Swear-in, Asunción, and Arrival in site!

Part I: Swear-in

On Friday morning, all 46 PCT of training group G-32 got dressed to impress, said goodbye to our host families, and piled into a bus headed for Asunción. We navigated twisted streets to the Peace Corps office in the city center. Before we could enter the compound, the guards had to check the bus for bombs. (To me it seems like they should have checked for bombs before they stuffed us all on board, but maybe that's just me.) Once inside, we dropped off our remaining luggage and underwent another security check. After the security check we were vacuum-packed into another bus, from which nothing was allowed to enter or leave without security clearance, including hands and faces through windows. Leaving the Peace Corps office, the bomb-proof bus drove about 130 meters down the street to the American Embassy, where we were once more checked for bombs.

Stepping off that bus onto the embassy grounds was like finding Narnia in the back of a hot stuffy closet. The embassy is considered American soil, and no expense was spared to differentiate it from its Paraguayan substrate. Ornamental trees, flowers and cacti cast dappled shadows across a precisely manicured lawn, dotted here and there with fountains, statues and swimming pools. Air conditioners whirred in every window while peacocks scrutinized us cooly. At a word from the PC vice-director, we all found a seat on a shady patio set at just such an angle as to catch a slight breeze. Another fountain displaying a collection of painted ceramic frogs murmured lazily nearby. We were briefed on the proper way to greet the American Ambassador, and were ready to begin.

The Madam Ambassador was driven around to the podium from her office just a few meters away, for the sole purpose of making a show of getting out of the shiny, expensive Mercedes-Benz limousine. She sat at a small table with crystal pitchers of ice-water while Don Clark and Jason Cochran, the Director and Vice-director of the Peace Corps, gave short speeches. But when it came time for the Ambassador to speak, she was candid and eloquent, congratulating us once again for having made it this far.

Finally the moment had come. We raised our right hands, and repeated an arcane oath to serve and protect the United States of America (which I found incredibly ironic), and were officially sworn-in as full Peace Corps Volunteers. The ceremony was now closed, and we went to enjoy hours-d'ouvers in a nearby pavilion, but we all anxiously awaited the REAL moment of truth: The Cake.

We had all heard about The Cake. Former and current Volunteers had told us about The Cake. Our language and technical trainers, and even PCD Don Clark himself had been dropping hints about The Cake. This was apparently to be the dessert of a lifetime, the kind of sugary confection you tell your grandchildren about. And then there it was: the swelling mound of The Chocolate-Butter-Creamed-Dulce-de-Leche-Layered-Double-Chocolate Cake. Like the Arc of the Covenant (through slightly less face-melting), it would be impossible to describe this cake adequately. All I can say is that the cake-bar has been set at an Olympic hight.

Part II: Asunción

We returned to the Peace Corps office for some final administrative proceedings, including cell-phone and bank-card dispersal. A flurry of digit-switching later, we loaded up our junk into taxis and buses, and went to settle into our hotel for a weekend of celebratory excess.

You can find it all in Asunción: art galleries, cultural centers and libraries, clubs and fancy restaurants, markets and monuments, parks and parties. Since the motto of PCV-Swearing-In weekend is "what happens in Asunción stays in Asunción," I cannot disseminate the dirty details, but let it be said that it was a good time for everyone. I performed 2 songs another volunteer at the PC-sponsored Ahendu concert, to great peer-acclaim. At the Spanish Cultural Center I strolled an exhibit of art noir and browsed their library. I was even able to visit a music conservatory to mess around on the piano for the first time in months. Over the weekend I also got to know lots of really great people– other current PCV's, random Paraguayans, and several Japanese Volunteers from the Peace Corps' sister-organization in Asia.

On Monday night we had one last G-32 EEE dinner. The fancy restaurant we were planning on going to was closed, so we ended up going around the corner to another not-as-fancy-but-still-nice restaurant that served burgers and pizza. Tuesday finally rolled around, and it was time to say goodbye to each other and head out to our sites. A Paraguayan friend of mine who I had met over the weekend agreed to help a few of us reach the terminal (the Asunción bus-system is byzantine). I boarded the bus to Oviedo, along with another volunteer stationed close by, and off we went, newly minted PCV's racing towards our permanent sites.

Part III: Arrival in site

The bus arrived at the Terminal in Oviedo about three and a half hours later, without incident, and I got off. I had chosen to take ALL my possessions with me, instead of leaving some in long-term storage at the PC office, to be delivered to me in about a month. So now I found myself standing by the side of the highway with an enormous internal-frame pack, a smaller daypack, a bag of extra clothes and objects that wouldn't fit in either, my tereré equipment and my guitar. I knew which collectivo bus would take me to my site, but they are often crowded and I wasn't sure I would even be able to fit all my stuff through the door. I surreptitiously kept and eye on the 3 beige-clad police officers across the lot to my right, and contemplated my next move.

Luckily, just at that moment a taxi pulled up; he had likely been observing me, waiting to see if I was going to climb into another bus, walk, or sit down and wait for someone. None of these being the case, I waved him over and loaded my stuff into the trunk. The 14 km drive to my site cost me $10 – an exorbitant amount by Paraguayan standards – but I was happy to pay for the convenience.

My new host-mom and brother were waiting for me under a tree by the side of the road, drinking terere. They greeted me enthusiastically and tried to carry all of my possessions themselves. I bargained them into letting me carry the lighter backpack and my guitar, while my brother took the heavy pack and my host mom took the lighter bag and t-re equipment. We walked along a shady path of closed vegetation, which made the going cool and pleasant.

At the house I was greeted by my host father, an ancient man who resembles a gnarled old oak tree, but is still athletic enough to tend the fields and chase vagrant farm animals every day. My room was complete empty except for an old gas stove with no tank. I will have to hire a carpenter to make me a bed, a table and a few chairs. (Until then I'm using great-grandfather's old rickety bed, which he built himself in 1920. I think the mattress is original as well.) I got five old crates they had lying around, and made myself some shelves and a nightstand. I arranged my clothes and books, put my guitar in the corner, and relegated the non-functional stove to 'temporary-table' status. My room, if simple, is actually quite comfortable.

The family has been great so far. My host-parents are very kind and like to fret over me. Hopefully that wears off eventually (the fretting, not the kindness), but it's nice to feel cared for. Of the ten children, I have met four. Claudio is perhaps in his late 30's, has a wife and house in the next town, and works here on his father's farm. He gave me a tour of the farm, pointing out different crops, the pests that affect them, and elaborating on the injustices of the international agriculture trade. Roberto, who lives in the room across from mine, is in his late 20's and appears to be quite the lady's man. (He somehow talked me into letting him use my phone to make a booty call... right in front of me. Awkward.) But I've spent the most time so far with my 23-year-old host brother, Juan-Angél, with whom I share a birthday. This afternoon he showed me how to operate their antique washing machine, and I taught him how to make drinking glasses out of old beer/wine bottles. He also wants to help me with my Guaraní, for which I offered him guitar lessons.

The fourth son I met, the eldest, is still a bit of a mystery. I didn't catch his name and he was only here for a very short while. I guess I will find out soon enough though; it's not like I'm pressed for time!

Swear-in weekend was a blast, my room is comfortable and my first impressions with my family are positive. Now it's time to start working. But... what exactly do I DO?