Yesterday Megon and I celebrated Winter Solstice from afar in our new site. One of Alaska’s most sacred of holidays, Solstice is celebrated for two reasons: it’s the shortest day of the year and every day after it equals more and more sunlight.
Isolina has three boys: Carlos (19), Diego (16), and Juan (13). The three of them are hosting a party today at our house. Yes, Wednesday’s an odd day to have a party, but there is a reason. The family has fresh meat on the table, and I’m not talking about Megon and me.
But to the people in the tiny neighborhood of Otoya, Winter Solstice has absolutely no significance. (Note: Technically, according to Peace Corps, we live in La Rambla. But if you want to get real technical, we live in Otoya, a cluster of about two dozen houses in the country.) This year’s Winter Solstice was by far the most unique Megon and I have experienced.
We wore shorts, T-shirts, flip-flops and caught ourselves about to complain about the heat until we remembered where we were this time last year. We were in Kenai, celebrating Solstice on the frozen beach of Cook Inlet, wearing our warmest clothing we owned. We froze our tails off in 10-below zero temperatures while standing next to a campfire with Megon’s family and friends, watching fireworks and drinking hot beverages.
This year’s Winter Solstice will always be one to remember – and not because we wore shorts and T-shirts. Today was our first official day living at our new site. We spent the vast majority of the day at home, unpacking and organizing our things, hanging out with our host family, and catching up on some pleasure reading we missed during training. After breakfast, we did some exploring and took an hour walk around the neighborhood. Keep in mind that even though I call it a “neighborhood,” it’s really just a few dirt roads with houses every now and then. We introduced ourselves to one guy who didn’t say much and said “Hola” to a few more.
Our first impulse is to stop every person we see and introduce ourselves, but that’s not how things work around here. Life moves a little slower than normal. Our plan is to spend the first week walking the roads and making ourselves known. People will get curious and ask questions like, “Who are those two gringos? What are they doing here? Are they missionaries? Or did Uncle Sam send them?”
Eventually, Megon and I will bake some cookies or brownies (okay, Megon will bake, I’ll just lick the bowl), and search the neighborhood for houses with open doors. An open door here means the people living there are involved in the community. A closed door means the people aren’t involved. Our door, thankfully, is always open. Everyone in Otoya and La Rambla knows our host mom, Isolina. She is a prominent figure in the community and has already recruited eight people to attend English classes we plan to start next month.
Isolina has three boys: Carlos (19), Diego (16), and Juan (13). The three of them are hosting a party today at our house. Yes, Wednesday’s an odd day to have a party, but there is a reason. The family has fresh meat on the table, and I’m not talking about Megon and me. Incase you missed our first blog describing our home in La Rambla, we live on a lecherìa, or milking farm. Our family has roughly 80 heads, ranging from jerseys to Holsteins to Shorthorns. All but one are female. We learned today that whenever one of the ladies gives birth to a macho, or male cow, it means only one thing: dinner.
Carlos invited me to the slaughtering yesterday afternoon. He told me he’d come get me when it was time, but he never came. At first, I thought I had made my first cultural faux pas, but in reality it wasn’t a big deal. I made up for it two times: once by helping the boys ordeñar (milk) and pasture the herd in the afternoon; and twice by eating more meat than anyone else tonight at dinner. My belly had never been so happy on Winter Solstice.
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