Sitting, Waiting, Wishing

Day in the Life of an APD in Coclé: I spent...oh, about 17 hours "just sitting waiting," a la Jack Johnson, today. Now don't get me wrong, there was no real wishing involved, except that the waiting please end!

Our 2 Dominican Volunteers and 49 of our 50 U.S. Volunteers arrived in two separate flights yesterday. Unfortunately, that 1 missing Volunteer means that I had to take a third trip to the airport today. I saw off the Volunteers this morning to go to the briefing site with my fabulous Project Supervisors, while I waited around in Panama City to pick up the last Volunteer. 

While waiting, Tony, our Dominican "Promotor de Liderazgo Juvenil," or Youth Leadership Promotor, and I went on a very important mission: to extend his tourist visa so he could finish up his summer with AMIGOS. As a Promotor, Tony supports our Guna and Dominican Volunteers, cultivates youth leadership in the communities, and expands opportunities for youth engagement, all as an unpaid volunteer for our staff. His visa only lasts until July 1st, so we went to extend it until August 17th, when the project ends. 

8:30 AM - Tony and I arrive at the Migration Office in Panama City, Panama. We take a number for tourist visa renewals - Q101. Not too bad, they called us up around 9:30. At this point, we had to present various very important, very detailed, yet somehow not very official-looking documents. The application for visa renewal was from 2008 and, even though I brought a typed copy in which
I dutifully changed the date to 2012, the lady at the desk insisted on only accepting the handwritten, four-years-expired document. Odd for Panama, the king of bureaucracy. We also had to present proof of financial stability, various letters of reference, and copies of his passport and ID. This is where we apparently messed up big time. It isn't enough to bring a copy of the main page of your passport, you know, the important part with the picture and passport and expiration date. No, Panama needs you to provide a full photocopy of each and every page of your passport, down to the blank, untouched pages at the end. Once we returned with all of the documents, we thought we were golden, we thought we were the most awesome people in the world, and we knew we'd make it on time to the airport to pick up that poor Volunteer that missed her flight the day before...no.

11:00 AM - The Migration Office informs Tony and I that we needed to register him with the Office before we solicited a visa extension. This requires, she tells us, that you go upstairs and pick up another number, this time for "registro." They reside at another desk in the same building. 

Okay, fine, if you insist. 

B-207. Currently, the B screen is flashing an astonishing "B-115."

Ma'am, any idea how far off this number is? 

About 3 or 4 hours. 

Why the migration officials did not tell me beforehand that we needed to register with the Migration Service before soliciting a visa extension, so I could have facilitated both processes simultaneously, I will never understand.

You really should know our rules and protocol before you work with us, jóven.

I hate when they call me jóven.

I leave Tony there to wait while I pick up the Volunteer at the airport, hoping that everything will be sorted out when I get back. Buh no.

12:00 PM - After a $25 taxi to the airport, I stand in the waiting room outside customs. Her flight is delayed so I distract myself with a strawberry soda. Mmm. Finally, she arrives! All of our Volunteers are in country! Now it's time for a $28 taxi back to the Migration Office (yes, that airport taxi ripped me off).

1:30 PM - We join Tony to wait. When we arrive, the registration desk has seen a startling total of 5 people since I left over two hours ago. "B-120." This might take awhile...Exhausted, I squeeze in a short yet quite efficient nap. Okay, not so short, but I'm tired, OK?

3:20 PM - I awaken to a conversation next to me about how bureaucratic Panama is. Yes. Even Panamanians think so. A man kindly offers me his ticket, saying he's had enough. B-191. We're moving up in the world. Unfortunately, the registration desk is not. The screen currently flashes "B-129." Hmm, perhaps that is because they have one person attending all the 300 that are waiting in line to register. We wait a little longer. "B-130." "B-131." "B-132." "B-133." 

I am starting to get a little bit worried that maybe we aren't going to get out of here. Ever. I decide to make a visit to the administration desk, fully preparing myself for some serious red tape. 

Ma'am, do you know how long the office will be attending clients today? I have about 60 people still ahead of me, and I know they close the doors at 3.

They will see that everyone that got numbers today gets served, even if it's at 8 o'clock tonight. 

Hmm, well I just don't know what to do! I have been here for hours, and I really can't stay another night in the City. 

It will go a lot faster, jóven, because people have started to get fed up and leave.

Yes, this is true. You're catching on to the ridiculousness of this process.

Unfortunately, I have to leave to Penonomé as soon as possible (a two hour bus ride away from Panama City). I am in charge of a sixteen-year-old girl and we can't travel at night. Do you have any advice for me?

      Without smiling, she hands me a ticket.

Someone just left this with me. Bring your old one back to me.

It says, "B-135."

The golden ticket!

By 4:00 PM, we have registered Tony and solicited a visa extension. But guess what? One lucky person gets to come back in 48 hours to pick it up! I know that Tony and I never want to set foot in that waiting room again...

By 5:00 PM, we are sitting yet again - this time on a bus back to Penonomé. Three hours and another expensive taxi ride later, we arrive at the briefing site. 

I thought that I was done with waiting rooms and bureaucracy for the day. But no.

10:30 PM - 1:00 AM was spent in a hospital waiting room with another Volunteer that had to get stitches. Oh the joys of Panamanian public health care. 

When I woke up this morning, I never thought I would spend 17 hours sitting and waiting in 3 waiting rooms, a bus, and about 6 taxis. All is well, but my butt is a little sore!

Banking

So banking in Panama is fun! Our AMIGOS project needs to open a bank account in Panama so we can run our programs through money wired from the US.

You need:

• Several letters of reference from banks in the US and in Panama. These must be signed originals.
• To have life insurance in Panama through the bank itself. Yes, I am the proud owner of life insurance in Panama! We signed lots of forms and even had to name beneficiaries. This means that my brother is now a beneficiary to all of the money in our account if both Ryan (my Project Director) and I die crossing the Panamericana highway.
• Two forms of ID
• The phone numbers and addresses of personal and commercial references in the US and Panama

We are still waiting on one bank reference for Ryan, but by this Saturday we will officially (cross your fingers!) have a Panamanian bank account. Yahoo! First task, down. 

En route to Panamá

Hello loyal followers, however few you may be.

I have been re-inspired to continue this old blog, Aventuras, by my most recent blog obsession, Gretchen Rubin's Happiness Project. What started out as a paradoxical journey toward both self-improvement and self-acceptance, taking herself seriously and lightening up, being more efficient but also carving out time to wander, play, and simply be, has become a delightful book of the same title that I received as a graduation gift from my aunt. I have found that many of Gretchen's challenges, her daily paradoxes, resonate with me as well.

I am adventurous and free-spirited, yet highly perfectionistic and against wasting time.

I travel the world, yet I am a serious homebody.

I hate clutter, yet I despise throwing or giving away my possessions.

I have a desire to "Be Sarah" and accept myself, but I want to perfect my nature.

I want to live fully "in the moment," yet I unwantingly stress about the future.

Gretchen decides to spend an entire year trying to learn how to be "happier." To live in the moment, to appreciate the small things, and to not let her life pass by unnoticed. Each month, she dedicates herself to a new set of resolutions, and tries to achieve them cumulatively so that by December she is perfectly following all of them. Among the twelve themes are "Be serious about play," "Lighten up," "Remember Love," "Contemplate the Heavens," and "Keep a Contented Heart." In the month of February, "Remember Love," she writes about her marriage, attempting to follow such lofty resolutions as "Don't expect praise or appreciation," "quit nagging," and "fight right." I love Gretchen's honesty and humor as she is tackling the everyday reality of both improving and accepting her own nature. It's a great read!

So, as I read this happiness project of Gretchen's, I will be posting bits and pieces of my own, as well as recounting my many Panamanian adventures to come. Boarding the plane in Houston now!

Semana Santa in Sevilla

"Semana Santa" is Spanish for Holy Week, one of the two main festivals that happens in the spring in Sevilla. Semana Santa is a very interesting phenomenon in this city, something one would never see in a US city. There are 52 "hermandades," or brotherhoods, in the city of Sevilla, each of which has their own chapel that houses their own virgin. Some of the brotherhoods have existed since the 1200s, so there is a lot of tradition involved.

One certain tradition, which surged during the Baroque period when public religiosity emerged as a societal concept, is the set of processions of Semana Santa in which each brotherhood shows off their own virgin. Each of the 52 brotherhoods has two "pasos," or floats, one of a Christ figure and one of their particular virgin. The members of the brotherhood are called "nazarenos." During Holy Week, the nazarenos from each and every brotherhood march from their chapel to the main cathedral holding each of their two pasos, enters the cathedral, exits the cathedral, and recess back to their home temple. Depending on where the chapels are located in the city, this procession can take between seven and fourteen hours!

Each of the brotherhoods has their own set of traditional religious wear, which they wear during the procession. They dress in robes and "capirotes," which are tall, pointed hats that cover all of the face except for the eyes, and each brotherhood has their own color combination.

People come from all over Europe to see the processions of Semana Santa in Sevilla, and each city in Spain celebrates it their own way. But in Sevilla, it is such a big festival that people say that the majority of Sevilla's gross annual income from tourism comes from just this week (and the other spring festival in two weeks). It is nearly impossible to walk around the city due to the amount of people - in fact, I tried getting somewhere that usually takes me 10-15 minutes and it took me over an hour! The windy, skinny streets that make Sevilla famous really make it difficult this time of year - and with people pushing you from all sides, all trying to get somewhere different to see one of the dozens of pasos happening at any given time, whooo....it's a whirlwind.

As I watched the pasos, I was filled with a mixed feeling, trying to keep an open mind. It is actually quite a strange sight to see, as America's own KKK has stolen the style of robes and headpieces, taking the religious symbolism to a whole new level. Growing up in America, I am hardwired to see people dressed in hoods with eyeslits and think "white supremacy" or "Death Eaters" (I know, I know!), but here, it is a perfectly normal religious symbol that has been part of Sevilla's religious tradition for centuries. Regardless, I was really interested by how people reacted to it, and it was amazing to see that the tradition is preserved to this day and holds such high importance in the city. It was also amazing when, amongst hundreds of people watching a given paso, complete silence ensued, only to break into a rumbling of talking and clapping as soon as the paso had passed. Overall a very interesting, at times creepy, but amazing experience. Take a look at some of my favorite photos:

A paso of a virgin entering the cathedral.

A Christ and Virgin Mary figure up close.

A good example of a paso, holding a Biblical scene.

Another paso on the main avenue in front of the cathedral.

A candle-lit paso at night.

A paso on the main avenue.

Quite ironic, I think.

....

One of my favorites, of a child waving in his robes as he passes.

Nazarenos holding the cross.

spanish food creations

as part of my deep and important study of spanish food, i do get to cook it sometimes instead of just eat it. a couple of weeks ago, our interest group on spanish gastronomy journeyed to the barrio of nervión and had a very prestigious and important spanish chef as a cooking teacher. coincidentally, she also happened to be the mother of the group leader, maria.

there we were, holed up in her tiny kitchen, all ready to get our hands dirty! but, as a true spanish senora would do, she immediately took full of her kitchen. "maria hates that i don't let the kids cook, i mean it is supposed to be a cooking class, but whatever i don't care what she says, it's my kitchen, and i will do as i please." we laughed and sat back to relax. our only labor the whole hour was peeling potatoes, but as soon as i finished she said, "ok now, chica, go wash your hands, because you won't be doing anything else!" while we watched, she produced a delicious tortilla espanola, an egg and cheese omelet, sometimes with onions, but never with cheese. i actually asked her, do you ever put cheese or sausage or anything else in your tortilla? no, why would i do that. my food is good, has always been good, and will always be good. i love the integrity with which spaniards eat, even if it makes them a little less adventurous. the other plate is picadillo, a salad of tomatoes, peppers, tomatoes, tuna, and a lot of olive oil, as always.

good thing i was taking good notes while she cooked, because i was able to produce a perfect tortilla espanola last saturday night for my host parents in honor of father's day.



first phase: peel and cut tomatoes. done. then i fried the potatoes in olive oil and mixed them in with the egg (below), from which i made an omelet and flipped it myself!


they insisted that i cut the tortilla. we had a wonderful time eating tortilla, drinking cruzcampo, and watching the real madrid vs. atlético madrid soccer game, making for a great saturday night with the family. i spend time in the kitchen nowadays observing what my host-mom does, so hopefully i will come home with some good recipes.

can you see Africa? 'cause I can.

it is a rainy monday afternoon, and i should be studying for midterms. instead, i am writing to tell you all that i have successfully crossed the strait of gibraltar into morocco - and returned! due to the horrific weather on friday, our party of three was delayed many hours in crossing by ferry. alas, we spent the afternoon getting acquainted with yet another incredible spanish pueblo: tarifa, the bridge between europe and africa that divides the mediterranean from the atlantic. the city occupies a strategic place in a legendary zone, the "pillars of hercules", once thought to be the end of the world by the sailors of antiquity. for this reason, it was inhabited from prehistoric times to the present by phoenicians, romans, muslims and christians. in fact, tarifa was where the first arab, a berber named tarif, touched the soil of the peninsula, the chief of an incursion in the early 700s. to pass the time, we visited a fortress built in 960 A.D. by abd al-rahman III, the first caliph of the peninsula.

we also practiced our archery in the castle,

went to the beach,


adopted a dog we promptly christened mercadona,

watched as people appreciated the wind that had canceled our ferry,

exercised,

and looked yearningly at our destination.

if you look closely, at the horizon the houses of a moroccan town are visible. on a clear day, you can see the entire coastline, and on a clear night you can even see the car lights.

once in tangiers, the port city in morocco where we spent two nights, we realized that it was exactly the same - spain is clearly visible from the main city plaza, and european soil is only 14 kilometers away. this experience of seeing europe so close yet so far away was especially relevant for me, as i have been studying african immigration to spain. while we spent 45 minutes on a ferry that cost us under $30, crossing the strait in a small cayuco raft costs over 1000 euro and has a death rate of over 1/50. thousands of people have drowned in the strait, a chilling fact we could not ignore while we crossed.

tangier is the paramount of european domination, as it has been occupied by the spanish, portuguese, french and english its entire existence, only having gained its independence a mere 55 years ago. as such, there is at least one neighborhood dedicated to each of these colonial influences - we passed through the spanish, french and english neighborhoods, as well as one called "barrio california," to my severe embarrassment. another result of the european domination is that practically everyone knows more than one language, something that americans could definitely improve at. arab is the native language, with french being taught in schools at a young age. spanish, however, is the language of the street in northern morocco, and we met only one person that did not speak spanish. quite a few street vendors we met knew english as well. one showed us his artwork, which depicted "democracy coming slowly to morocco on a bicycle", which was particularly timely in light of the dozens of moroccan protesters that were injured in a manifestation in casablanca on sunday, four days after king muhomed VI promised constitutional reforms.

another surprising discovery was that, through the multicultural influence in tangier, there are several widely practiced religions - in fact, there are two synagogues and several cathedrals. the largest cathedral is on the same block as the main mosque, as seen on the right. the many traces of european colonization left in this city are undeniable, culminating in fascinating a cultural, linguistic and architectural mix that i feel fortunate to have seen, as it widened my perspective on the diversity found within the arab world. when we went to assilah on saturday, a small fishing town on the atlantic side, we were fortunate to hear the afternoon call to prayer to the mosque, and hundreds of people flocked to the mosque as we sipped our moroccan tea.

we had very good experiences with the people, and were fortunate to have met many helpful people that spoke to us in both english and spanish. the most impactful cultural difference for angela and i was that, as women, we would not have been able to travel freely with peace of mind. we were very thankful to have kurt along with us, and all three of us were very careful, always returning to the hotel soon after dark. there were never many women out after dark, and those that were we had been told were "women of the night," as no decent muslim woman would be seen in the street at night. as we passed the tea rooms, there were often forty or fifty middle-aged men watching soccer, an environment that none of us had a desire to enter. even during the day, all women were accompanied by other women or by their husbands, and the sunday morning soccer game we witnessed on the beach included a total of zero young women. i left morocco grateful that i live in a country in which i am free to live independent of other people and free to go where i wish.

on sunday we made the journey back to sevilla, tired and deservedly feeling, hardly believing it was true, as if we had crossed continents. we have many fond memories of morocco, a country in which pizza hut with a sign in arabic exists beside a kebab stand, a cathedral stands next to a mosque, veiled women walk in high heels, baroque architecture adorns the shopping center beside islamic-style arches, and the mixture of old and new, traditional and modern, make it what it is. we witnessed that culture can change vastly within a mere 9-mile boat ride.

the dinner table

i am burning the midnight oil. literally. it's past midnight, and i have just finished dinner with my host parents. yes, we eat at 10pm - sometimes 10:30 - and yes, sometimes we sit there talking and debating until the wee hours of the morning until my host mother begins the half hour process of cutting off her husband so the neighbors can sleep. themes range from politics to religion, two topics usually taboo at the american dinner table, and tonight's special was the power of the media in forming public opinion, with a commentary on the current revolutions happening in the middle east.

i find it fascinating that much of the revolution has been organized by well-prepared and urbanized youth that have traveled outside of their countries, know how the world is outside, and returned with liberal ideas, expressing their desire to experience a moment of peace in their homecountry. the push for self-government is something we take for granted every day, but we must think about how many free countries have begun in revolution, including ours. my immigration professor, a journalist for a renowned spanish newspaper, told us many stories today from when he spent two months traveling around the middle east a few years back, writing about how the common people experience dictatorship, war and extremism. it is easy to forget that people, although they see bombings on their street every day, are trying to just live a normal life. for example, he met a female journalist, who spent time working for the washington post in baghdad, that had received so many death threats by saddam hussein that she had given up writing and become a travel agent. two other young iraqi men went to study engineering in turkey, and when they returned realized that their country had been living under a dictatorship since before they were born.

i have been taking advantage of how direct spaniards tend to be and making sure to ask lots of questions about life during franco's reign, the dictator of spain from 1939 until his death in 1975, when my host mother remembers not only not being allowed to vote, but also not permitted to leave the house after 10pm. other laws controlling public behavior prohibited meetings of more than four people in an effort to discourage rebellion, the public display of affection, and the right of women to divorce their husbands (although men could divorce their wives). apart from that, thousands of homosexuals, intellectuals, and other left-leaning individuals were assassinated.

the years since 1975 have brought a democratic constitution, the right to vote for women, the equality of men and women, and the separation of church and state. spain has advanced from an isolated country with high levels of illiteracy and victim to the backward ideas of a cruel dictator to one of the most popular destinations in europe in a mere 35 years. today, sevilla is a lively and environmentally-savvy city, as it was the first city in spain to adopt the green bike system. nevertheless, sevillanos continue to talk themselves down. my host parents always make reference to the north of spain as the richer and more educated part of spain, painting the south to be poor and lazy. but, they say, all the workers in barcelona are from andalucía (the province of which Sevilla is the capital). they also insist that america is 25 years ahead of them, citing reasons like paper bags, which have been in american movies for 20 years and are just appearing in spanish stores as an alternative to plastic. however, this movement is simultaneous to a new law that incentivizes the use of reusable fabric grocery bags, something that is popular among young people in the US but not legislated.

another aspect in which sevillanos are self-degrading, and i have noticed this more than ever during dinner conversations, is linguistically. the spanish of andalucía is very difficult to understand because it is not pronounced how it is written, as many consonants are cut out and words shortened. people in the south always say things like "we talk badly," "why are you learning spanish here," and "why don't you go to salamanca, where they speak 'pure' spanish?" well what the heck is pure spanish? the prejudice against their own mode of speaking is fascinating to me.

i must sleep now, considering i have a paper to write tomorrow morning. i set out to write about food at the dinner table, and instead i spat this out. i guess you can expect something else on food sometime soon!