Weeks after my final middle-of-the-night departure from Malingua Pamba, a wayward traveler makes an effort to bring it all back home. Make a little sense of it all, as long as I've got free coffee and free internet access in a nicely painted lobby. I was able to type a little during my last week in Malingua, and those two entries (Monday and Tuesday, April 20 and 21), appear first. Following those entries, I'll rack my brain in an effort to recount my final hours in the Malinguan metropolis and sum it all up. Perhaps poignant, but the reader should expect due sarcasm should she make it that far...
Monday, April 20, 8pm.
The stars are out tonight. Out in the mountains, hours from the nearest grouping of people resembling a city, you´d think the night sky would be blinding every night. Not here. The clouds make sure of that. But tonight, it’s a sky full. The Milky Way, Orion, the southern cross. It’s a whole different sky than what I´m normally used to, but what I´m used to now is not being used to my surroundings. And its all fine.
I have grown quite accustomed to Maria´s soups for breakfast, lunch, and dinner; and I´ve grown to appreciate them as I appreciate the niños that are constantly congregating at my waist. I feel comfortable out here, where it rains every day and I do my business (frequently, today. To be honest) in a wooden box with a bag of straw next to me. Where nothing ever starts on time and my jokes fall on deaf ears. Where no one knows my past. Where I don´t shower or watch TV or read the news or hear the music I want to hear. (Dear Ipod: wherever you are, I miss you.) Where the only walls that aren´t whitewashed or adobe are the ones I myself painted. Where my hands are always cold, my nose is always runny, and my head itches from always wearing a knit hat. Where the only roads to anywhere are mudslides most of the time. Where privacy is almost nonexistent.
The sunset was brilliant tonight. One of those Michelangelo skies. Ryan and I took advantage of a break in the afternoon rain to walk over to Pucará, the section of Malingua Pamba where most of the kids live, to bring a bag of fruit, veggies, and cooking oil to the family that we visited last Thursday. Up there on the hill, in front of their house and next to their field of garlic, the dwelling was poor but the view was rich. I think they knew it, too. The sun sets over mountains on the other side of a deep valley; and from nearly any vantage point, just about every house in the community is visible for miles around, as most of the land is cultivated and nothing is hidden in trees. Any kid can see a friend’s house from his own, see if Juan Carlos is working in the field or loading up his llama with potatoes. I get a real sense of community when everyone is together in a room, and I got a real sense of community yellowed under that big sunset tonight.
Most of the community is in the next room right now, the big room of the two-room high school, as I sit in our “foyer” composing a blog with Ryan´s guitar playing and the laughs and yells from next door as a soundtrack. They are preparing some kind of show for the arrival of Pam Gilbert tomorrow. She´s the reason I´m here, a friend of a family friend who got lost here two years ago, was aided by two local boys, and subsequently became sort of the patron saint of the community. An ever cheerful and excitable retired schoolteacher, her efforts in fundraising and twice-yearly trips to the community built this high school, donated the computer I´m typing on, and continue to provide all kinds of materials for the schools. They make a big deal about the coming of “la Pamelita”, and I´m certainly exited to see what the welcome is all about and to finally meet her in person. From the excited activity next door, I´m expecting a pretty good time.
Yesterday, Sunday, we had a Minga here in Malingua. Around 40 parents and familiars of kids in the school system showed up to work on various projects around the town. They hold Mingas with some frequency, to sow and till communally-owned fields, repair caved in roofs of unfortunate campesinos, or clean up the town. Yesterday, the Minga was organized around a few disparate tasks: A group of women and men moved a ton of earth around the high school to create a drainage ditch and construct a protective berm with various plants for wind protection; some carpenters constructed three tables using the wood and nails that Ryan and I had purchased two weeks ago, and some others painted the inside of the big high school room with the paint we picked up in Latacunga last weekend. I was glad to see our ideas come to fruition.
The sense of community was great, though the progress on the tables and paint job was somewhat frustrating given that those projects were more or less my brainchild, ideas Ryan and I talked about. We had been exited to work on these projects for a while, and were grateful for the help of Paulino and José Sacatoro in buying the raw materials. I was glad we were asked about the painting in the morning, as I was afraid I´d have to sort of butt in on it. It is their school after all, but we bought the paint and I drew up the design.
It wasn´t entirely complicated (certainly not drawn out on a piece of paper), two walls divided equally into four colors, with two more colors used for parallel lines that spanned both walls. Measuring and drawing the lines took a lot longer than anticipated, largely because the “master painters” that had been enlisted to help did not understand the concept. No one understood the concept, even until the end, despite the sketches of how the finished product would look on the markerboard in the front of the room. If Ryan and I had drawn the lines, we could have done it in half the time. Before lunch, we were able to sand down and wash the dirty walls, draw and tape the lines, mix some of the paint with thinner, and begin the painting. Ryan and I broke for lunch, and upon returning (not surprisingly) found that parts of the walls had been painted the wrong color. No matter, we weren´t about to get mad at anyone, though I could see my concept falling by the wayside. Ultimately, it wasn´t perfect (rather, it didn´t look like we had hoped it would look), and Ryan and I both found ourselves frustrated with the mistakes of others – incorrect painting, careless dripping, even failing to heed simple directions, etc. I think we´re both over it now, but it was a lesson in patience. And ultimately, the room looks incredible. A lot happier, a lot more inspiring than the dirty white walls that the kids used to sit in.
(I´m currently composing this blog entry with several Malinguans watching me type - see photos... Ryan playing the guitar, and people wearing ponchos staring at the screen and at my fingers and my face. I´m sure they don´t understand what I write, but they are silent, and at attention. Uncomprehending. It’s a bit unsettling. An extremely unclean mut crept in to sit at my feet. The people who come in and out never close the door. Moths and cold continue to creep in, along with small children.)
I also spent some time with the “master carpenters” who were putting together the tables. They did a fine job, the tables were sturdy and well put together. However, we noted immediately that the tables were of an appropriate size for them. That is, for the carpenters themselves – not for their pint-size children. I wasn´t sure exactly how to tell them that they had simply made the tables too large. Again, they had a problem conceptualizing the finished product, how it would actually work. I think the people here in general simply have less practice in problem solving. Its not that they are incapable of planning and carrying out a plan – just that something they´ve never done before is a tough sell. The Sacatoros managed to unload a couple of hundred pounds of grain, sell it, and buy a weeks worth of provisions in less than an hour at the market last week, but they were unable to purchase wood for three tables in a 3 hour period (we are still missing some wood for benches) or buy replacement plumbing parts for our broken shower in the span of an hour. Ultimately, I think the tables will work, though the benches will also have to be built fairly tall – I envision a lot of little feet hanging a foot off of the floor. They didn´t finish the benches, due to a lack of wood, they said, though I think we´d have had enough if they would have built the tables to size. At one point they were about to saw some of the good wood that we bought during our frustrating 3 hour lumberyard marathon two weeks ago. They needed it, they thought, for a few non-weight bearing stabilizer pieces. Not at all being a master carpenter, I was able to make them understand (with a little effort) that this wood was expensive and sturdy and to be used for benches, and even a branch from a flimsy tree would do an admirable job as a simple stabilizer. I was actually pleased that they didn´t argue with me any, “master carpenters” as they were, though I still found myself mildly irritated that the tables hadn´t been made as I would have had them made. However, when we finally do finish the benches, these children will be a lot more comfortable (and sanitary) eating in their cafeteria than they are now. A profound improvement.
And I´m glad to have worked with the people here, side by side, got my hands dirty (I expect to have blue fingernails until I leave here), and done something that will last, physically. I´m sadly not too sure about the English I´ve struggled to squeeze into those little minds. When I leave, they won´t practice. They won´t have anyone to make they practice, and they won´t have anyone to practice with. I think they will continue with the computer, as they are getting better with word processing and the paint program is helping them understand how to move the mouse and use tools. They´ll certainly use the computer for watching Jackie Chan, though I hope that someone continues to occasionally enforce our rule “this is a school, not a cinema”.
Tuesday, April 21, 9pm
It seems there is another paro here in Cotopaxi province, blockading the roads and preventing Pam from getting into town. All of Malingua is, again, gathered in the room next door to prepare for her arrival.
I’m actually fairly relieved that Pam couldn’t make it today. Why? Well, last night, around 9:15, while writing the above, Ryan and I were invited to participate and observe the “theater” presentation that the community had been working on all night, in preparation for Pam's arrival. We were getting a special sneak peek, so we politely agreed to go check it out. We were in for a long night.
We were given guest of honor seats right in front of the stage, made up of the three big tables constructed at the Minga. We were on display. Again. The first act was two boys dressed up in towels and ropes and white face paint – Mexican clowns. I was actually fairly impressed at how they played off of each other, though I’d have had a lot of tips in terms of staging (this was not my place to assert my theatrical experience…) This act was about 5 minutes, and I expected the presentation to move along accordingly. Nope. The next performance, a saga involving two young lovers who meet on a hill on their way to school and later get married, lasted a good 2 1/2 hours. In the first 15 minutes, I was impressed with Wilian Sacatoro’s semi-improv performance, being only 12 – it was a fairly good bit of situational comedy, with little Wilian aggressively wooing his soon-to-be novia, a girl a foot taller than him. He then proceeded to brashly confront the girl’s parents and get the blessing of his drunken grandfather, eloquently portrayed by Wilian’s brother, 9 year old Patricio. After those 15 minutes, I expected a quick wedding and bedtime. Sadly Mistaken. I tried to put on a happy face through the hours of lack-of-plot, but I’m afraid that some of the locals were on to me. Somewhere between the second and third scripture readings (entirely superfluous) that were part of the wedding ceremony, Guido, a 10 year old in my class, slapped the desk I was leaning on and yelled my name. I started. Too tired to be embarrassed.
(again, several girls from the school are silently watching me type this.)
The play wrapped up, more or less, around 11:30*, and then the dancing started. Dear Me.. Ryan and I were taken out onto what was the dance floor by two local girls from the high school, and we had no idea what to do. Again, On Display. We danced. Or something like it. The music was provided by Lautaro on the snare, Gustavo on the bass drum, and Pedro on the flute, fashioned that night out of a tube found on the nearby construction site. I wouldn’t say that the drummers couldn’t keep a beat, but they certainly weren’t keeping the same one. And while Pedro’s flute was something of virtuosic, I would be hard pressed to call it “musical”. We moved around, though, with everyone looking at us. The longest song of my life. Literally and figuratively. My guess is they “jammed” for about twenty minutes. I thought somewhere during the dancing that I’d done a lot of difficult things here in Malingua Pamba, but those were the most difficult twenty minutes by far.*
Getting to bed hours later, it was difficult to get out of bed this morning. But I was excited for the day’s activity, a hike with the colegio and escuela to a Laguna Quilotoa, a lake set into the crater of a (relatively) nearby volcano. We were to leave by 8, and we were told to be at breakfast at 7:15. Right. After our breakfast (soup) was plopped down at 8 and we finished at 8:15, we were told that everyone was waiting for us. Hmmm. Sorry. They didn’t seem to be at all annoyed, but it was somewhat unsettling - as if it was our fault that they were held up. I felt like they should be used to nothing ever happening on time.
The trip up the volcán was difficult, but satisfying. The niños kicked our ass up the mountain. I felt sorry for myself now and then, I will admit, having gotten to bed late due to the "play" and not knowing where I was headed up the mountain or when we would get there - but it always occured to me that the kids also had been up way past their bedtime (many were sleeping in the desks before the play was over. I viewed them with envy.), and many had to walk a half hour home before getting to bed. I'm sure many also lacked a hearty breakfast. But we all made it up to the top of the crater, the last arriving before noon.
The crater was truly amazing. Turquoise blue water. The color, I thought, of some healing potion you might find in a round glass beaker in a fantasy video game.* It was fantastic, for sure. The walls climbed up from the lake at a steep antle (60º maybe??), and clouds clung to the top of the cliffs. Imagine climbing to the top of a mountain and finding that the top is hollowed out and there is a lake there. I was amazed, and I knew what we were looking for.
Ryan and I opted to stick around the top of the crater while the rest of the group went down to the "beach", a 50 foot stretch of sand along the water. We were planning on staying a short time, lunching on food that others had carried, and then heading back to beat the afternoon rain. The Malinguans had a different idea. They hung around the beach for quite some time, until the clouds began to pour in and dive straight into the middle of the lake around 1pm. The we had lunch, which was quite a trip.
El Tongo - Picnic Lunch at Quilotoa (see photos)
Step 1: lay dirty shawls on wet grass.
Step 2: instruct hungry children to dump their varied edible cargo on said shawls - namely a small mountain of popcorn, boiled potatos (No! You Don't Say!), and very desireable chunks of rubbery cheese
Step 3: mix food around
Step 4: Bow head and listen to stomach grumble as 12 year old thanks the Almighty for the food
Step 5: Dig in. Filthy hands and feet. Please don't push. We're on a cliff, after all.
We didn't start lunch until after 1, which meant we left a while after that. And lo-an-behold, we got caught in the rain. Imagine that! It rained at 2pm today! (It rains at 2pm every day. Without Fail.) The descent back to Malingua wasn't so bad though, and we were much less wet when we got home than I'd anticipated. It was a blast running down the mountain, hopping straight down soft dirt paths, like skiing sort of. Extreme downhill dashing. Or something.
Back home, met with disappointment about the paro, but a nice afternoon nap and some peace and quiet was very welcome indeed.
*11:30pm, roughly 2 and a half hours past our normal bedtime. We were only awake for the start of the play at 9:15 because of the incessant drumming in the "rehearsal room" next to our sleeping quarters.
*(Of dancing being more difficult than anything else.) Earlier in the evening, coming back from Pucará, a farmer who we had visited was on the trail with us, his llama loaded with two heavy bags of potatoes. The llama kept falling and refusing to get up. Ryan and I offered to help, and took turns hauling a very heavy sack of potatoes up a steep, muddy slope in the dark. I’d said the last weekend at the market that I would never stand in front of anyone carrying a sack of potatoes or grain again, and this experience only solidified that sentiment. It was brutal. But I’d rather have been carrying those potatoes up a mountain than attempting to dance at midnight with a bunch of Malinguans staring at me.
*(of healing potions) health +5. Also, the Malinguans did fill up empty 3 liter pop bottles with crater water to carry back home. Apparently the water is a natural medicine for sheep. A few sips of crater water per animal, as a preventative measure.
This part of the blog is called "the rest of the week". This is the part where I talk about events a month after they happened, happenings that must be written down immediately or they will slip from my memory forever. And worse! They would never even have entered your memory at all, since I wouldn't have written them down. Lucky for you, (maybe. maybe unlucky), I'm etching all this into cyberspace to be read by any passerby. Disfruta!
The Wednesday following our jaunt up to Quilotoa, the whole town turned up to prepare for Pam's imminent arrival that afternoon, carrying various food items for the evenings feast. While the males shared bottles of aguardiente and played volleyball, the woman got to work. Fully shawled and excited, they gathered around an enormous water bucket, resembling a kiddie pool, at least 4 feet across, to furiously peel potatos. And these women peel potatos like its their job. (Well, i guess its their job. So really it makes sense. I mean, when you think about it.) Some of these girls don't have the dexterity to double click a mouse button, but they can peel a tiny spud with a dull little knife with truly amazing speed and accuracy.*
The peeled and soaked potatos were divided into several smaller - but still enormous - pans, and cooked over burning wood along with whole fish, onions, tomatos, marroche, samba (a watermelon like fruit used for thickening soups), and other local delights. The concoction, essentially a fish stew made with a little bit of everything, is called a francesca, or something like that. And it was tasty enough for me to ask for seconds. This never happens. I did have to refuse the second course (which included, of course, a mountain of white rice) in order to save room for the sweet rice milk dessert.
Paulino showed up around 2pm without Pam, to the visible disappointment of nearly everyone, but everyone decided that we better eat anyway, so we had ourselves a fine time, feasting and mingling. Well, Ryan and I pretty much feasted. The Malinguans did most of the mingling amongst themselves, although many of them did come up to thank us for our time at the school. Those who hadn't seen the painted school and the tables seemed genuinely happy about the improvements, though most asked when we were going to paint the other two walls of the school room.
Following lunch, Ryan and I were severely dismayed to learn that despite Pam's absence, the kids were still going to perform the theater piece they had planned for her. Upon hearing this truly disasterous news, we immediately decided to get drunk.* We thought we would be subjected to the same theater piece we had suffered through two days prior, and the only way to put up with it would be to quietly laugh to ourselves about our sorry situation with a little chemical stimulation. The brief respite we had locked in our room prior to the performance - constituting the "overture", if you will - was well deserved. And we made the best of it, Ipod rocking, swallowing rum from the bottle and washing it down with filtered water mixed with vitamin-fortafied mandarin orange flavored powder (20 cents for a liter's worth at the market). Ryan put it right shortly after (listen up. here is some wisdom, folks): "It doesn't matter the circumstances, if I've got a good friend, some good music, and a little booze, I'm happy."
Looking back, I think that was a good decision. Although the kids presented a different play with different characters, the central idea still revolved around a drunk in church, and the play lasted roughly 10 times longer than necessary, to the delight of everyone except the caucasion contingent of the audience. I spent most of my time pretending to hold Ryan's hand, watching crazy old Grandma Sacatoro laugh - shaking her neon pink shawl up and down, and thinking about home, vegetables, celestial bodies, macroeconomics, and even a little bit about early hungarian cabinet making. In short, I was not enthralled, and the booze wore off quicker than I would have liked - that is, long before we again had to entertain the locals through our futile attempts to dance to the off-key melodies of the rag-tag Malingua Pamba band. It seemed like the torture ended quicker than monday's disaster, but it could be that I was just more awake this time.
We also cut the dance a bit short to share some post-performance scotch, boxed wine, and beer with some tipsy Malinguans , passing a tin cup around as the rest of the population made their way home. It was truly bohemian, standing in front of our outhouse. I might just as well have been swirling aged brandy in a crystal snifter after an evening of high culture at the Opera Garnier.
On the serious side of things, a few prominent members of the community made brief speeches to open the performance, and they addressed us with sincere thanks and truly heartfelt sentiments, wishing that their children might live a different life than they have. The whole gathering really was centered around the school, showing off the improvements and welcoming Pam, and it is obvious that these people put a lot of emphasis on education where I expect many indigenous communities do not. There aren't many ways out of Malingua Pamba, and education sure seems like the most viable exit. Offers a little more hope than a good potato crop.
Thursday, Ryan and I undertook our final day of teaching together, handling the (colegio) high school in the morning, along with some escuela (elementary school) classes. The situation was made more difficult than normal, as we didn't have access to the school cafeteria building or the elementary school, as the teacher had taken the keys and not come back to town for the entire week. Poor planning. We made the best, teaching outside, and grouping the kids in different parts of the small rooms. José cut the lock on the school building. Brash, I thought, but helpful.
I realized Thursday how much more I liked the little ones than the high schoolers. Many of the high schoolers simply did not want to pay attention (go figure!). Fact is, their 10 year old siblings were much better behaved than they were. And I got quite frustrated with some of the high schoolers, at one point literally screaming the number "751" so that the ones in back would pay attention. They didn't care about numbers, even when we were making fun sentences like "I have 13 girlfriends". I felt like hollering might help get the point across. The jury is still out on that, but I certainly had more fun when I realized that I could do whatever I wanted, screaming included. I let them know that they could feel free to leave if they didn't want to learn. They didn't listen...
That night, Ryan and I hooked up the projector and looked at pictures from our trip together, plastered big and colorful against the dirty white wall in our computer room. Sipped on what was left of our liter of Passport Scotch from the Latacunga bus station weeks prior and reflected. It was quite a trip, ending, more or less, way up there in the middle of nowhere. Kind of helped put it all into perspective, bring it all together.
We also drew dirty pictures on the paint program. Seclusion in the mountains does strange things to people.
Ryan left that night, leaving me all alone for Friday's classes with the escuela. We had a fun day, me and the kids, working on the computer and reading. I'd found a whole box of brand new books stashed in one of our bedrooms. A goldmine that nobody up there had thought to use. Pretty sad. The kids jumped on that box of books like it was full of candy or Jackie Chan DVDs. It was incredible. (They want to learn!) And it was sad. (They don't have any books! And those they have aren't even used!) I read individually with every kid, and was surprised in many cases to see how quickly they could read. They devoured those stories, not even stopping to look at the pictures. Turning pages, reading out loud. All their little voices reciting simple sentences to themselves. It was like the hum of a school cafeteria - only this was learning, not gossip. Again, there were huge differences in aptitude and ability, especially as I was working with ages 7 to 12, more or less, but overall I was impressed. I hope they continue to use the books, even take them home (I'm sure they have no books at home.) Some of those were my favorite books - The Very Hungry Caterpillar, Curious George (the whole series). They had Madeline and The Amazing Bone, even a colorful Disney World Atlas for kids. I wanted to read it all.
That night, Pam ("la Pamelita")did finally arrive (in La Pambita with Paulino), and it was a party. A Malingua Pamba dance party erupted immediately (I sat it out. figured they could stare at a different white person for once), and she presented the things she'd brought with her - prominently a digital camera and a new computer. After a surprisingly quiet dinner, we again were roped into getting down with the house band, though Pam had been through that before, and was skilled in getting a lot of people to dance so as to take the pressure off a bit.
Aaand, packing up for a final time, I woke up at 3am to wait around until 4:30 for Paulino to push off in La Pambita (the old Ford). A few hours, a couple minor brushes with death and some aggressive drunken passengers later, I found myself in Latacunga, reunited once again with Ryancito and that thing we call Civilization.
Ryan and I shared a hearty breakfast with spectacular mango jam before he took off for Quito and left me his hotel room for the rest of the morning. I showered and assured myself that my constitution could stand the bus trip and awaited a call from Paulino, whom I was to assist in purchasing an extra computer monitor for the school - with money from Pam. When he finally rang me (much later than he'd said, but no later than I'd expected), I hustled across town and we bought the monitor in record time. I carried the box the 15 blocks to where la Pambita awaited, already half full of the week's food purchases from the market, ready to drop the monitor and say some goodbyes. José gave a very soft hug - and a little peck on the neck, for good measure, which would have surprised me had Ryan not already told me about his goodbye kiss. I shook hands with the rest of the Malinguans who were helping to load the truck and gave a kiss on the cheek to a couple women who had made the trip. Paulino and I shared a good friendly embrace, a final "adios" and "suerte" (luck), and I walked off down the road away from the Pambita. Half a block away, Paulino yelled, "¡Zackcito!". I turned. "¡Éxito!", he smiled.
Éxito means "success".
*(of superhuman potato-peeling powers )I envision a scene like in Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles II, (The Secret of the Ooze, 1991), where in foot soldier training Kenu has to take bells off of a dummy without making a sound under the cover of a smoke bomb. Rafael helps him, and he strips dozens of bells in complete silence. A smoke bomb and fifteen Malinguans with braided hair, you've got yourself a pretty imposing pile of peeled potatoes. This is the most ridiculous comparison ever.
*(of secret boozing before the play.) Promise you won't judge. If you had to go to war, you'd put on some armor, too.
Retrospectual: Summing it up.
Its all a bit jumbled, the time between first arriving in MP to shake the greased up hands of the Sacatoros (who were changing La Pambita's tires) and gulp down our first sips of indigenous firewater (el aguardiente) and Paulino's final declaration there on a backstreet in Latacunga. Meeting and shaking the grubby little fingers of the wide-eyed and shy schoolkid population (later to become the wide-eyed and friendly to a fault schoolkid population); our first 3am ride down to Latacunga; our milestone fiftieth and hundreth plates of boiled potatoes; now and then getting a point across (finding that some kid "gets it"); waking up cold (every morning). How it all just seemed normal after a little while. How not having hot water wasn't a problem, and inhaling smoke wasn't all that bothersome. Lessons in tolerance, difference, and sameness. Lessons in hygeine, culture, time management, appreciation, communication. beauty.
Apart from that, it was a lesson in friendship. It wouldn't have been the same to be up there on my own, or with someone I didn't like, or with someone who wasn't as hot as Ryan. (seriously. Did I mention?) In fact, the previously described nonideal circumstances of Malingua Pamba living might have been darn close to intolerable without a good riend around. We were a good team, dividing teaching duties, bouncing ideas off each other, working together to pump our daily water supply through the filter-pump, and carrying our must-haves to every meal (he with the toilet paper and me with the pepper in the film cannister given to us by Jake the crazy firefighter in Quito). It was a learning experience for the both of us, and I think we went about it with the right attitude: we were well aware of our shortcomings and conscious of being mostly unprepared for Malingua; were were open to whatever might happen; we were both manly enough to tolerate (dare I say enjoy) being filthy, and there to give support and sympathy during the rough spots; and - most importantly - we did everything with a sense of humor.
Its not so bad to be miserable if you can make jokes about it. We developed an entertaining tongue-and-cheek mode of communication (in English) for commenting on the every day goings-on in Malingua:
"Dude, you’re not gonna believe this. It’s pouring outside."
"Hey, have you noticed?? Everyone seems to be staring at us."
"Get this! We’re having potato soup for dinner!"
"I can’t believe our dinner’s not ready when they said it was gonna be. What the hell?"
In the end, its still all about the people. I met a lot of new ones, and grew closer to one I already knew. If I'm with good people, it doesn't seem to matter how dirty or tired or frustrated I am, or the volume of snot I produce daily. I was accepted and treated like family from the moment I arrived. I was a stranger - and I felt strange, all the time - but I never felt like I wasn't in the right place. The kids were beautiful, really. Seems theres no stimulant like a dirty little smile. I felt like what I was doing was worthwhile, and I think the people around me did, too. Also, I'm a godfather of an old flatbead truck, so thats pretty sweet, too.
