Paraguay: 200 Years of Movement Under the Cover of Darkness: Independence at Day Break

There is a saying in Guarani which states that “only the stars and the poor move at night.” Far removed from the rest of the world in the heart of the South America, Paraguay offers ample room to journey across both its expansive night sky and through its open countryside. With 200 years of independence, Paraguayans have had an equal amount of time to take this journey on their own accord. As the sun rises on the dawn of May 15, 2011 —the date of the Paraguayan Bicentennial — curtailing the mobility of the celestial and the penurious alike, it will illuminate an enigmatic country and complex culture shrouded in a simple agrarian way of life. This project reflects upon how Paraguayans, a people of deep indigenous roots permeated by modernity, articulate and celebrate their own identity and independence. It examines what Paraguayans choose to include and honor as part of their national character while at the same time exploring what Paraguayans are reticent to recall, recognize, and redress. Neither the Guarani Indians nor the present day Paraguayans have left much in the way of physical testament —no ancient ruins or modern urban metropolises— to a great civilization. Instead, throughout history the strength of Paraguay has been its people, its language and its culture. This holds true today as Paraguay prepares for its bicentennial celebration. This project asks where do the Paraguayans find themselves 200 years on and where do they see themselves heading.

Daybreak in the Paraguayan countryside is a busy time. As the first rays of sunlight make their way through the cracks of clapboard houses to the dirt floors and soot stained kitchens, they are met with the rising smoke of rekindled open-hearth fires. Having drank their mate –a traditional hot tea infusion of water and yerba mate leaves— together in the predawn darkness, Paraguayan women busy themselves preparing the day’s first meal while the Paraguayan farmers –men of all generations— grab their hoes and machetes and head toward the field. Breakfast, simple tortillas of fried dough and boiled mandioca, will come later, wrapped in cloth and brought out by a child before he makes his way to school.

This scene is as accurate a portrayal of Paraguayan agrarian life in 2011, as it was centuries earlier in both 1911 and 1811. To be sure, radios, cell phones and motor cycles have been added to the morning routine over the last 200 years, yet living under straw roofs, cooking over open wood fires and scratching out a living with manual farming techniques still remain staple characteristics of rural life. Much has changed, really come and gone, in Paraguay throughout two centuries of independence –an early period of prosperous, self imposed economic self reliance, a devastating ten year war against Brazil, Argentina and Uruguay, a national railroad system, a Pyrrhic victory over Bolivia in the Chaco War, the 54 year Alfredo Stroessner dictatorship, rapid exploitation of natural resources, the start of a fledgling democracy and most recently, the hand over of power from the Colorado Party to the Liberal Party after 61 years of single party rule. However, for many Paraguayans living in the countryside, much more has remained relatively unchanged.

At the country’s cultural heart is the indigenous language Guarani. Although banned under the Stronata –the period of Alfredo Stroessner’s dictatorial rule – but now recognized by the 1992 Paraguayan Constitution as an official language, Guarani prevails as Paraguayans’ most amaranthine and identifying characteristic. Spoken as a first language by over 90% of Paraguay’s six million strong population, the Guarani language determines the cadence and rhythm of Paraguayan life. The Guarani name for the language itself, avane’e, can be effectively translated as the people’s language. While in comparison, the Guarani name for the Spanish language, karaine’e, translates to the man’s language. This semantic distinction poignantly demonstrates just how fundamentally Paraguayans identity as individuals, a community and now as a nation with their native language. More fittingly, Paraguayan campesinos capture this same sentiment in contemporary conversation. “Why speak Spanish,” they quip, “When all the good conversations are in Guarani.”

Mingled together, the sunlight and smoke of the early morning kitchen scene represent the competing hope and hindrance of independence in rural Paraguay. Throughout the generations, although Paraguayans may have enjoyed 200 years of independence, they have also endured 200 years of subsistence. According to World Bank statistics (2009), Paraguay’s per capita gross national income (GNI) is $2270 and 20.5% of the Paraguayan population lives below the national poverty line. The overwhelming majority of these poor Paraguayans live in the countryside and rely on small scale farming to subsist. By definition, in a subsistence farming existence no one goes hungry. On the contrary there is always just enough food to go around. This however is a specious and over simplified statement of affairs. Although easily defined, the term subsistence farming lacks the details to truly understand and empathize with the gravity of its meaning. “Just enough” must be met three times a day, indefinitely: where a belly is full but not satiated. The term also belies the immense humanness of the situation. Even the remote fear that there will not be enough to eat puts tremendous psychological pressure on a person and their household. By no means do people starve in Paraguay. With good soil, favorable weather and hard work Paraguayans can produce enough to eat. There is however, in many rural communities, an acutely felt reality of chronic hunger.

As the vitality of a new dawn wears on into the heat of midday; then fades into twilight and exhaustion as the sun sets once more beyond the horizon, the stars and the poor return to trace their midnight arc across the darkened sky. Thus, although Paraguayans have a culture and language uniquely their own, Paraguay remains a country characterized by the enervating routine of subsistence living. For most Paraguayans it has been a hand-to-mouth existence for nearly a dozen generations. Thus, Paraguayan’s gnawing sense of physical hunger reflects not merely a lack of production potential but a desire to have their voices heard and the hunger to truly exercise their independence earned two centuries ago.

ORIENTEERING ORIENTATION

It is the early 15th century. The august figure of Prince Henry the Navigator of Portugal stands silently on the shores of the Algarve Coast. With scores of cartographers at his employ and shipwrights at his command, he is caught in the final moment of reflection which immediately precedes action. The cliffs fall away to the ocean beneath him. His gaze remains transfixed on the ships out to sea. Caravels –ships of his own design— bob rhythmically in line awaiting their instructions. Shallow keeled and equipped with lateen sails, these newly constructed vessels possess the ability to sail into the wind.

Over the next century, these ships will venture far down the African coast and eventually out across the Atlantic. With expectations high, Prince Henry raises his hand and grants permission to set sail on the journeys that will redefine the world.

The sextant, celestial navigation, even the ability to fix longitude and without question a system of global positioning all will come later, much later. Equipped with only an intrepid spirit of exploration and the art of dead reckoning, these Portuguese explorers must place their trust in a compass –an instrument crafted centuries before by the Chinese— to find their way there and back.

Fast forward five hundred years and modern urban explorers tend to whip out a smart phone and effortlessly lock in their GPS coordinates. A simple “Get Directions” click and they are on their way, weaving through cross town traffic, down the shoots of the NY C subway system and springing up once more in parts unknown.

Transporting themselves to and fro from one side of the metropolis to the other, most New York City inhabitants no longer give much thought to the hows of their navigational prowess. Instead, when the delightful British accented voice speaks up with timely advice to turn right, these stylish denizens of urban living follow suit without question or concern.
Much akin to the University’s storied past however; New School Recreation travels countercurrent.

On Sunday afternoon, with cell phones silenced and ‘smartness’ returned to the naturally endowed variety an unassuming band of students traveled to Muttontown, Long Island to test their navigational skills. A straight shot out the Long Island Expressway, Muttontown, the name itself a holdover from the colonial era of exploration, was site to the Long Island Orienteering Club’s Orienteering Meet.

Under a canopy of sun struck yellow leaves dappled with flares of red and strokes of orange, the New School students learn to orient a map and read a compass. Working in teams of two, each student is tasked with finding a series of orienteering controls --kite like objects hidden in the wood—in the shortest time possible. Whether by trail or rough shod through the wilderness terrain, the mission is to seek out and find, to search and discover. Lost. Hidden. A Needle in a hay stack. These are relative terms. Compass in hand, map at the ready, quick wits about them: this first group of New School Orienteerers have become the newest reincarnates of the millennia old tradition of exploration.

Prince Henry the Navigator watches intently until the ships disappear over the horizon line. His expression softens and he permits a smile. There is hope on the horizon.

For us however, as the magnetic pull of the Earth spins the compass needle gently northward and life’s journeys begin to intertwine with its destinations, in which direction does your compass point?

A DANDY OF A DAY HIKE

Sunday, November 7 Bear Mountain State Park

With the sun warm and bright, the air crisp and cold and not a cloud in the sky, New School Recreation struck out for a Sunday afternoon hike.

Hiking on Sunday? Absolutely. Stealing a day back from a weekend shortened by school work; our New School hiking expedition ventured north to Bear Mountain State Park. Fifty miles beyond the city limits along the Palisades Parkway, Bear Mountain State Park commands the high ground above the mighty Hudson River.

Fording streams and navigating boulder fields, we tramped, glided and danced our way under the deciduous canopy caught in its annual moment of autumnal explosion. Reaching the summit of West Mountain, we ran the ridge and drank in the views of the vast expanse of forest cover on fire with autumn’s finest palette strokes, the broad views of the august and meandering Hudson River and in the distance, on the horizon, the great pillars of urban progress: the New York City skyline.

The smell of smoke titillated the nose –conjuring up nostalgic moments of bygone adventures— the late day sun sparkled the eye and the westerly wind chapped the checks. The elements although challenging, created the environment to put a song in our hearts and a smile on our face. Do tell, pray tell? As the clocks roll back and darkness settles in for the long winter months, will you get outside before the last autumn leaf falls to the ground?

The 'GUNKS

Commitment Problems…
"Come Work Them Out With Us”

October 23, 2010: On an exquisite autumn day, alive with the sky’s deep celestial blues and the yellows, oranges and red fires of fall foliage, eight intrepid New School students ventured out to one of the East Coast’s premier climbing meccas, The ‘Gunks, for The New School’s first ever Rock Climbing Trip. A balanced blend of seasoned climbers and some new to the sport, our New School group hooked up with the climbing outfitter, High-Xposure, to began our vertical adventure. Climbing a mix of challenging routes–some over 80 feet tall–each climber tested their physical strength, mental fortitude and commitment to climb.

Learning to read the rock face and trust their fingers as they climbed upward, each climber pushed beyond their comfort zones to reach new heights. From the warmth of mid-morning to the last lingering lights of dusk, we climbed to our hearts’ content.
Returning through undulating corn fields illuminated by the natural glow of a rising moon to the City’s bright lights, our group was tired, but content, challenged but confident.

SEVEN TENTHS

Seven tenths of a mile won’t get you very far. On the border of Rockaway Borough and Rockaway Township however, it will get you around Park Lake. More than just taking you through two adjacent towns that paved seven tenths of a mile brings two communities together.

Constructed in 2001-2002 as a joint project between Rockaway Borough and Rockaway Township and with the support of the Rockaway Rotary Club, the Park Lake pathway is a perfect example of a community service project well planned, well executed and well used.

Pavement by its nature is inert. On its own accord, it doesn’t go anywhere and certainly doesn’t do anything. But pouring seven tenths of a mile of pavement around Park Lake has created something of value that is active and alive.

Towns by definition are communities but as the world has progressed our communities no longer have to be our towns. Moving physically from house to car to work to school and back to house again and now digitally through cellular phones and the Internet, we have the luxury to define community however we want. Our communities could certainly be our next-door neighbors but then again, we aren’t required to know their names.

The Park Lake pathway counters this trend and brings contact back to human connection and interaction. Converting a marginal space, the edge of the lake, into a focal point it allows people to congregate, to walk, to run and to exercise. In doing so, the pathway offers the place and creates the opportunity to share in each other’s daily lives. Effectively, it turns a dead zone between two towns into a cohesive communal hub. All that out of seven tenths of a mile of pavement.

Spring and summer would be the obvious choice to demonstrate how well used Park Lake pathway is. The days are long, the weather agreeable and people tend to be outside. On the contrary, it is the dead of winter which shows the true value of the project. Despite the short days, frigid and otherwise unmerciful weather, people, a dedicated few albeit, still come out to walk, run and enjoy that seven tenths of a mile of pavement. When lampposts were added a few years ago, even darkness could no longer keep people away. In short, the use of Park Lake pathway is not a restricted, seasonal activity but has become part and parcel of daily, community life.

Passing by and counting the number of pedestrians quickly shows the popularity of the path but how can the impact of the Park Lake pathway be quantified? After nearly eight years of existence what is the return on investment?

Although the social benefits of the project cannot be given a dollar amount, current value of the path far exceeds the initial $100,000 cost of construction. Instead the Park Lake pathway can be measured in the number of foot steps taken, laps clocked, dogs walked, conversations had, acquaintances made, friendships created, rekindled and resurrected. It can be calculated in as many heartbeats, exercise routines accomplished and appreciative views of the beauty of our hometown recorded.

The Park Lake pathway is a true community service project success story. With an appropriate amount of infrastructure investment, Rockaway Borough and Rockaway Township have identified and addressed a felt need of the local population. With equal and equitable access for all to its use two towns have created one community.

Community is exactly how we choose to define it, being conscious of this point, lets get out there and walk our seven tenths of a mile of pavement.

The Great Sultan Was Furious

The Great Sultan was furious. Fuming he paced deliberately back and forth across the centuries old mosaic pathway tucked deep within the inner sanctum of his private residency.

Ringing his hands and rubbing his chin as if to wash his frustration away, his body was rigid and his jaw tense.

Although his thoughts were varied and subtle, his emotion rendered his articulation simplistic, almost elementary.

“There was No Time. No Time At All,” he stammered.
Talking to himself as he had long since silenced and dismissed his closest and most trusted advisors. But he was desirous to reprimand the world, the forces of present circumstance, this newfound reality in which he had found himself. He was determined to be heard.

His steps along the pathway became more deliberate and volatile with each passing moment. Every motion a jab or a kick at an unforeseen enemy either past or present.

“No time,” he snarled with increasing volume and conviction.

The impeccably manicured courtyard said nothing in response. The tiles of the great mosaic held their ground beneath his feet and kept their silence.

The Chamber of Council as the courtyard had come to be known in backroom parlance had witnessed this spectacle before. The arguments and events forever remained the same: obtuse and oblivious to the tides of power. Only the main character changed. The perceived lead role. The so-called head of state, ruler of unforeseen horizons. The true political marionette if the truth be told. The one destined, doomed, to pace the mosaic maze.

And change, change he did. Swifter than one would think.

“No Time!” the Great Sultan erupted. The echo of his words reverberated through the covered colonnade. “No time to marshal the forces, recoup the advantage, to mount a counter attack…” his words trailed off. But thoughts of an emperor, well, they never cease.

Reaching the edge of the walkway, he stopped, turned and kicked a loose tile from its inlaid dwelling. The kick was forceful and altogether damning. The tile, hand crafted and set in place in a long forgotten age, was abruptly propelled into an awkward arc of motion.

Centuries of perfection dislodged with a spiteful strike. Years of shaded symmetry upset due to the ill-tempered nature of a self-professed king.

As the tile skid across the worn and uneven surface, tink, tink, tink, the Great Sultan’s comportment changed. Anger subsided, overtaken by a fiercer sense of urgency. An urgency that coupled together an uneasy mixture of fear and realization. Deep within the emperor’s own heart and mind, there was a growing comprehension of the shortcomings of his design.

The Great Sultan stood stock-still. The tile had come to rest upon pieces of similar style. Imperceptible to the naked, unobservant eye but fixed upon intently by the author of its destruction, the tile remained motionless. Silent and pathetic, there it sat, an outcast and orphan.

The Sultan snapped to and glanced down toward the tiny but seemingly infinite black hole that he had just created. A man made ripple, a deliberate imperfection, punched into the serene mosaic sea.

“A single year,” He changed his invective, examining the dark cavity more closely. The rebounding echoes off the burnished tile the only thing to take notice.

The hole stared back at him with the constancy of death. A chink in the armor, a hole in his woven masterpiece of power he could not help but ponder.

In a single year he had risen like a storm out of the west. Seizing the imagination of peasants and princes alike, cities and countries.

Like a bolt of lightning followed by a torrential rain upon a scorched and barren earth thirsting for change, he moved swiftly into power. The timing was his and he would fulfill the mandate.

A single year he had reached out with open arms to enemies and allies.
Only to discover that now, after the crushing and unexpected defeat of a far-flung vassal state, his own hands were tied.

His adversaries, by no means worthy or even indefatigable, had cut to the chase and curtailed his maneuvers. The stage was set for action, he ruminated, grand action. But the fire had gone out before it could catch.

The Great Sultan’s eyes smoldered with intensity. The choice was before him.

To yield to a chastened form of governance or to yoke the discordant, dissident factions under a single degree of discipline.

To resign to compromise and cooperation or to reign mightily in the face of opposition and adversity.

No Time. There was no time for further thought. The Great Sultan stomped deliberately on that unblinking black hole and strode forcefully out of the courtyard across the variegated tiled walkway.

The mosaic remained silent but diminished. Another piece was no longer interlocked in its original place. The luster of it kiln fired glaze covered once more with the dust, grit and grim of the footsteps of ephemeral emotion, power, want and desire.

“The Mall of Missteps,” the tiles sighed as day gave way to twilight.

Odessa To Istanbul By Bike