ludicrously heavy bundles there are. Where I loaded up four tubes, they took ten wobbling off down the path like they were picking daisies. One strong campesino, mind you he is pushing sixty years old, took a 94-pound bag of cement on his shoulder and came back for another, mind you as well the horses are full up glistening with two bags. Strong campesino agreed to share the last one, his third trip, with a younger campesino who had been getting chided for taking a long lunch. "He's scared of the old man," strong campesino said. I contented my days heroics to not slicing my jugular as I careened down the mountain with a roll of barbed wire hopped up on my shoulder.

Teamwork gets the job done, two men share the load of a 94-pound cement bag.

Needless to say everything arrived safe and secure with amazing rapidez. We concluded strong with a plan to push forward la otra mañana, which translates "the other tomorrow" and means the day after tomorrow. As I walked back I felt a spring in my step combined with a sense of marvel at what my life has become. I thought about Brandon Valentine, my jefe who just passed away. There is a mass in Penonomé on Friday in his honor and I plan to go, but if folks want to continue working on Friday I might stay behind. Wouldn't Brandon have wanted me to be out there mixing it up on an awesome project instead of mourning? I stopped by at the few houses that had not been represented or otherwise accounted for during el día de la entrega. "Por favor. Put some clothes with better coverage on," I would have liked to say to the campesina who greeted me at the first house, but thought better of it. She has a young son and after all, the thing you should know about campo moms is you can never be too prepared to dar la teta to an infant the very millisecond it starts fussing. She gave some excuse and said her eldest son had wanted to come, but had been too scared. A problem easily solved by me passing by la otra mañana para rouse the youngster from slumber. The other houses gave me similar excuses, but I cheerfully gave my song-and-dance of the doors always being open to join the project since this is a matter of their future health and well-being.

Talk about an idyllic location to store the goods.

As I marched back home the darkness in my mind threatened to cloud up again. Should I really be inviting everyone and their scantily clad mothers to participate? What about rules and regulations? If I get the project full of apathetic people, it risks a serious future crash. How do we share the work? The directiva likes the idea of every household working the exact same number of days, but to me that is too communistic and a far-flung ideal. Where is the incentive for superstars to rise and lead in all the workdays if they want? If we were to put a minimum requirement it will give space for over-achievers to shine, under-achievers to be politely dismissed and medium-achievers to do a reasonable effort to obtain clean water, which I personally think is a right of everybody. Perhaps we will do that aka I will somehow try to talk our group into talking themselves into that.

I arrived home to puppies, which is a good pick-me-up. They aren't ours they just come visiting from time to time, which is an even better pick-me-up. I set about preparing to make macaroni and cheese, campo style. For some reason I have little money and am budgeting ninety cents a meal, with roll-over, until Friday. The thing you should know about the cost of living here is that ninety cents a meal is totally feasible, especially since I already have ketchup. Coming back up from the store, I heard a familiar voice saludando me from the rancho. My old host dad is in town. I miss his company and that of his 6 year-old son like crazy and I felt the cloud start to darken again as I thought about how much stronger our friendships could have been had his family stayed in San Juanito instead of moving to Penonomé in February of last year. A wicked accordion player, he invited me to a daytime concert this coming Sunday at the orange festival. More dark clouds as I realized I probably can't go, traveling on a Sunday is a vaina and with my dad and Gillian in town, it is not practical. I want to film a video of him playing in the daytime, a project he really wants to see to fruition too, but there always seems to be a conflict.

As I left the rancho Abuela gave me an awesome suggestion to paint the oven Lauren and I made on Saturday with ash. The house smells like a pigsty because the mud mix I used had sugar water, which is fermenting and exuding nasty smells. I hope the ash will help, otherwise I am going to have to take it down so our visitors don't throw up upon arrival.

Beginning to reflect on the day, starting this blog and the macaroni and cheese simultaneously, I felt pretty darn good with a whole lazy day ahead of me tomorrow and then more mayhem la otra mañana. Then I heard the sputter fuft of our gas tank running out. This usually happens when we have visitors so the fact that I have a whole lazy day tomorrow to: haul the tank out, begin in La Pintada because it is closer, check if they have gas, if so check to see if the ATM is working because purchasing that $5.95 refill tank with derail my careful ninety-cents-a-meal budget, if all is good, then go home with the full tank, if not, continue to hot Penonomé and try to get money and gas there. Not so lazy anymore verdad?

But, I am taking the sunny side of life. Look at it this way. The half-cooked, cheese and Doritos macaroni casserole was invented tonight. Albeit out of necessity, but isn't necessity the mother of all invention? Also, I harvested some Chaya, said a prayer to not get cyanite poisoning from it and am gonna slam it down with some ketchup, which thanks god I have already, as a tasty side dish. My entertainment shall be this blog and listening to our neighbors yell at their new puppy. To our immediate hilarity they named is Scott as a tribute to the  little dog that is on the toilet paper rolls, but the real rib-tickler is when they say it. It comes out "ES-CAUGHT." Good thing I love our neighbors dearly and a laugh at their expense is no gran cosa, may they have just as many at our expense.

One more deep reflection and then I will let you get on with your normal web-browsing. "Happiness is only real when shared" is an adage that I came to believe after I became aware of Scott McCandless's story and indeed even more so after my own time of solitude living in a van down by the river. This blog is evidence of that. Know why it's so long and involved? Because Lauren isn't here. It's not that she distracts me, well she does that too and cracks me up constantly, we share this experience on a very deep level. These are all anecdotes from the day that she would, and will when she reads this because I need her help getting photos in it, understand in perfect clarity and fluidity. I wouldn't trade any amount of marbles or gold coins or stocks for her presence in my life. Without our mixed-up Spanglish, inside joke embedded, half ADHD, constant dialogue, I would be a kettle boiling over. This life is crazy, all of it. And the happiness is real because I share it with Lauren Hayes. Love ya babe! Get home soon because my iPod is running out of battery.

Now it's off to tocar guitarra or do the dishes, but probably not, or spend a meandering half hour talking to slightly arrogant campesino dude who always comes by our house awkwardly in the dark about some sort of strange storm happening in the states, ovens and the politics of our damned carretera (this is what ends up happening by the way) or spend some time with James Michener's historical fiction called "Alaska," which is excellent and compelling by the way.

Much love,

Alex