Lesson 2: Hanging out

I just met two great ladies: Milena and Gloria. They're small women, sisters, as one can guess by looking at them. Milena says she's fifty-four, while Gloria claims to be "around sixty," but can't say exactly. The younger sister flashes metal when she smiles, and the older one reveals little more than pink gums -- their teeth have seen better days (although I don't know when, in this sugar-saturated countryside). They have lived in Los Marranitos as long as each can remember, and currently reside nearby each other. Milena lives with her husband and one son; their other children have all moved away, but come back to visit. Gloria lives with her adult son. She is saddened when she thinks of her deceased mother and her daughter, who lives twelve hours away by plade in far-off Austria. The women clearly derive pleasure in each other's company. Gloria helped Milena answer my questions as I recorded census information at the latter's house, and then invited me down to her house for cafe and a visit. I am less surprised each time I enjoy myself over a capacity with some stranger. I am beginning to feel more at home in the houses of Los Marranitos. It's not that I ever disliked accepting the invitations offered to me anytime a woman noticed me strolling by her house, but that I am just now learning what one does once having agreed to stop for awhile. "Entra, entra," I hear as I walk through the community. The voice is usually that of a tired-looking woman, standing in her doorway or leaning on a broom in the front yard of her house. I enter her house, she busies herself with the coffee, and I explore in my mind subjects to chat about. I'm learning not to waste brainpower lining up topics of conversation, though, because the truth is that with regard to life and everyday experiences these woman and I really have very little in common. Women here cook, clean the house, wash infinite amounts of laundry (many times a week), procure food (for which their husbands give them money), make sure the children are looked after and provided for (for which their husbands often do not give them money), manage the family's income and expenses, and, often, work a few days a week -- when work is available -- harvesting coffee or beans. One woman informed me as I was collecting census information that "you want to call Miguel the head of the household because he's the man, but really it's me -- it's me who manages the household!" The woman's work is multiplied by the size of her household, which often includes extended family. Her work is also complicated by whether she can afford a stove and gas, or whether she cooks over a fireplace, a fogon, outside the main house. Most homes in Los Marranitos have running water, but this luxury was only earned a few years ago with the help of two well-loved Peace Corps volunteers. The Peace Corps volunteers were well-loved because they brought water to the town's people, and, moreover, because they shared in community life for two years. I enjoy each visit to someone's house here more as I practice stepping up to the pitcher's mound to lob a question or two, or as many as it takes for my host to swing, to get on base with the conversation. Usually, they can take it from there. It's not a matter of sharing experiences in common but sharing our individual experiences and creating a common consciousness -- what might more simply be called friendship. Just as I don't have to "figure out" how to overcome cultural differences to create honest, sincere friendships with people here, I don't have to figure out what to do with the "free time" that I find in between twice-weekly morning classes and daily afternoon ones. In both cases, I just need to appreciate the existence of the thing that scares me (be it new social situations with unfamiliar context or -- gasp -- time to think). I don't even need to worry about taking advantage of the opportunities offered by these new challenges, but just take them on. I think I can say honestly, now, that this highly motivated, best-when-operating-under-pressure product of America has a new appreciation for "hanging out." Gracias, I might say, a la Virgencita.