What is my Job?

I've been thinking a lot these days about jobs. I currently have one, thankfully, but I'm looking for another one, and trying to figure out what kind of job I want. I find the most difficult aspect of this is sifting through and reconciling "The Way Life Is Supposed To Go" with "What I Want." These two things, I'm realizing, may not overlap so much. Twenty-eight years of subtle and explicit cultural and societal messages about ambition, success, career, education, etc. have become a mountain atop the latter, which I am now trying to unearth, slowly but surely.

I read something today that helps. It's by Jon Kabat-Zinn, a Buddhist teacher who wrote the book Wherever You Go, There You Are. I read one short chapter every morning before meditating. It is an excellent and accessible guide to meditation and mindful living. The passage I read this morning is called, "What is My Job on the Planet with a Capital J?" I want to share a small part of it:

Rarely do we question and then contemplate with determination what our hearts are calling us to do and to be. I like to frame such efforts in question form: "What is my job on the planet with a capital J?", or, "What do I care about so much that I would pay to do it?" If I ask such a question and I don't come up with an answer, other than, "I don't know," then I just keep asking the question. If you start reflecting on such questions when you're in your twenties, by the time you are thirty-five or forty, or fifty or sixty, the inquiry itself may have led you a few places that you would not have gone had you merely followed mainstream conventions, or your parents' expectations for you, or even worse, your own unexamined self-limiting beliefs and expectations.

...[Asking this question] may not mean that you will change what you do, but it may mean that you may want to change how you see it or hold it, and perhaps how you do it. Once the universe is your employer, very interesting things start to happen, even if someone else is cutting your paycheck.

Kabat-Zinn also talks about Buckminster Fuller in this chapter, and about how, from the depths of depression, Fuller decided to live his life from then on as if he were an employee of the universe, basing his actions on the question, "What is it on this planet that needs doing that I know something about, that probably won't happen unless I take responsibility for it?" He says that Fuller also liked to point out that, for the honey bee, it's all about the honey, but in its pursuit of honey, it becomes nature's (or the universe's) pollinator.*

It's still not easy to figure out whether I want to be a farmer, a baker, a social worker, or something else entirely, but it's reassuring to know that no matter what job I find myself doing, if I approach it right, it will be my Job.

*from Kabat-Zinn, Jon. Wherever You Go, There You Are. New York: Hyperion, 1994.

The Power of Vulnerability

I've known about TEDTalks for a while, but I've only recently started watching them regularly. Here's one of the many reasons why. Posting on my blog makes me feel vulnerable.

Muddy Boots and Cacao Fruits

Back in February, on the farm, I met Jose, the Ecuadorian boyfriend of a fellow volunteer, who was volunteering for the month at the farm next door. Soon after she arrived, she offered the rest of us some chocolate, which was an amazing treat, and then told us that Jose’s grandparents had made it from their own cacao fruit, and I was completely in love. After meeting Jose and talking to him a little more about this delicious family business, I asked if I could go and visit. He enthusiastically agreed, and Ecuador was officially added to my itinerary.

The first week and a half in Ecuador were spectacular. Though I’d been to the country twice before, I had seen very little of it, and this time, I was absolutely taken in by all of it: by the green, patchwork rolling hills of the sierras, the misty, fog-shrouded windy mountain roads, the Quichua-speaking, chestnut-skinned Indians of the highlands with their peacock-feathered porkpie hats, and the country’s fondness for my favorite flavor combo: red onion, tomato, cilantro, lime juice, and salt.

Making my way up the center of the country from the south, I was headed to Quito to head off for a tour of the rainforest in the northeast for a few days, after which I planned to try to meet up with Jose’s family and visit their cacao plantation. In typical Sarah fashion, I was really just making it up as I went along, so when I arrived in Quito on a Sunday, I was ready to leave on my jungle tour the following day, and hadn't been in touch with Jose's family at all yet. Having not had an internet connection for the past several days, I was surprised to find in my inbox an email Jose had sent that day, saying that his grandparents, brother and sister were heading to the cacao plantation on the coast the very next morning, and it would be great if I could go with them.

Serendipity. I immediately changed the date for my jungle tour, called Jose's brother Juancho and made arrangements to have them pick me up the next morning and head for the coast. It was a somewhat frenzied hour or so of plan-changing and plan-making, and only afterward did I have a chance to think, with a stomach-butterfly of apprehension, that I was about to tag along on the family vacation of complete strangers, and hope that we all hit it off!

I need not have been worried. Grandpa and Grandma, Pepo and Lili, treated me like one of their own nietas, or grandchildren. Jose's sister Vale was about the most mature fifteen year-old I’ve met; she and I chatted throughout the eight hour drive to the coast. 20 year-old Juancho, his friend Kika, Vale and I spent countless hours that week laughing and storytelling.

The places we visited that week were like settings from a Gabriel Garcia Marquez novel. Sade, the tiny, remote jungle town where the family had a cabin and a cacao and palm plantation, was our first destination. After an eight hour drive north from Quito, taking us across the equator, through mist-shrouded highlands and countless one road tropical villages, their inhabitants gathered around open-air pool tables. Barefooted girls sold tube-like plastic bags of mandarines and juicing oranges to passing motorists. Finally we turned off the paved highway and drove a bumpy hour on a rutted muddy road, which took us past ramshackle cabins on stilts and soldier-like rows of oil palms. A tiny ferry carried us and our loaded down 4x4 pickup truck across a slow brown river, and a nausea-inducing hour later, we arrived at the family's neat little cabin.

The next morning after breakfast, the “kids,” Vicente, and Pepo set off for the hour and a half hike to the cacao plantation. We had stopped on the way to buy me some rubber boots, and within fifteen minutes of walking, I could see why they were the footwear of choice in these parts. We slogged uphill through slippery red mud, pausing occasionally to examine highways of leafcutter ants, giant, iridescent bugs, and tiny frogs, until finally we reached the cabin of the plantation manager at the base of the cacao fields. Vicente led us further uphill, past a stream and through a grove of short, big-leaved trees, their branches dripping with what looked like giant, wine-colored ears of corn, the cacao fruit. He used his machete to remove the thick outer skin, and we passed around the oblong fruit, sucking the juice from the tart, soft, white-skinned flesh around each seed. I never would have guessed that this could be turned into the rich chocolate bar I’d tasted at the farm back in February!



That evening, after hosing down our muddy boots and showering, I went with Pepo and Lilia quarter mile up the road to the school they had helped to build for the local children. Working with a Jesuit organization called Fe y Alegria (Faith and Happiness), Pepo had helped organize the creation of a boarding school for the forty or so students who previously had been walking up to two hours each way for school. Night was falling, and children of all ages played outside on the soccer field, and inside a brightly lit multi-purpose room. On our way home, the young school director and his smiling wife stopped their motorbike to catch up with Pepo, whom everyone in the village greeted as “Ingeniero” or “Engineer.” It was clear from these interactions that “Ingeniero” was a well-loved member of the Sade community.

The following day, Wednesday, we loaded the pickup again and set off for Las Peñas, a beach town four hours away where Pepo and Lili owned a small hotel. On the way, we unexpectedly found ourselves behind a small town parade. Children dressed in traditional afro-Ecuadorian costumes, indigenous costumes, as well as clowns, cheerleaders, drag queens, and…buses. We never quite figured out the occasion for the festivities, but it made for a highly entertaining diversion.



The next few days were spent at Las Peñas, a beautiful coastal village lined with small, thatch-roofed restaurants and simple beachfront hotels. It was a picturesque spot, but despite the warm, sunny weather, we saw not a single tourist while we were there. A few years ago, a band of suspected Colombian paramilitaries had passed through, turning what had been a growing beach destination into the ghost town it is today. Pepo and Lili's small hotel was closed, but Jorge, the hotel caretaker, and his family, were living there and cooked delicious meals for us, including empanadas de verde (plantain), shrimp ceviche, and langostinas, the mini-lobsters that are the primary commodity for the locals, now that tourism has died.



We spent our days there swimming in the calm, shallow Pacific waters, playing hopscotch on the beach, and exploring the nearby coastal caves. On a walk down the road to one of the few functioning, but empty, hotels to use their swimming pool, we passed a small, half-built brick and cinderblock house, nearly hidden by vegetation. Lili told us that the owner had driven from Esmeraldas on the weekends to work on his dream, building by hand what would become a vacation cabin for his family. After six years of work, however, he abandoned the project suddenly, leaving it nearly completed. No one knew why.

The abandoned house was just one of countless characters that littered the balmy north coast. I imagined that he had discovered that his wife was having an affair, and, heartbroken, had given up the dream of a cottage by the beach. Or maybe he stopped coming after the tragic death of a child. That week, my imagination ran wild with stories inspired by this rich and exotic setting and its characters.

The family trip with the Merlos was a highlight of my year. I returned to Quito incredibly grateful to this generous family for letting a random gringa tag along and making her feel like one of the family. It confirmed my suspicion that the best way to travel is by connecting with local people, putting down the Lonely Planet, and taking advantage of unexpected opportunities. And it kindled new friendships that will surely endure far beyond borders and time zones.

Reasons to Love Buenos Aires

I'm fully recovered from my initial city-shock now and soaking in the advantages of urban life, but one discomforting aspect of the city that I noticed upon returning here a few weeks ago, and which I still struggle with, is the overwhelming presence of consumerism. I spent days holed up in my friend Andres's apartment, where I was staying, because, it seemed, to go outside meant to spend money. Of course, this isn't necessarily true, but after spending so much time on the farm, where I was only in the vicinity of commercial institutions once a week or less, and then in nomad mode, where purchases meant a heavier backpack, I found myself suddenly stable, and in the midst of seemingly endless opportunities for consumption. Not only that, but I also was reminded of how easily I fall under the spell of the wizards of retail. These days, my purchases are mostly of the edible variety, as I'm still trying to avoid collecting things which I'll need to find space for in my backpack someday soon. I frequently find, upon arriving home, that I have several bags of various food items hanging from my wrists. This discovery is somehow always surprising.

So in an attempt to overcome the temptation to buy, I set off the other day on a long walk, with the explicit intention to purchase nothing. With the Japanese Garden, several blocks to the north, in mind as my destination (I never did make it there), I went in search of those features of this city that define and enhance it.

I didn't have to look too hard. As I made my way north, through the neighborhoods of Almagro, Villa Crespo, and Palermo, I found Buenos Aires charm on nearly every corner. Here are the fruits of my latest afternoon stroll, and a few of the things that, for this girl, make this city special:

1) Free flowers! Okay, so technically this one involves consumption, but since there's no monetary transaction, let's let it slide. I had only walked a few blocks when I came to the "flower district," an intersection lined with flower shops, which I had passed before, and marvelled at, but which this time offered an important new discovery, which I think has changed my life here. Though it was the middle of the day, boxes of discarded flower bouquets and plant arrangement lined the streets and bordered the dumpsters. I'd been tempted by these flower stalls before, but, unable to reconcile a frivolous purchase of fleeting beauty with the nagging knowledge of the realities of the cut flower industry (pesticides, poor working conditions, etc.) in countries not so far away, I'd until now gone flowerless. Free, dumpster-bound flowers, however, posed less of an ethical hurdle, and so I rescued a still-beautiful bouquet of multi-colored daisies, which spent the day with me, riding around in my backpack (and are still, two days later, brightening up my room in yellow jug by the bed). Though surely not a feature unique to Buenos Aires, this floral free-for-all is a huge discovery--I have already started walking out of my way to pass by, and last night put together another bouquet to give to a friend I was meeting.







2) Old stuff: Cobblestone streets, antique subway cars, antique shops, old cars, nineteenth century architecture--history is everywhere in this city. Not just in the cute, touristy, historic neighborhoods like San Telmo, but all over the city. Cobblestones abound, peaking out here and there from under asphalt caps, or just as often, on proud display for blocks and blocks, in curved, fanning patterns or straightforward rows. Grand, ornate buildings with cornices and gargoyles and large wooden-shuttered windows provide a visual feast, and, though I didn't take it on this particular day, when I'm lucky I get to rest on the wooden benches of the 1920s-era cars of the A-line of the Subte (subway). These still-functioning relics make the city's distant past seem not so far off.




3) Street art: Again, all over the place. Vibrant, wacky creatures, political murals, artistic graffiti tags--they're everywhere, making a walk through the city like navigating a huge, labyrinthine art gallery.



4) Used books: Okay, so another questionable inclusion in this supposedly non-commercial list, but they're used, which in my mind is different, and I have somehow successfully resisted purchasing even a single one. There are rows of stalls lining Parque Centenario, where I go running each day, filling up a pocket of Parque Rivadavia, five blocks west of me, and along a median on Avenida Santa Fe, in Palermo, among other places, I'm sure. Though I haven't been buying books, I love browsing, and the very presence of so many yellowed, crinkly pages all over the place is reassuring.



5) Verdulerias: Fruits and vegetables are so much more alive when displayed on street corners in stacks of rainbow-hued crates. These I do purchase from, daily even, but also find it a soul-warming pleasure to walk by and absorb the vibrant energy of so much fresh produce.


6) Balcones y Terrazas: Especially after being a New Yorker for five years, I have a keen appreciation for the urban 'backyard' known as the balcony. While apartment searching a few weeks ago, it was all I could do not to exclaim out loud in excitement upon being shown the terrace, rooftop, or balcony. Only after visiting four or five apartments, all of which had one or more of these, that I realized that what in my city is practically an urban myth, is considered to be a human right here in Buenos Aires.

Each day I find new things to add to this list. I haven't completely cured my consumption blues, but at least, moving around with an eye out for the subtle beauty Buenos Aires has to offer, I've managed to hold on to a few more pesos.

Ghosts of Buenos Aires

I'm just recently emerging from a funk that I fell into upon returning to Buenos Aires. Last Sunday, after several days of drifting, unsure whether I was staying or leaving, and unable to muster enthusiasm about the many and various wonders of this city, unable to even call forth the excitement and pleasure I had so recently and consistently felt for travel, for adventure, for being abroad, I finally, mercifully, snapped out of it.

I had been staying for a few days with my friend Kenyon, in the charming barrio of San Telmo, and decided last Sunday, after spending way too much time inside watching movies, to get outside and see what there was to see. Right outside her building is a lively weekly craft fair, a dangerous spot to be living. I hadn't meant to seek solace in retail, but before I knew it, I had found a pair of handmade leather sandals that I couldn't resist, even though the temperatures around here continue to drop as winter sets in (I justified the purchase with visions of my upcoming trip to Colombia in August). I made a brief attempt to enter the madness of the Bicentennial events, set up along a closed-off avenue not too far away, but was immediately traumatized by the rushing current of stroller-pushing parents and their flag-toting children, and extracted myself as quickly as I entered.

I headed back to San Telmo, and by that time it had started to rain--the first real rain since I had arrived in Buenos Aires two weeks earlier. People out "paseando" took cover under awnings, umbrellas, and newspapers, and I was grateful to duck into the indoor antique market and wait out the storm digging for treasures and souvenirs. I began asking around for yerba tins, something like this to bring home as a souvenir, but I was soon sidetracked by a stall with two huge crates of old black and white photographs.

Forty-five minutes later, my hands full of other people's precious, faded memories, I was utterly transfixed. Unable to part with any of the gems that I had found, I finally pried myself away, and ended up spending as much on the photos as I had on the sandals. The images are incredible: Grandma crouching next to four little ones--all in bathing suits, sun-bronzed, squinting against the bright beach sun; two smiling women in the backseat of a twenties-era convertible, their male companion, seemingly oblivious to the camera, taking a swig from a bottle.



And my favorite: five well-dressed young folks, in their teens and young twenties, probably siblings, posing for a portrait. Each is looking in a different direction, and smirking in unavoidable delight at a shared private joke. The photo was taken probably seventy years ago, their hairstyles antiquated and their clothing old-fashioned, yet I couldn't help but smirk back, in knowing recognition of such a timeless game.



I found so many that called to me, for reasons both obvious and mysterious. The shopkeeper, a middle-aged woman who readily agreeing with me about the power and beauty of these simple snapshots, gave me a discount, and despite the fact that I still paid the equivalent of two nights at a hostel, the treasure was well worth it.



When I left the market, night had fallen and the rain was letting up. I found a nearby cafe, and over my beer and salad, sifted through the photos again, a smile lighting on my face as I studied each one. Beaches, vacations, car trips, family portraits--such typical subjects and settings, yet there was something inexplicably special about these images. Somehow, inexplicably, time-traveling to another time, to the Buenos Aires of unknown ghosts, the fog lifted, and life was good again.

Turning Argentine

One of the few drawbacks to my charmed life here is that, as a WWOOFer, my fellow volunteers and companions are uniformly English-speaking foreigners like me. I’ve had great luck and met some wonderful (mostly) girls since I’ve been here, but what’s been missing from the equation is the Argentine element. We spend a lot of time with Cynthia and her family, and speak Spanish during the time we’re together, but for the rest of the time, English dominates. I haven’t minded this too much, as I feel like my Spanish has improved a ton since I arrived in Argentina, and I feel really good about my fluency at this point, but I do feel like I’ve learned more Cynthia-isms than Argentine “modismos” or slang.

Until now. Two weeks ago, Federico arrived. I was the only volunteer here for a few days, and took advantage of the opportunity to get in some solo weaving and bread-making time, and wasn’t expecting anyone new until at least the following Monday. “A boy from Buenos Aires called last night, and he’s coming today at midday,” Cynthia told me Friday morning, as we were feeding the animals and cleaning the barn. She was excited about having an Argentine volunteer for the first time. A few days later, Maria Luz, another “Portena” or Buenos Aires resident, arrived, and my immersion deepened even further. “We’re going to Argentinize you, Sarita,“ Cynthia told me.

For the first time since I’d been here, I was the only gringa around. Daily life has changed in subtle ways, and I’ve realized how comfortable I was within my little cocoon of extranjeras. Instead of the communal, ubiquitous pot of oatmeal for breakfast each morning, I make my own portion with my black tea and milk, while Fede and Maria Luz eat their bread and pass mate (mah-tay). The never-ending list of possible empanada fillings that had been a constant topic of conversation among my fellow gringas since I arrived back in November petered out,. And for the first time in months, I felt like my Spanish got worse.

Spending time with two Argentine young people, I realized, is different than spending time with Cynthia. Cynthia is used to speaking to non-native speakers with various levels of Spanish proficiency; she speaks slowly, and with a minimum of slang. Maria Luz and Fede do not. I’ve found myself asking, “Que significa?” or “Que quiere decir…?” not once a day, as I had been previously, but nearly in every conversation. It’s been challenging, being thrust into this state of immersion. I’m more tentative in my speech, often following a sentence with a self-conscious, “Would you say it like that?” It’s made me feel much farther from the fluency I’ve been working towards, and at times, it’s brought up a frustration I recall clearly from my semester abroad in Chile, but which I thought I’d passed at this point.

Taking a step back, I know that all of these feelings of inadequacy are signs of growth. My Spanish has not gotten worse, it’s just that, for the first time since my first weeks in Argentina, I’m learning a lot each day. In addition, it’s made me realize just how foreign I am, and just how tight was the cocoon I had been living in, in the formerly American-dominated Casita. Fede and Maria Luz have brought me down to earth from my food-obsessed La-la Land. Fede’s vege-anarchist philosophizing includes plans to travel for three to five years, working his way around organic farms in exchange for food and lodging, and learning first-hand, while also studying from the impressive library of books he’s carting around. His hope is to eventually teach campesinos how to produce their food sustainably and self-sufficiently. Meanwhile, he entertains the rest of us with inventive and no-holds-barred culinary creations, heavily based in rice, polenta, lentils, and whatever happens to be in the Casita (hot chocolate polenta?) and random vulgar exclamations using the few English words he knows. Maria Luz, on the other hand, is using the last weeks of summer vacation from her university studies in Biochemistry to be here and learn about gardening and cheese making. Having gone to a bilingual school her whole life, her English is impeccable, but she does her best not to use it, for our sake (a week ago, an American friend I met in Buenos Aires in November arrived, so the balance has shifted a bit).

Walking back to the Casita from Cynthia’s the other evening, I could smell something delicious in the works as I approached. I walked in to find Fede frying up ‘tortas fritas,’ a typical Argentine snack, and Maria Luz preparing to make a tarta de verduras for dinner. I had a mate in my hand even before I could sit down. Six months into my life here, I'm finally starting to become un poco Argentine.