Word of the Day

In an effort to help others keep up with the Spanish language, let me share with you the word we looked up today.

Esposa
Def: Spouse. Wife. Handcuffs.

Esposar (the verb from which "esposa" is derived):
Def: To shackle

Coincidence? You decide.

Business 101

Lesson #1: Your time IS worth money. And that money is more than just 50 cents an hour.

Lesson #2: Cheaper is not better. Cheaper will not necessarily make you more money. If you make one cent per sale, you will have to make 100 sales to make a dollar (or a Bolivano, in this case). You will then be able to buy one whole egg.

Lesson #3: If you learn a skill, if you work in skilled trades, your time is worth more than what a maid makes. Punto. End of story.

Lesson #4: Just because one frugal tourist said your soap is too expensive does not mean you have to lower the price. Remember the other 100 who bought that soap at list price and didn’t say a word?

Lesson #5: Value yourself. Value your time. Value your product. You have a right to try to make a living. You’re not here to do everyone a favor and give away your goods. Your work is worth money, so charge for it.

I’ve moved on to working with a women’s group. ASOPEC, they call themselves. It’s a group of women who got together to produce ecologically friendly goods. They sell organic food products such as yogurt, peanut butter, and tofu, all made by hand and from all-natural sources. They also sell other handmade products including shampoo, soap, candles, and articles of clothing. They have all the training to make the products, but are missing the skills to actually sell them for a profit. Hence, Tammy Truong, micro-business expert, was invited to help out with classes.

I now teach computer classes to women, some of whom just recently received electricity in their homes and are now taking huge strides into the modern world and touching a mouse for the very first time. When I tire of reminding them how to use the backspace and enter buttons, we move on to the business consulting part of the day.

I love it. Well honestly, at first I hated it, mostly because I suck at teaching and after 3 weeks of classes and ladies still didn’t understand how to use the space bar, my patience ran thin. However, they’re getting more used to me and I more used to them. I must admit that one of the biggest appeals to working with this women’s group is right there in that phrase. Women. Women don’t hit on me. I can’t even begin to explain how big that is.

Women are also teachable. Women want to learn new skills. Women shape the household and are the biggest factor in a successful future for the next generation. They’ve done many studies on this. If you want to have an impact on a community, you have to work with the women. Men make more money and men then spend it on more alcohol. Women make money and invest it in the family. I know I am generalizing a bit and there are certainly examples to the contrary, but like I say, there are studies to back me up on this one.

One thing you notice in a male-dominated macho society is that women severely lack self-confidence. This results in many of them being super shy as I saw with the entire group. I found out though that they are actually really sweet and a lot of fun once you can get them to come out of their shells. Being that most of the women in the group are of indigenous descent, I accomplished this one day by word vomiting in Quechua. If you don’t know what a word vomit is, it’s saying every word you know in a language. For example, a typical English word vomit looks like this. “Hello-how-are-you-I-love-you-see-you-later-yes-no-one-two-three.” I get these from time to time. I also get Japanese word vomits and then Chinese ones as well, to which I respond with a blank stare until the person sheepishly looks away or asks me if I am indeed from Japan.

Anyhow, I have successfully word vomited Quechua twice, and twice I have effectively utilized it as a tool to make friends (and gain a certain superstar standing, because how many times have you seen an Asian Gringa speaking Spanish and then doing a beautiful transition into an ancient Incan language?)

But back to the lesson at hand. I was trying to convince the ladies that their work was worth money. I tried to put a price on what an hour of work was worth, and we went around in circles on this one. First we tried to estimate with minimum wage. (No one really knew what it was). Then we used the salary of a maid as a guideline (5 Bs/hr). Then I tried saying that the average wage in the community was 1900 Bs. a month (or just under 12 Bs/hr. That’s what I make. Exchange rate is about 7.2 Bs per dollar). Then we figured out what a skilled trade made (10 Bs/hr).

The ladies decided among themselves that they were worth a maid’s salary, or 5 Bs/hr. I kinda had a problem with this. These women have been trained, they have spent endless hours learning how to make new products and producing things that the average Joe, or in this case, the average maid, could not produce, and here they were saying that they shouldn’t be paid any more. So I asked them, “Why do government workers make more? Why do people with a degree make more? Are they actually working more hours, or are they getting paid more per hour? Why would people go to school to come out and make the same salary as before? Why did I spend 4 years going to college? Why do people invest time in learning new and useful skills?” And finally, “IF YOU GUYS SPENT SO MUCH TIME LEARNING NEW SKILLS, WHY THE HECK DON’T YOU CHARGE FOR IT???”

And somewhere in there, a light came on. One woman looks at me and says, “I get it! You went to school because with an education you are worth more! When you learn new skills your work is worth more!” And she was so giddy with excitement and says, “Oh my goodness, I never understood that before. Now it is so clear. I need to charge for my work and I think I am worth 10 Bs. an hour.”

Thank you. Thank you God that I am able to teach someone something. I have now validated my existence here in Samaipata. For awhile I was worried. The weight has now been lifted off my shoulders. Whew.

Q: How Many Peace Corps Volunteers Does it Take to Unclog a Toilet?

A: Three. One guilty party (male) to flush twice and then close the lid, declaring the toilet clogged. One volunteer (male) to open the lid and verify. And one volunteer (female) who finally gets fed up and convinces the boys to pour some dish soap into the toilet to break up the clog.

One flush, one overflow, and several spritzes of Axe Body Spray later, the problem has been solved. Who needs a toilet plunger when you´ve got a girl in the house?

Breaking down gender stereotypes, one clogged toilet at a time.

If You Would Like to Make a Call, Please Hang Up and Try Again

Due to high volume of unwanted calls from unknown numbers and unidentified individuals, I have now changed my cell phone number. Please send an email to truong.tammy@gmail.com if you want it!

I love Bolivia and Bolivia loves me! Cool Runnings!!!!!!!

There are good days and there are bad days, but overall I think Bolivia and I have finally come to terms with each other. What a relief.

When I first got to Bolivia I used to have this recurring dream. It was in the US before I had received my invitation to serve in Peace Corps. I would be dreaming about shopping at Target or eating out with friends and contemplating the perfect Peace Corps country when suddenly I would wake up and find myself inside my mosquito net. I’d have that moment where you feel lost and have no idea where you are, and then I’d realize that I had actually already started service and I was in Bolivia. I’d get panicky and feel really claustrophobic. When I remembered these dreams during waking hours the same thing would happen and I wanted to be home again so badly, even if for just five minutes.

The dreams happened a lot during training and then more sporadically once I got in site. Then I dreamed the same thing after May 4th passed and we didn’t go home, despite all the dire predictions of how the country would fall apart and that we’d be evacuated. The idea that I would get to be back in the States had been planted in my subconscious and then it didn’t happen. I don’t know exactly if I was disappointed or relieved, but the following week was one of the worst in-country. I missed my family, I missed my friends, and all the little things about Bolivia that used to only annoy me I began to loathe.

I would sit in my room and go from laughing out loud to myself to bursting into tears. By myself. I talked to myself. I sang to myself. I tried to think of happy times, and then that would only depress me more. I began to plan a vacation back to the States even though I had never thought I would return during the two years. Needless to say, I was a little worried about my mental health and sanity.

Fortunately I had friends to distract me during the days. The nights were a little long, and they still can be. But last week I had a major breakthrough. I had the dream again. I was in the U.S. and this time I was riding in the car with a friend. We were driving on the highway. In the last 10 months I think I have hit 40 mph in a vehicle one time, and that was terrifyingly fast. In my dream we were flying at 70 mph and I was certain we were going to crash. Before it could happen though, I woke up with a start. Heart pounding, trying to figure out what was going on, I woke up and opened my eyes and saw that awful green mosquito net.

But this time all I could think was, “THANK GOD I AM IN BOLIVIA!!!”

Who Loves Me???

My brother does! And because he misses me so much he decided to jump on his motorcycle to come visit. From Lafayette, Indiana to Samaipata, Bolivia in 3 months, más o menos.

Watch his progress and follow the madness here:

http://www.whcaware.com/blog/

Too Pretty to Camp

Lovin’ life. That’s what it’s about. Just lovin’ life.

School, check. College, check. Money for food, check. Money to travel, check. Kids and husband, no check. Perfect…

Ok, so after May 4th passed very much like Y2K, with tons of build-up but then no blow-out, I have now allowed myself to believe that I will actually serve out my service right here in Bolivia. It was very much a tentative process before, starting projects I wasn’t sure I’d be around to work on, trying to grow roots but feeling like I could be ripped away at any moment. It’s been so much better now that I feel like I will be here awhile. Who knows if it’s true, but I need the feeling of stability at least.

So here I am, livin’ the dream, as we volunteers are fond of saying. Livin’ the dream.

Life has never been more confusing, contradicting, challenging, and bizarre yet breathtaking, surprising, and wonderful at the same time.

Take last weekend. I woke up with no plans on Friday morning. On Friday night I find myself with a group of volunteers enjoying a delicious steak dinner (very rare on my salary), and then later at a karaoke bar helping out a friend in a very off-key rendition of “Hero” by Mariah Carey. Luckily I am an expert at this song since my sister and I grew up practicing Mariah throughout our childhood.

Then I’m invited to go camping by a bunch of boys the next day, and after verifying several times that it was not just a boys-night-out, (and after recruiting my best girlfriend to come with), I track down a sleeping bag and a tent to borrow from some friends, we go get “provisions”, and we’re set to go.

Who knew that in the same day we would film scenes from Braveheart, find out I am strangely attracted to men galloping on horseback, and then go on a hike that turns into a photo shoot for a friend’s new beautiful white Siberian husky pup.

Ok, quick question. Let’s just see how Peace Corps minded you are. When I said I had to “track down a sleeping bag and a tent to borrow from some friends,” what was your reaction? Did you keep reading to see what nutty story I had to tell next, or did you completely stop, do a double take, and ask yourself, “Did Tammy just mess up speaking English again? Or did she just say she doesn’t have a sleeping bag and tent? Like the most fundamental Peace Corps gear, right next to Chaco sandals?”

Well folks, you heard it right. I don’t have a tent or a sleeping bag. In fact, before I came to the Peace Corps I hated camping. I did it once with my brother and in five days I didn’t get a wink of sleep because I was so cold despite the sleeping bag and six layers of clothing. Add to that the fact that there was only one port-a-pot with a perpetual line of at least 20 people outside, and the fact that I get stage fright, and we’ll suffice to say that by the time I got home after five days my brother was seriously concerned that my lack of bowel movements had surely poisoned my body and I would be in the hospital soon.

Accordingly, when I was invited to camp I certainly thought about turning down the offer. But the question these days is not “Why?” but “Why not?” So, why not go camping?

What I love about my Peace Corps friends is that we totally accept the fact that we are from different worlds in the US. The closest female volunteer to me actually is from the Twin Cities, and we joke that we never would have been friends if we had met back home. She is horrified by the fact that I had no idea how to spend a $150 REI gift certificate (REI is the outdoor lover’s paradise) and I am equally baffled by the fact that she hates clubbing (How can anyone hate blaring music and dancing??)

So yes, I was teased a little for not being a camper. But I can hang. I carved my own roasting stick. I cooked my own sausage over the campfire, and I only had to wipe it off a little from bumping it into all the ash a few too many times. I ate my own slightly burned marshmallows until I found a guy who was willing to roast perfect melt-in-your-mouth marshmallows for me, probably cause he thought I was cute. (I’ve learned, after all, that when living in a macho society, you just gotta work what your mama gave ya. It is especially useful when hitch-hiking).

After having dinner around the campfire (which amounted to only snausages and hot dogs since some animals took off with all the bread while we were hiking), chillin’ and listening to music, spitting pure alcohol and making the fire explode, and then a shockingly amazing group performance of “Regulators” a capella, I retired to the tent and settled down on the ground with my down jacket on top of four layers plus some thermal underwear.

I was totally making progress and gaining respect as a camper. I won a few points for knowing how to pitch a tent. And then for helping one of the guys pitch his tent, a brand new fella that we christened “The Beemer,” because as far as tents go, it was pretty fancy. I finally was able to ignore the cold in my body and fell asleep to a symphony of “Peace Corps Boys Hacking Wood with their Machete, Just Because They Can.” I was doing so well playing the part of a camper up until my tentmate entered, woke me up, and asked me how I was doing. From somewhere in my sleepy haze I jokingly mumbled, “I’m freezing, parts of my body are numb, and I’m laying on a rock. I think I’m too pretty to camp.”

And so after all the work and all the progress, in a moment of weakness when my mouth ran without being attached to my brain, that is what they take away from Tammy’s camping experience. She’s too pretty to camp.

Well, I’ll show them. There’s this major solstice camping event coming up in two weeks. And I’m doing it. Cause if there’s one thing I know, and if there’s one thing that Peace Corps has taught me, it’s that I am NOT too pretty to camp.

Autonomía Carajo Truong

Autonomía ¨Mia¨ Carajo Truong, 7 weeks

Former Samaipata puppy died in the mountains of the Andes on Thursday, May 29, 2008. She was 7 weeks old.

Mia was adopted on May 9, 2008, by Peace Corps Volunteer Tammy Truong to save her from strangulation by an owner looking to be free of unwanted puppies.

During her time here on this earth, Mia delighted her new mother by balancing on puffy slippers, getting lost between people´s feet, learning to use books as stairs, and running just as fast as her little toothpick legs would allow her as she followed her beloved Volunteer up the block.

She is survived by her mother Tammy Truong of Samaipata, Bolivia, and her grandparents Thuc Truong and Le Nguyen of Kokomo, Indiana, USA, who will all dearly miss watching her eat their lovingly prepared chicken rice soup in between forced feedings of mashed papaya from a syringe to help clean out her little co the (body). Little Mia was preceded in death by her brother who also was unable to survive the harsh conditions away from his birth mother’s bosom at such an early age.

Services were held on a dreary morning in front of the Bella Vista Hostel as Mia´s body was laid to rest amid the Andes with a hand-carved headstone and flowers placed at her gravesite.