Gone and back again

I went to the United States for three weeks. It was great. I slept alot, drove alot, ate and drank alot, and gained ten pounds - at least. Visited my wonderful kids, in New York City and Yellow Springs, Ohio, my wonderful brothers in Baltimore, and my good good friends wherever I could find them, but especially in Ohio and West Virginia. Watched both the democratic and republican conventions (Go Barack), watched plenty of football and baseball, played pool, and pingpong, got a sausage biscuit at McDonald's and bought socks at WalMart and a new pair of sneakers at Target. I visited my old dog Nico, and sweated through some horrendous heat and humidity in the east and the midwest. It was truly a great trip, everything was perfect - yet everyday I was thinking about Ecuador. On my last day in the States, all fat and happy, I could not wait to get on the plane, and when I landed in Quito I am sure I had a grin from ear to ear. And to top it all off, the perfect end to a perfect trip, I got through customs in Ecuador without a hitch - walked right through.

So now, getting past the jet lag and the culture shock (which culture, I'm not sure) I am looking forward to getting back to work and eventually having something useful to report on this blog. Til then, ciao. (The photo is of the Hungarian Pastry Shop, in NYC, across the street from the Cathedral of St. John the Devine)

Randomness

Worked hard for a few hours this morning, came home hungry and made a great lunch of red beans and rice and then took a very satisfying nap. Life is good. Now I am killing some time ´til the sun gets a little less brutal, and then I´ll get a few more hours in of barely keeping the garden alive – between the lack of water and a whole host of merciless insects, not to mention the chickens – it is quite a challenge. My hosts are quite amused as I explain for the millionth time why I am not using chemicals to control the gusanos and the plagas, and they really get a kick out of my spraying hot pepper sauce on the tomatoes and broccoli to keep the chickens away. ¨These types of chickens love aji y pimientos picante, they are watching you and licking their chops¨. Well, I´m at least as stubborn as the chickens are hungry, and we will see about that.
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I traveled to the south of Ecuador for the better part of 2 weeks in early July. I had not previously traveled further south than Riobamba, so I found some time to do so. I opted to fly down to Loja, or rather the airport at Catamoya, an hour away, which serves Loja and the south. A bus from Ibarra to Loja would have been 16 hours or more – the flight was less than one hour; well worth the extra cost. From Catamoya I hopped on a bus to visit a Peace Corps friend, Akul Nishawala in Catacocha. I stayed only one day and a night, I hope to go back sometime for a longer visit. Akul made a great red curry for dinner and we watched Ecuadors´ LIGA club team beat Brazils´ team for the championship. Despite being thoroughly outplayed LIGA won the game on penalty kicks – some vagary of the rules of soccer tournaments that I still do not understand. Anyway, it was pretty exciting, and after the victory most everyone who owns a car or truck in Catacocha started driving through the streets blowing their horns. Amazingly, the next morning (the game had ended around midnight) the town was awash in banners proclaiming LIGA´s prowess and hailing the new champions of South American futbol.
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I left Catacocha on a 10 AM bus, having planned to meet some other PC friends in Loja that afternoon. It was 4th of July weekend and some of us were heading down to Vilcabamba, one of Ecuadors´ most popular tourist destinations, for some hiking and what-not. I traveled down to Vilca with Shawn Stokes and his wife Maria Ellis, and we stayed 2 nights at a fairly outstanding hostal called Izhcayluma. Our plans for hiking were thwarted by rain and hangovers, but we did visit with some other PC volunteers in the area and looked in on some of their projects. We ate a lot of great food as well, Izhcayluma does a great job with the vittles. Vilcabamba itself left me cold, and a little perplexed as to how it gained its reputation as a hot tourist destination. In my opinion the scenery up here in the North is just as spectacular, and the weather is a damned site better. I was also a little put off by the dreadlocked hippies wandering around or sitting on the steps of the iglesia chanting or playing wooden flutes – and even more put off by the rich Europeans and American expats who were buying up property and sending land prices soaring. I was shocked to see that Vilcabamba will soon have a gated community, populated by wealthy and paranoid gringos. That doesn´t seem right to me. I left Vilcabamba thinking it was best to keep the tourists down there in the South – don´t want too many of them fouling the nest up here in the North! I also left feeling very happy that I was not here in Ecuador as a tourist, that I was actually living here, and imbued with some vague purpose for being here, as well. How will I reconcile this concern the next time I am traveling as a tourist? Haven´t the faintest idea.
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Maria, Shawn, and I headed back to Loja to pick up groceries and other supplies before heading out to their site, Fundachamba, which is literally in the middle of nowhere. Perched on the western edge of the cordillera, the climate is just right for coffee growing, and harvest was in full swing. Unfortunately, there were very few pickers, since a misguided town official had had all the Peruvian laborers arrested and thrown into jail in Loja, 4 hours away. Peruvians provide the bulk of labor in harvesting the coffee crop, and are absolutely essential in towns like Fundachamba where the younger folks are leaving for new lives in Quito, España, or Nueva York. Despite the shortage of hands, there was coffee everywhere, drying in the sun on rooftops, in the streets, on balconies - every flat surface was covered with beans. Almost all of the coffee is sold in Loja at wholesale for ridiculously low prices – Shawn is working with the local co-op to roast and package coffee to help increase incomes in the area.
The three of us spent a day building a wall made of cob – a mixture of clay soil, sand, and any type of straw that can be found locally. A labor intensive process, to be sure, but materials costs are nearly nothing. A gringo friend of Shawn´s has built a spectacular cob house outside of Matacuya, I will post a few photos at the flickr link. It´s a funny thing that so many old-style cheap and renewable technologies which are coming into vogue with us westerners are seen almost as insults by many Ecuadoreans – there are cement block fabricators on almost every corner and isn´t it so much easier and faster just to lay up block? I like the possibilities of cob building, but can´t argue with the other point of view.
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I walked 45 minutes down the mountain to hit the main road where I could catch a ride back to Loja, and there I jumped on a northbound bus headed to San Felipe de Oña where I stayed the night with another PC friend. I got up early to catch the 7am bus to Cuenca, but it never showed up, nor did the 8am bus. I read some chapters of whatever book I was carrying for such eventualities, and chatted with the locals for awhile. Finally around 9 a bus rolled into town, and I was on my way to Cuenca. I have noted a time or two in this blog particular bus adventures, but this trip put all the others to shame. (A close second is the trip to Chugchilan when we all had to leave the bus while the driver and helper had to hack out the side of a mountain to gain enough roadbed to make up for the portion that had collapsed into the canyon the night before).
The fun began when our driver decided to ignore a desvio (detour) sign, and continued along the same portion of road, which was under construction. At the top of the hill we encountered roadworkers and machinery, and they told the driver he had to turn back, which meant backing downhill about 500 meters to a turn out. The road was only about 2 inches wider than the bus, and when the (pissed off) driver threw her into reverse gasps and muffled screams escaped from the lips of some of the passengers. When we hit the wide spot the driver skillfully made a 3 point turn, but not before half the passengers had left the bus, sure that it was about to plunge backwards, into the abyss. I stayed aboard, figuring there are worse ways to go. Anyway, we successfully made the turn, and headed back down the hill to the desvio, which put us out of the frying pan and into the fire. Our alternate ¨road¨ was the camino antigua which means it was essentially built to carry donkey carts and foot traffic. On this day it was carrying two way traffic detoured from the major North-South highway in Ecuador, and there was not a policeman or traffic controller anywhere in sight. Our ayudante, the drivers helper, ran several hundred feet ahead of the bus to make sure we would not run headlong into southbound traffic, and at one point, one hapless driver was forced to back up for 10 minutes, on a single track road, while our driver stayed on his front bumper and very neatly kept the 2 left wheels of the bus on the edge of the very precarious roadbed. By this time, people on the bus are freaking out, many were on cell phones calling loved ones, others were crying, some were on the verge of fainting. There were also a few diehards who simply slept through the whole thing. After a very long time, we finally hit pavement, but only after the driver negotiated an impossible turn in a small pueblo, where the right side of the bus actually scraped the full length of a stone wall while trying to avoid the overhanging eaves of the house protruding from the left. Our driver received a hearty round of applause for that maneuver, and later when we took a bathroom and lunch break I bought both the driver and the ayudante a beer, and told them ¨bien hecho, maestros¨. (Well done, experts)
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It may seem that I give too much attention to bus travel – but it is such an integral part of daily life for PC volunteers and locals alike that it becomes impossible to avoid the subject. A few days ago I was on a bus with an Ecuadorian friend and we agreed that those who never travel by bus (the rich) are missing out on a great slice of life. But even on the busses life is changing – the drivers are becoming less inclined to allow large animals like goats or sheep into the passenger area, such are now stowed on top of the bus, tied by the ankles, or in the luggage compartment, stuffed into sacks and tossed around like bags of rice. Of course, chickens, cuyes, cats and small dogs still get smuggled into the ¨people part¨.
In an effort to alleviate traffic congestion, many cities in Ecuador, including Ibarra and Otavalo have introduced new laws requiring that buses stop now at designated paradas only, instead of every 20 or 30 ft. as has been the custom. Traffic inspectors now tape the doors shut, and they can only be opened at the next official stop. The more clever drivers have gotten around this inconvenience by rigging one or two of the curbside windows to open fully, enabling passengers to climb in and out wherever they please. Not all passengers can take advantage of this feature, of course, but for those who can it is worth the trouble. A driver told me it´s not against the law, because there is no law written about passengers entering and leaving the bus through the windows. Makes sense to me.

Adentro (part 2)

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Adentro (pt.1)

(this post has turned into a ridiculous length, so I am splitting it into 2, or maybe 3, parts.)

I passed the last week of May and the first week of June in El Oriente, invited by my Peace Corps friends Jeremy and Susan King who live and work in Puyo. Most of Susans´ work is with the Huaroni tribe (these are the Indians depicted in the movie ¨End of the Spear¨ as well as the subject of a great book by Joe Kane titled ¨Savages¨) Like all natives in the Ecuadorian Amazon the Huaroni have been impacted by 50 years of oil exploration and extraction, illegal logging, and a steady stream of missionaries. More info about the Huaroni people and history can be found at Wikipedia, or amazingly enough, at http://www.huaroni.com/. Although the Huaroni have a long history of violence against outsiders and against neighboring clans the people we encountered in Menapare and Tepapare were anything but ¨violent savages¨.
Our trip adentro began in Puyo, where Susan, Jeremy and I met up with another PC friend, Kris Pedings. The four of us had trained together in La Esperanza, so it was a nice reunion – although I was dismayed that my Spanish lagged far behind theirs! In the morning we went to the offices of AMWAE, the agency Susan works with, to pick up supplies and to meet the 9 students from Duke University who were here to construct a water collection system and also to determine the community´s interest in solar derived electricity. With a grant from somewhere, AMWAE had recently purchased a brand new Yamaha 40HP outboard motor for one of its dugout canoes – we all watched in awe as one of the Huaroni men carried it down the stairs from the office and loaded it into the back of the chartered bus. This was only the first of many outrageous feats of strength that we would witness in the coming week. As the morning wore on, Duke students straggled in as did the Huaroni who were heading back to their villages. Our scheduled departure time became a distant memory as we gathered food and water, loaded bags and gear, and waited for something to happen. Ya mismo.
All of a sudden, the driver fired up the bus – it was packed to the gills with people and stuff, a gigantic water tank tied to the roof along with metal roofing, tubing and other various and sundry work related supplies; bags of cement, tanks of gasoline, and the 40 horse outboard all stashed in the compartments below. That the bus even moved was somewhat a shock. We had a beautiful and uneventful drive to Puerto Napo, where we took on 2 more passengers – Jeff Brown, another PC volunteer from up in Chaco, and Mary Fifield, who lives and works in Tena. She is affiliated with Global Pediatric Alliance and a friend of Jeremy and Susan´s. We then made a short stop in Misahualli where we had to track down a component of the outboard motor that was vital to its operation, namely, the key. A key was located, and as we left town crossing the rather suspect bridge over the Rio Napo, our driver forgot about the water tank strapped to the roof and inadvertently pulled down an electric wire. Thus, to cross the bridge we had to remove the tank, then walk across the bridge as it had been determined that the bus along with passengers would be too much of a load. We all waited on the other side with our breath held as the bus lolled over the bridge and made it safely to the other side, where we repacked the water tank and went on our merry way.
Our next stop would be Menapare, about 2 hours away and the end of the road. Along the way we passed settlements of colonistas, people who work for ¨The Company¨ (the oil companies). We passed parts of the pipeline, and at least one compound where supplies for oil extracting were piled up, waiting to be utilized. Towards the end of the road we came across a guarded checkpoint – we were about to enter Huaroni territory – and we wondered if the suspicious guard would allow this overloaded bus with its motley crew of gringos to pass. He did, and we cruised on in to Menapare.
We were staying only one night in Menapare, in the morning we would be traveling 2 -3 hours by canoe downriver to Tepapare. We unloaded the bus, and reloaded all work related supplies (including the gigantic water tank) into a dugout canoe waiting below the bridge, to be taken to Tepapare. The canoe would return for us in the morning. There had been rain, and the river was muddy and fast. There were some concerns that if it rained more during the night that we would have to wait to continue on, but as it turned out the night passed clear and quiet; we set up our tents and mosquito netting, prepared dinner for ourselves and the villagers, told stories and sang songs, and later crawled into our bags.
In the morning we woke to find that one of the Huaroni men had killed a small caiman with a machete blow across the skull, and that it was being roasted over a fire at another hut as part of breakfast. Hard boiled eggs, oatmeal, coffee and crocodile – the breakfast of champions! The meat was tender and tasty, much more palatable than I had expected.
After eating and washing up we broke down camp and started loading canoes. It was a short hike from the village to the river, and everything was carried down. We packed out 2 canoes – both appeared overladen, with only 4 – 6 inches of gunwale visible above the waterline. A light drizzle was falling, and as we left for Tepapare I noticed I was cold – something I never would have expected in the Amazon. The river was still up, but not dangerously so. As I looked around, at the river, at the jungle, at the water sloshing around my feet in the canoe, and at the people I was with, I had another of those moments of recognition where I just grin a little and say to myself ¨holy shit, I´m in Ecuador¨.
I would like to report that during the two hour cruise down to Tepapare that I saw great stands of primary jungle and thousands of exotic birds, butterflies, and flowers, not to mention some rare example of one endangered creature or another, but I can´t. Although far from Tena, we were still too close to civilization and its´ effects – oil extraction, colonization, illegal logging and hunting. Nevertheless, it was beautiful, and quiet (when the outboards were turned off), and I was thrilled to be there. We floated and motored downriver, and as we made a wide turn in the river we were greeted by 20 or 30 souls standing on a muddy bank, the people of Tepapare.

la lluvia

May 25 2008

It´s been raining more than usual in Ambuqui these past few weeks; the locals don´t know what to make of it. Normally this is the start of a very dry season in a very dry region. But things are different this year, everyone says so; no one knows why. Along with the rains have come chillier temperatures, though nothing compared to the damp piercing cold of places set in higher altitudes, places like San Gabriel, La Paz, or Tulcan. Especially Tulcan. Nevertheless the people of Ambuqui walk about, (or huddle under awnings, depending on the rain) in sweaters and shawls, muttering phrases like ¨Aychaychay¨ (Quichua for cold), and ¨bien frio hoy¨ which in loosely translated Spanish means ¨damn it´s cold today.¨ Luckily for us, here in the valley, the rain and cooler temps do not usually stay long; they are often bracketed by glorious days of bright hot sunshine, blue skies and windblown clouds, wispy remnants of the rainmakers still active up in the mountains.
The rain in the mountains has been another matter altogether. Dry quebradas flood with rushing waters, cutting pueblos off from one another, from markets, from communications. Soils and rock erode unchecked from steep hillsides and either block, or cause the collapse of, the dirt tracks that pass for roads in the less inhabited parts of the province. The mud is so deep and so slippery that it is all but impossible to walk any path; rubber farm boots with deeply lugged soles are the preferred footwear for those who can afford such a luxury. Others go barefoot, toes curled, calves and thighs tensed against the inevitable slipping and sliding. Roofs leak, crops are ruined, chickens die. The people wait for the rains to end, but when?
This afternoon, in the misty rain falling in Ambuqui, I was sitting on my stoop, watching the neighborhood kids play a very complex version of marbles and eating my lunch. Juanita, the mother of one of the boys, passed by in a full run and called out ¨come, come to the quebrada!¨ There were other words as well, but I did not understand. The boys stopped their game, leaving their marbles in the street, and ran off behind her. ¨What´s happening,¨ I shouted, and Jerald, the son, turned and said ¨cerdos! En la quebrada! Venga! - ¨Pigs, in the waterway, come!¨
By the time I reached the quebrada, the pigs, if there had been pigs, were long gone. The volume of water and the speed at which it flowed was mind boggling. If pigs had indeed been caught up in that torrent they would never survive. Nothing would. It was a remarkable sight, matched only by the crushing sound of rushing water. Black, muddy, angry water. I scanned the viewable length of the quebrada – and was startled to see a hundred or more people lining the banks, standing and watching. Watching for pigs? Probably not. More likely they were looking only at the water, and no doubt some were wondering why, with so much water, was there not enough for irrigation; others perhaps wondering why, with so much water, was there not enough for cooking and bathing and washing?
Somewhat later I caught up with Juanita, and I asked her about the pigs. ¨Yes there were pigs¨, she said, ¨three, but all were dead, because of the water. The owners have found them, on the rocks below the bridge, and will take them home for butchering.¨

aqui, no mas

I bought a used Dell laptop in Quito two months ago, and it´s been a pleasure to have around, for writing and preparing work reports and charlas, for photo storage and music trading, and for watching a movie every now and again. Decent quality pirated DVDs can be bought all over for a 1.50, and somehow some movies are available here before they make their big screen debuts in LosEstadosUnidos, otherwise known as ¨allᨠ(there). I recently watched ¨Into the Wild¨ and the Michelangelo Antonioni classic ¨La Aventura¨. (preferred ¨Into the Wild¨) It gets dark here reliably each night at 6:30, and while I often entertain myself with sitting in the park and chatting for a while, or reading at home, it is nice to chill with a good movie now and again before crawling in around 9 PM.
Anyway, I thought that my computer might make me a better, more reliable blogger, but as the dates between posts indicates, that has not been the case. I am just as lazy as ever, or maybe just as boring. Life has settled into a very comfortable pattern, interrupted only occasionally by the spectacle of a truck plummeting down a cliff (driver lived) or a bad case of the shits brought on by some yummy smelling unidentified meat on any street corner. I was laid up for four days during Carnaval with such a condition, and I missed everything – all the dancing, all the drinking, all the debauchery. Well, there´s always next year.
Basically, there is work, which is challenging and ever-changing, and then there is all the other stuff. Like cooking, washing clothes, bathing (occasionally), and housecleaning (more occasionally). I cook a small breakfast every morning, coffee and a local type of oatmeal made with quinoa. I usually dump a ton of panela and cinnamon on top – panela is a type of brown sugar made in the local cane plantations. I don´t have a refrigerator, so my fresh ingredient list is limited to whatever I can buy here in Ambuqui and keep in the kitchen for a day or two. I always have a few mangos and avocados lying around, and lemons for lemonade are free for the picking. Occassionally the local tienda will have some good ¨carne de vaca¨ (meat of the cow), and I will cook up some rice and a bunch of veggies for a small feast. I cook all my meals on a little 3 burner stove top, which is attached to a tank of gas which sits in my kitchen. Propane is subsidized here, a tankful of cooking gas (minus deposit) costs 2.50, I have had the same tank for 10 months. For most families, who cook for many people every day a tank will last a month or so. Then there are the many households that do not use gas for cooking, but for various reasons continue to cook over wood fires, inside the home. This custom persists despite the relative lack of available wood, the low price of propane, and the ever present coughs and throat ailments of the residents.
We often have running water, but it is never a sure thing, so my clothes washing schedule is based on first checking to see if there´s water. If so, I put all my clothes in a big blue bucket, go outside, fill with water and detergent, and then let it sit for a few hours. Later I will swoosh the clothes around a little, dump out the old water, and fill with new water and swoosh around again. When I think that I have most of the soap out, I wring each piece and hang it on the line to dry. Here in Ambuqui clothes dry in a few hours, but in some places like Cayambe, Runipamba, or Urcuqui, it can take days. My meager cooking and laundering routines are nothing compared to the arduous housekeeping activities of the women. Entire days, or weekends, can be spent washing, rinsing, and hanging to dry. Some families who have no water wash their clothes and dishes in the irrigation ditches or in the river. They lay their clothes out on river rocks to dry.
Preparing food – a never ending task of shelling beans, shucking corn, cooking rice, killing and plucking chickens, washing and peeling potatos, boiling pots all day long for soups, etc. Somehow these women have enough energy to go to health charlas or community bank meetings in the evenings, meanwhile the menfolk are continuing their normal day of drinking, gambling, and carousing. And it´s a common enough fact that I won´t apologize for the generalization.
I do have a shower, cold water only, and many´s the time I´ve been stranded all lathered up when the water quits. So I keep a 20 gallon bucket of water in the shower stall so I can finish up, and also it provides a back up supply of water for flushing the toilet. Most people in town have a shower, but some still bathe in the ditches, the river, or out by the laundry tank. On the occasions when we go without water for 4 or 5 days many more can be found washing up outdoors. All this in a town where I am sitting in the biblioteca connected to wireless internet. Some forms of progress are easier and cheaper than others, I suppose.

Ambuqui kids

Ambuqui kids
Originally uploaded by rdlurie

Recently we were forwarded a New York Times op-ed piece written by former PCV and later country director Robert L. Strauss. I, along with hundreds of other PCV´s wrote a reply to his comments. At the end of my comments I have posted the link, if anyone cares to read the original piece. Any comments on content or grammar are welcome!

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I read with interest the recent op-ed pieces regarding the Peace Corps. I would like to make a few comments, from the point of view of a 52 year old volunteer with many years of agricultural and community organizing experience.

1 – Regarding the question of bringing in more volunteers over the age of 50 – it´s a great idea. Older volunteers walk into a community and for the most part have instant credibility, irregardless of credentials. Most of us have, or have had, spouses, children, or businesses, and have experienced all the ups and downs associated. Most of the people we work with will have had similar experiences, certainly with regards to children and families. Even teaching volunteers will have plenty of interaction with other adults, administrators, teachers, and parents. They will all be curious about the older volunteers life – why did you decide to come here, where are your children, where is your spouse, how is life different here than in the U.S. – the questions will be sincere, and limitless. Younger volunteers are often seen (sometimes unfairly) more as adventurers, looking for a little fun and experience before starting a life back in the US.

One caveat – pay special attention to language acquisition for older volunteers! During training the older volunteer should be offered full days and weeks of language immersion – it is likely safe to assume that he or she has extensive, or at least sufficient, technical expertise.

2 – Specialists vs Generalists: This question is as old as Peace Corps itself! There is really only one answer, which is of course, both. There are no guarantees that a specialist can adequately teach, adapt to a new culture and a somewhat lower standard of living, or adapt to the realities of lowered expectations. Conversely, there is no reason to expect that a generalist, fresh out of college, can not apply themselves and quickly learn pertinent skills that will ultimately assist their communities. The most important skill of any volunteer is flexibility – the dogma of specialization rarely has a place in the life of a Peace Corps Volunteer.

A successful PCV will be a multitasker par excellence, for the reality is that in any given month (say, for an AG volunteer, like myself) we may speak to a group of 40 to 50 about food security and nutrition; a group of 14 or 15 about specific pest problems on specific crops; we may spend an hour or two once a week teaching English to whoever shows up. We may be asked by the local health center to prepare a talk about domestic violence, or birth control. We may spend a grueling day, or week, digging fish ponds or building terraces on hillsides way too steep for conventional farming. We may spend an evening talking with a local women’s group about community banks, or about the best way to market the delicious jam they create from local fruits. And of course, many of us will take gulps of time for continued language training, either in the privacy of our quarters, or, even better, on a street corner sharing a cerveza or a platter of horno.

However, the most important work we will do is to share our humanity, our common bonds. To rejoice in small successes, and to flounder a little over our failures. To take a short walk along the coast with a neighbor, or hike in the mountains with a group of children who are thrilled beyond belief that you agreed to go with them. To admit to our new friends our fears and our questions, and our concerns, and to soothe them when they admit theirs, to us. Not a week goes by when I don’t wonder at least once – what the hell am I doing here? And without fail, I receive 10 or 15 affirmative reasons, every single week.

Former volunteer, recruiter, and country director Robert L. Strauss is, very surprisingly, looking at Peace Corps through a very small lens, if one is to be guided by his recently published opinions. Without a doubt, Peace Corps, like all agencies, should be in a constant state of examination and retooling. Also, without a doubt, Peace Corps is an incredibly successful concept and organization, by any standard of measurement. And it cannot be ignored that the ENTIRE annual budget of Peace Corps worldwide amounts to less than 2 days of war expenditures in Iraq. Let’s have some serious conversations about the real problems in America’s foreign policies – and less carping about Peace Corps, one of the best tools America has ever had to improve its image in a world that simultaneously grows smaller yet farther apart.

http://www.nytimes.com/2008/01/09/opinion/09strauss.html?_r=1&ref=opinion&oref=slogin