BFFs (& Co)

Becca had this fantastic friend Jess back in the US of A. Jess was an amazing actress, singer, dancer, and teacher who taught all the children all the things about theater and generally lived a gloriously exciting life in glamorous places like Western Nebraska...

For that matter...packages!!! (Becca also had an amazing mom and Aunt Tracey)

Stirring

Becca felt a stirring inside her, something was happening in there. For the first time in a long time though, this stirring did not trigger a call to the Peace Corps doctors or a sprinting sort of dance to the latrine. This was different, this wasn’t an illness but a slow cure. Things were changing.

This was after all, part of why she had joined the Peace Corps, why she had left behind family, friends, opportunities, and running water to live in the desert and misunderstand 75% of what is said. It wasn’t all of it, but change was a part of the reason. She wanted a growing up experience, a lesson in humbleness, a chance to appreciate the smallest things (like a loving hug from her two year old niece who mostly just screams, cries, and hits people - usually Becca). It was all well and good, the growing and the changing, except for one thing. She’d somehow forgotten that change is no easy process; that all of those gears and cranks inside her, constantly shifting around and transforming was going to hurt a little. It simply couldn’t be avoided.

She’d been told a million times that this experience wouldn’t always be fun, and in fact sometimes it would seem downright unbearable. There would be times when she sat in her room and cried, feeling like she simply wouldn’t survive two years of it and times when she would be frustrated, angry, and exhausted to a point of near madness. But every last bit of it, every second of pain, tears, excitement, happiness, hope, and change was important. Important in ways she understood and a lot more she didn’t yet, but eventually would.

For now, Becca sat back and tried to keep in mind that two years was a long time, plenty of time to let the gear grind until she came out the other side.

What Am I Doing Here?

Sitting in the back room of the health post amongst the old exam tables, desks, and stacks of folders, Becca thought about her life decisions. Every morning she awoke with the same thought: wha, where am I? Oh Peru, right, ok. I need to brush my teeth. I live in Peru. Cool. It’s almost time for breakfast, I need to get downstairs. I live in Peru. What the hell did I do? Who decides to move to Peru? Two years.

But as she descended the stairs each morning or her new home, having changed into her scrub top, jeans, and hiking boots and was greeted by her host mom, Estefa, those wonderings began to evaporate. The questions weren’t answered so much as simply forgotten as she carried on living her life. 

“Hijita, toma tu leche,” he mom told her, handing her a large mug of fresh, warm milk that had been mixed with bananas. “Hace frio, necesitas tomar tu leche, no quieres un resfrio,” she said and she watched Becca down the drink. (*difficult to translate term of endearment,* drink your milk. It’s cold, you need to drink your milk, you don’t want a cold.)

Becca had considered explaining that it wasn’t all that cold and that she wouldn’t get sick from not drinking milk in the morning, but given that she’d gotten sick the day she arrived, on a day she hadn’t had milk in the morning, she decided not to argue. Host mother knows best.

She had a quick meal of bread, eggs, and “coffee” (Peruvians in the north like their coffee weak and sweet, Becca referred to it often as brown sugar-water) and then walked back to the kitchen and thanked her mom. 

“Voy a la posta pero voy a regresar a las doce y media para almuerzo,” she told her mom. (I’m going to the [health] post but I’m coming back at 12:30 for lunch.)

Her mom reached up and put an arm around her, hugging her close, “Ya, te quiero, mi hija, te quiero mucho,” she said. (Ya, I love you, my daughter, I love you a lot.)

As she rocked back and forth in an old wheelchair in the health post much later, waiting for her coworkers to arrive, she grinned. Who’s thoughts are rational when they first wake up? These two years were going to be good.

And There Was No Toilet, No Toilet

       Becca had received her assignment, visited her site, graduated from training and sworn in as an official Peace Corps Volunteer (PCV). Her site was Cruz del Medano in the district of Morrope, Lambayeque, had roughly 4000 people, her friend Lily was her site mate, and they were the first volunteers in the area. Her new host family included her host mom, Estefa, host dad, Francisco (more commonly known as Keiko), one brother, Anibal (19) and two sisters, Mireli and Sandra (18 and 15). Her host was a baker and made amazing empanadas, her mom helped and worked in the home, Anibal was weeks away from finishing a degree in Graphic Design, Mireli was set to start school to become a chef in March, and Sandra had another year of secondary. Even after only a few hours with them, Becca realized she’d gotten incredibly lucky again in the host family department and promptly thanked the host family gods for her continued good fortune.

Her house included a store in the front room where various items were sold along with the different types of bread her dad made. There was also a living room/dining room/office/Sandra’s room that was a general hang out area, a large curtained off room that served as a big closet and changing room for the entire family, and in the back of the house was her dad’s bakery. Outside, under a tin roof was the kitchen, an area for chickens, laundry drying, and chicha* making, and a small brick room that served as a bathroom when you had an empty bucket and a shower when you had a full bucket. Becca’s room was upstairs, the only room with a door. Her host parents and brother slept upstairs as well. 

As she painted her room a pretty pinkish color and hung up photos of family and friends, Becca thought about this commitment she’d made, this long term agreement she’d been so excited for, so willing to fight for, and she wondered if perhaps she had lost her mind. Two years was a long time.

Becca couldn’t really get her head around it and remembered a conversation she’d had with her best friend, Jaime, days before.

“Two years is not that long,” Jaime explained. 

“Jaime, there’s no toilet,” Becca replied.

“Ok, true, but I mean two years of service, two years of doing something great is going to fly by.”

“I guess, I mean it’s not like it’s twenty years, right?” Becca reasoned.

“Exactly,” Jaime paused for a second. “I don’t think I would ever sign up for something for twenty years, like that commitment is insane. Twenty years of something you’ve never done before, ridiculous.”

“Oh my gosh, seriously. Wait, isn’t that basically what marriage is?” Becca noted.

“Yeah, I never want to get married...” Jaime said, sounding suddenly terrified.

“But with marriage, you get a toilet...” Becca pointed out.

She laughed to herself as she reached to cover part of her ceiling in the last drops of paint, leaving a small chunk of the corner paint-less, oops. There was a soft knock at her door and she turned to see Mireli smiling at her,

“Bajamos?” she asked. (Want to go downstairs?)

“Si,” Becca answered and they wandered downstairs together chit-chatting. Two years without a toilet, but at least it wasn’t two years without a loving family, thank goodness.

*chicha is a drink common in Peru made from corn, there are different variations some of which are sweet and others fermented, these the PCVs had been warned extensively about as they are quite strong.

Balloons: Friendship Bait

On Tuesday, Becca and four of her classmates taught a high school class a 45 minute lesson on Self Esteem from a Sex-Ed series. The day before, they had been informed of their future teaching endeavor, picked groups, and planned their lesson. Any regular volunteer would have panicked at the prospect of one day’s planning for a lesson in another language but Becca...well Becca was actually feeling pretty regular and thus quite panicked.

Nonetheless, on Tuesday morning, at 7:30, she found herself sitting on a bench with her classmates desperately trying to blow up the nearly fifty balloons they would be using during their lesson. Apparently, self esteem is a lot like a balloon and this point needed to be illustrated at least twice. By 7:40 am, Becca was realizing how much she hated blowing up balloons.

It was then that a small girl, a student, probably eight years old walked over to her, grinned, looked at the bag of non inflated balloons in her lap, took one, and walked away. Becca stared after the girl and then turned to Lily,

“I think I’ve just been robbed,” she said.

“I don’t think so,” Lily said and Becca followed her gaze out toward the playground. There she saw the little girl talking to a crowd of other kids, after a few moments, they all turned and walked toward them. Becca’s first instinct was to hide the balloons, but she decided against it.

At 7:45 the little girl returned with her group of friends and they all crowded in around Lily and Becca. They didn’t say a word, they simply reached in and took one balloon each. They then began to blow them up one by one, tie them off and hand them to Lily and Becca.

“Gracias,” Becca said in disbelief and they all smiled, some giggling.

“Eres de Cuerpo de Paz?” the first girl asked. (Are you from the Peace Corps?)

“Si, sabes Cuerpo de Paz?” Becca responded. (Yeah, do you know of the Peace Corps?)

“Si, si, vivo con un otro voluntario, Sep,” the girl replied. (Yes, yes, I live with another volunteer, Seth). Another girl, close to the same age, moved in closer to Becca,

“Puedes ensenarme ingles?” she asked. (Will you teach me English?)

Becca laughed out loud, turned to Lily, who shrugged and then turned back to the girls. The others were crowding in now, having finished blowing up the remainder of the balloons.

“Ya, ok,” Becca replied. (Yeah, ok). She racked her brain for a second and then asked, “Saben los colores?” (Do you know the colors?)

“Yellow,” one girl said.

“Si, y blue,” a boy jumped in.

“Red, green, y violet,” another added.

“Violet?” Becca asked. “No purple?” This question received a whole host of blank stares. “Morado es purple,” she said.

“Si, violet,” the first girl said. Becca laughed and moved on.

“Ok, saben animales in ingles?” she asked. (Do you know the animals in English?)

“Cat!” three of them said in unison.

“Dog,” another added.

“Chick-on,” said another.

“Wow, muy bien, como se dice vaca in ingles?” Becca asked, she was impressed by the amount these kids knew. (Wow, very good, how do you say “cow” in English?)

“Cow!” one boy yelled excitedly. This was becoming a game show. 

“Y caballo?” Becca asked. (And horse?)

“Horse!”

“Muy, muy bien, pienso que hablan ingles,” Becca grinned. (Very, very good, I think that you all speak English)

“Noooo,” they replied, laughing. The class went on for several more minutes and Becca found that her class already knew a lot of basics as they said good morning, good afternoon, good evening, and wished her luck.

At 7:59, Becca looked at her watch in surprise, time sure did fly when you were gaining a new fan club based solely on your ability to speak English. She felt like Justin Beiber as she looked around at her new posse. 

“Cual clase tienen a las 8?” she asked them. (Which class do you have class at 8?)

“No hay clases antes de 11,” one girl responded and they all grinned at her innocently. (There aren’t classes before 11).

“No, ustedes tienen clases,” Becca replied. (No, you all have classes). “Cual clase es primera?” (Which class is first?)

“Matematicas!” one girl answered in excitement. She had just joined the group from her spot on the playground. They all turned and shushed her.

“No hay clases el dia de hoy,” one boy turned back to Becca and said sweetly. (There are no classes today.) As if cued, a teacher walked around the corner at this point, saw all of the students and told them to get to their classes. They all quickly said goodbye and ran off gibbering to each other. 

The Crimes of Napoleon (Or How She Lost Her Underwear)

Becca had had some great excitements and challenges in the two weeks of continued training, Spanish interviews, chats with all of her bosses, and Field Based Training (or FBT) in Huancavelica. She’d learned in her language interview that her language level had improved two levels and she would only need to improve one more level in the following five weeks. During chats, she found out she as doing pretty well in health and was apparently one of the most prompt people in her group.

Field Based Training was a new monster, throwing mass food poisoning, motion sickness, cold, and 12,000 foot elevations at her. Huancavelica also crushed her dreams of her first hot shower in five weeks with a malfunctioning electric shower that only produced cold water and minor electrocution. However, Becca found herself talking to current volunteers in their various sites and getting more and more excited about her site and her two years of service once she got there. Oh, and she had quite an amazing view:

But through everything training had thrown at her in the past couple of weeks, both the fun and the frustrating, she had had one encounter that brought her to her knees. 

It had happened a couple of times before that morning, but was never this ridiculous. Napoleon, the four month old puppy in her house, had entered a “stealing things from people’s rooms and hiding them around the property” phase. He liked taking socks from Felipe’s room, and various sweaty clothes from Becca’s room. After a run, Becca had to be careful to put her clothes away and shut her door or her host mom would be handing her back her sports bra and shorts again.

On a breezy Sunday morning, after Becca had gone on a long hike with some friends and enjoyed a lunch of the most amazing ceviche she had ever tasted, she was ready for a long nap. Instead she started on a presentation due later that week, but was interrupted only a few minutes later by her host mom.

“Rebecita, discuple, su ropa interior es en el bano en una bolsita,” she said, looking a little concerned. (Rebecita, excuse me, your underwear is in the bathroom in a bag).

Becca looked at her with obvious confusion. After several minutes of confusion, MamaGloria was able to explain that Napoleon had stolen her underwear* and dragged them out to the driveway where Felipe had found them earlier that day. Becca’s host mom looked at her with worry but Becca burst out laughing and from where she stood, dropped to her knees on the couch with the giggles. Her host mom laughed as well while Napoleon stared at them, confused, through the glass door to the dining room.

*It should also be noted that while Becca’s underwear was a little too big to start with (due to last minute shopping), after five weeks of hand washing and no dryer, they had grown exponentially. The underwear in question were more like shorts really...giant, giant shorts...

It's Not Easy

Difficult is of the word that grown ups use to describe a situation or series of situations that are completely unbearable without having to use the word unbearable or seem weak. Becca had had a difficult week.

She wasn’t entirely sure what started it all or set it off and by the time she realized she had fallen into it, she didn’t really care. There was the health part, where she always felt behind. There was the time part, where she didn’t feel she ever had enough. There was the physical toll, the emotional toll, the slow deterioration of her sanity. And there was the language issue, the one where she didn’t speak it.

Perhaps it started when she started a week by getting locked in the bathroom. Or perhaps it was when she tripped and fell in the street, pulling a muscle and crushing her confidence.

After a relaxing Sunday including a hike in the hills with beautiful views, time to wash her clothes, and skype with her mom, Becca hoped she could simply begin the new week, start fresh and be positive. That worked for a few hours and then quickly fizzled and she found herself back at square one.

By Tuesday afternoon, she was frustrated, emotional, and feeling like a burden to every person she spoke too because she couldn’t seem to stop worrying and complaining. It was only fitting that she have an interview and performance check in with Narcisso, one of her supervisors, that day. 

At 2:17 pm, she entered Narcisso’s office, apologized for being a little late and sat down across the table from him. He went over her performance evaluation with her, which was overall pretty good. To her credit, Becca held it together pretty well even through the difficult parts of the conversation, that was, until Narcisso asked,

“Do you have anything else you want to talk about? How’s your language going?”

Becca looked at him, looked out the window, looked down at her hands and bit down hard on her tongue, desperately fighting the tears. “Umm,” she began, feeling angry at herself. It was then that the dam burst and she put a hand over her face. She wondered how long it would be before this stopped happening. Before she could stop biting holes in her tongue trying to fight back tears. Before she felt emotionally stable again. She guessed it might be two years...

“I’m sorry,” she said, trying to pull herself together. “It’s language, I just always feel like I’m behind, like I can’t learn it,” she explained in a choked, hurt voice.

“No, no, no, it’s ok. Learning a language is really hard,” he paused for a moment and looked at her but Becca was certain she couldn’t speak without losing the little control she had. Thankfully, he continued, “When I first started studying English, I could read and write pretty well, but I was really scared to talk. It’s scary. But when I started working, I had to talk to people in English and talk on the phone sometimes...oh that was the worse part. I hated the phone. But I got better. I sounded stupid sometimes and didn’t understand and I still make a lot of mistakes, but I finally get rid of my fear. You’ll stop being scared and just start talking, because you’ll have to.”

Becca nodded, how she had forgotten that she was sitting across from some one who had done the exact same thing the other way around, she didn’t know.

“Everybody learns differently, some people learn the language slower, but they still learn it,” he added. Becca, having been in education for a few years now, was surprised that she was so quick to forget this fact. Sure, it applied to kids, to other people, but she couldn’t seem to cut herself any slack.

“Don’t be so hard on yourself, you’ll get there,” Narcisso said, reading her mind. Now she found herself grinning. With that he looked at his watch, “well I think we’re out of minutes now, but I’m happy I got to talk to you,” he smiled.

Fifteen minutes later, Becca found herself faced with her presentation on breast feeding which she was expected to give entirely in Spanish. Confidence still askew but attitude improving quickly, she stepped to the front of her class (which consisted of four other students and Pilar) and began.

“Buenos tardes, me nombre es Rebecca y hoy vamos a aprender sobre de alimentacion de los ninos menor de seis meses,” she took a deep breath and began, feeling that old comfort of teaching set in. (Good afternoon, my name is Rebecca and today we’re going to learn about food for children under six months old.)

The feedback from her group and Pilar was helpful to her learning and overall positive which boosted her confidence in Spanish just enough. It was this tiny encouragement that pushed her forward. Well, in reality it was probably also the hilarious language blunders of her classmates which she learned about not long after class ended.

“Yesterday, when your host dad asked how I was, I told him I was married instead of saying I was tired,” Jane told her.

“I meant to tell Pilar I was hungry and told her I had a man instead...,” Amanda added.

“Oh! I also tried to ask a nun on the bus if she would like to sit and instead I said ‘would you like to feel?’” Jane continued.

Becca laughed recalling how many times she had failed to conjugate her verbs correctly and told her host mom she was going to win Yo Soy.* There was something here, something in this joking, something in these stupid mistakes that made her giggle and which might just save her the trouble of negativity. Or at least she hoped it would.

*Yo Soy is an impersonation show in Peru.

Tornillos (or, How She Got Locked in the Bathroom)

It was one of those splendid nights where Becca had finished her homework, studied her flash cards, talked with her host family, and was generally free to go to sleep by nine. While normally she would have stayed up to watch TV with her host mom, Becca decided that with the increasing number of volunteers getting sick, she would opt for more sleep.

And so she went into the bathroom to brush her teeth. Minutes later she tried the doorknob and realized she might be in trouble. She turned it to the right and the door unlocked but refused to open, the turned it left and still it wouldn’t budge. After several quick movements back and forth, she heard her host mom on the other side of the door,

“Rebecita, estas bien?” she asked. (Rebecita, are you ok?)

“Si, pero, la puerta...,” Becca replied. (Yes, but, the door...)

The response was something Becca didn’t quite catch followed by the presence of her host dad and brother, Felipe, on the other side of the door. They talked amongst themselves for several moments and then her mom spoke through the door,

“Rebecita?” (Rebecita.)

“Si?” (Yes?)

“Felipe va a subir de la ventana.” (Felipe is going to climb through the window). Becca glanced at the tiny window six feet up the wall that linked the bathroom and the master bedroom, unsure how anyone, even a small child, would fit through that window.

Suddenly, Felipe’s face appeared in the window,

“Hola, estas bien?” he asked. (Hi, are you ok?)

“Si, estoy bien...y tu?” she replied, unsure what else to say. (Yes, I’m ok...and you?). He grinned at her and then began to pull himself through the tiny window. After several moments of trying to squeeze through the exceptionally small window, he backed out and considered their options. Finally he held up his index finger and then disappeared.

Becca stood for a moment giggling to herself at the complete ridiculousness of the situation. The worst part of it all was that this was not her first rodeo; she’d been locked inside a bathroom twice before; once in Austria and once in Canada. This was shaping up to be a habit she didn’t appreciate. Before she could consider her deeply rooted issues with locks and bathrooms, probably due to some unspoken trauma in her childhood; Felipe’s head appeared in the window again. 

“Los tornillos,” he said. (The screws).

Becca stared at him blankly and then, considering context and logic, pointed to the doorknob and then herself. Felipe nodded. He then very slowly listed instructions which Becca later learned were how to successfully remove the doorknob from the inside of the bathroom. However, in that moment, all Becca heard was unfamiliar words with “tornillo” mixed in several times. It seemed that her brain was rejecting her second language entirely in favor of relying on pure panic instead. 

“...que?” Becca replied after he had finished his sentence and stared at her for a few moments. (...what?)

“Los tornillos,” he repeated slowly and with a calmness she appreciated more than she could say in any language. (The screws).

“Si! Los tornillos!” Becca replied with excitement. (Yes! The screws!)

Again Felipe rattled off instructions, using motions to illustrate his points and again, Becca missed all of it entirely. He stared at her blank expression for a moment, sighed, grinned and then spoke,

“Ok,” he said and disappeared again. (Ok.)

The situation was now quickly turning from funny to a little worrisome. Becca was  certain that she would eventually get out, but she was concerned about the damage her family was willing to do to their door in order to rescue her. As she listened to them speaking outside the door, so was fairly certain she heard the words “just break it.” On the heels of this thought, Felipe appeared again at the window.

“Hola, que tipo de tornillos?” he said very slowly, clearly dumbing down his words. (What kind of screws?) 

Becca looked at him for a moment, she had understood this time but didn’t know the words to respond.

“Estrellas?” he continued. (Stars?)

“Si! Si! Si! Estrellas!” Becca exclaimed. (Yes! Yes! Yes! Stars!). 

Felipe smiled and held out a Philips screwdriver which she quickly took and walked back toward the door. However, Becca quickly realized that she could not position the screwdriver in a way that allowed her access to the screws. This thing simply wasn’t made to be taken apart. 

She turned to Felipe and frowned. He frowned back.

“El...no se la palabra...puerta...no...no tiene...no esta...,” Becca began. (The...I don’t know the word...door...no...it doesn’t have...it isn’t...). She made large motions to show him what she meant. The following minutes were consumed by Becca’s hand motioned and Felipe’s instructions but in the end, neither understood the other; the broken door wasn’t the only barrier at hand. Eventually, Felipe disappeared again.

“Rebecita? Cuidado,” her host mom told her from the other side of the door. (Rebecita? Careful.) 

She quickly backed away from the door and a second later a series of loud bangs knocked the doorknob inward. Removing the doorknob took about thirty minutes, the entire process took at least an hour, but as Becca looked through the hole in the door at her family, she hardly cared about her dashed dreams of going to sleep early that night. 

Upon seeing her clearly distraught face, her family immediately stared to comfort her,

“No te preoculpes,” he host dad said. (Don’t worry).

“No hay problema,” her host mom added. (It’s not a problem).

Her family then spent the next several minutes patching up the door and telling her stories of all the other volunteers who had broken something. They ended with a story about Ruby, her host sister who was currently living in Chile and had broken the bathroom mirror during colegio. The stories didn’t make her feel any better, but the fact that they were telling them definitely did.

When everything was cleaned up and back in its place (except the doorknob of course) Becca went off to bed, moderately concerned about the now knob-less door, but mostly happy that she had a host family who could rescue her from any circumstance, even the most ridiculous.

Goal or No Goal

On the first day of training, Kathy (part of the wonderful training staff) compared their ten weeks in training to going to the beach. Her logic was that things are easier on the beach, you can prepare and train before you have to get in the water (their future posts). One week in, Becca did feel like she was at the beach...well that she was swimming...ok, drowning. At the beginning of week two, Becca was slowly suffocating on a constant stream of health information, Peru information, informaccion de Espanol, safety and security tactics, medical policies, and every time she turned around she was getting a vaccine for something.

“Today you get typhoid, tomorrow rabies,” the doctors told her and she laughed an exhausted, hysterical laugh.

“¡Si Se Puede! Poco a poco,” her Spanish teacher repeated as Becca filled page after pages of her vocabulary flip-book. 

Enrique warned them harshly about the advances young men would no doubt make and what implications their behavior could have. “We don’t have 1st, 2nd, 3rd base here...we play futbol, it’s goal or no goal,” he warned.

The cars honked and the dogs barked and everyone talked far too quickly. Peru was absolutely and entirely...wonderful.

Living in Peru was kind of like falling in love with some one so awesome that they scare the crap out of you. Sometimes literally...as it turned out much of Peace Corps medical training was poop-related. The volunteers were promised that they would poop their pants at least once before leaving. They were told a story of a guy who woke up one morning, did some stretches, bent over and....well. Aw, Peruvian food.

“Don’t trust your farts,” was the advice from Jorge, a highly esteemed medical professional. “You’ll think ‘oh, I’m ok,” and then you’ll need to change your clothes...”

Mixed into the stresses of digestive anxiety, language immersion, and huge communication barriers with her host family, was a wonderful dose of perfection. Even with the world seemingly held together by threads, this was where Becca needed to be.

Wonderdogs and Fiestas - A Peruvian Adventure

There was something terrifying and exhilarating about wandering in a strange land. Of course the terror was substantially lowered as the number of people in the group grew. 

It was a Saturday night in Peru, the first Becca had truly experienced (discounting her first because she was in a retreat center, going to sleep early). Having received invitation to not one, but two parties, Becca was feeling pretty good, but over the course of the night she learned three very important things about her new homeland.

1. The dogs are not your friends (but there are some exceptions - like Becca’s three dogs: Napoleon, Dunca, and Carmelo, but they were really more like hijos than perros)
2. Peruvian dancing is sometimes just walking in a circle with rhythm and but mostly they’re complicated steps that look much easier than they actually are.
3. Most cobrador(a)s* are helpful but when they aren’t the passengers are extra helpful

As Becca and her friends walked to the first party, the birthday of her friend, Lily’s host brother, they noticed the vast number of dogs in Huascaran. In the late afternoon sun, they seemed to be fairly relaxed. By the time they reached the party, were handed a cerveza and started dancing, the dogs were far from their minds. 

Dancing consisted of moving along with the music in small movements usually with interesting footwork. It wasn’t long before Becca found herself dancing the night away to songs in both English and in Spanish. Lily’s host brother, Marcus, loved drinking, dancing, smoking, and laughing which made for a more than interesting time. He showed them an interesting dance where the group really just slowly walks in a circle with some amount of rhythm. He also showed a great affinity for fist pumping.

After a lot of dancing, a little drinking, and a wonderful dinner compliments of Lily’s host mom, the girls decided to go to another fiesta this one in Tres de Octubre. They ventured out together and chatted in the cool night air as they walked. But after a few minutes of walking, they began to notice a trail of street dogs behind them, none of them looking all too friendly. When the first dog barked, a fierce German Shepard, the others began and it wasn’t long before the girls found themselves huddled together watching as the number of growling angry dogs increased. 

Just as Becca was certain they’d end up as street dog dinner, another dog appeared, this one fluffy, white and almost gleeful. He instantly began barking as well but not at the girls. In seconds he had chased the approaching dogs away from the girls and carved a safe path for them. Somewhat relieved, the girl continued forward and the white dog led them, cheerfully jumping in front of them. As they passed each house, the angry dogs around the property began to bark and growl, but each time this happened, the white dog would approach the property and chase the dogs back, keeping the road safe for the girls.

When they reached the main road, the angry dogs were no longer following them and the silence from barking seemed deafening. The white dog looked at them for a moment and then took off down the road to the right before they could even say thank you.

“I want that dog as my personal, full-time body guard,” Lily said and they all nodded in bewildered agreement. 

The rest of their trek to Tres de Octubre was uneventful; a combi ride and a somewhat confusing walk led them to the center where there was loud music, dancing, and the majority of their Cuerpo de Paz group. 

The girls mingled with their friends for a while and watched some of the dancing, but most of their fellow party-goers seemed to be either tired or drunk. While the Peruvians looked calm and collected as they danced, when Becca watched their feet, she noticed that their footwork and rhythm was amazing. They made it look so easy but when Becca tried to copy the dances, her feet simply didn’t speak the language. 

Around eleven, they all began to feel the effects of a long week and headed toward home. They found the main road easily enough and even managed to find enough soles for everyone to ride home on the combi. When they got on the combi, one of the girls told the cobradora that they needed to get off at the main park in Chaclacayo, but as they passed building after building and stop after stop, they became fairly certain she had failed to help them reach their destination. About ten minutes west of Chaclacayo, one of the girls asked the cobradora about it and after some confusion one of the other passengers helped them off the combi and directed them to the stop across the street so they could turn around and get back to Chaclacayo. 

This time, when the girls entered the comb, they made it very clear that they needed to get off at the park in Chaclacayo, no further. The cobrador was very helpful and when the girls nearly got off at the wrong stop (more out of anxiety than understanding), the other passengers and the cobrador stopped them from getting off, making sure they made it safely to their stop.

After a very long day, Becca plopped down on her bed and slept like the dead, dreaming of wonderdogs and fiestas.

*A cobrador/cobradora is the person who stands at the door of the combi (small bus) and opens the door, rushes people on and off, takes fare money and sometimes calls the stops. Combis do not necessarily have regular stops and routes...

Un Dia Malo

Most emotional moments in Becca’s life could be blamed on three words: Are you ok? It seemed that whenever she was getting dow, whenever she was standing on the edge of a mental breakdown, someone would ask her that little question and she would lose it like there was some tear-coaxing magnet in the phrase. And so, when her Spanish teacher turned to her during class on a particularly difficult day and said,

“Rebecca, no habla mucho hoy? Por que? Estas Bien?” she was completely unable to hold it together. Stacked hours and days of constant language immersion, subject immersion and culture immersion will do that to a person.

First she shrugged, knowing she wouldn’t be able to speak, then, the unavoidable tears started to come and she shook her head. She didn’t cry in classes typically, but the Peace Corps was a different animal.

“Esta bien, en mi casa, tengo dias malos tambien, esta bien. Es dificil,” Claudia said and tried to move on.

“Becca, could you find that advil for me, my head is really hurting,” Amanda broke in and Becca nodded quickly, happy for the excuse for escape. Amanda followed her into her room and though Becca tried to search for the advil and ignore the issue at hand, Amanda refused to allow it.

“Come here,” she said and Becca obliged. Amanda hugged her tightly.

“I know,” she said. Becca nodded but she continued. “No, like I really know. I cried all of last night.” They stood like that for a long time, Becca feeling foolish but also relieved and Amanda without hesitation or judgement. Eventually, they broke apart and Amanda told her to look for the advil (which to be fair, Amanda really did need) and come out when she felt better, Becca couldn’t have thanked her enough for that.

(Host) Home

Becca stood next to another voluntario, Jessica, whom she’d only met moments before. They had instantly bonded over their lack of Spanish speaking skills and nervousness to meet their new families. Suddenly Becca leaned to Jessica and whispered,

“I know who my family is,” she looked out at the small group of host parents.

“How do you know which ones they are?” Jessica asked in surprise.

“I don’t know, I have a feeling,” Becca replied and at this moment a friendly looking older couple stepped forward. “That’s my family,” Becca whispered to Jessica and before she could respond, the woman introduced herself.

“Mi nombre es...” the woman began, a kind smile spreading across her face as she gazed at the shell shocked volunteers. Becca looked down at the information page in her hand and read the name in her head over and over; Gloria de Luna, Gloria de Luna, Gloria de Luna...

“Gloria de Luna,” the woman said and Becca practically jumped in the air. Becca stepped forward and greeted her new host mama, Gloria and host papa, Luis, or Lucho. They hugged and kissed and immediately lead Becca to their car to load her numerous bags. Both being under five feet tall, her new host parents nearly fell over lifting her backpack but they would not allow her to help.

On the way home, Gloria and Lucho spoke in happy tones that made Becca feel far too mucho like a dog for her liking, though she did understand some words: Cuerpo de Paz, Voluntario, muy alta, que bien, no entienda. Becca mostly smiled and nodded.

As they pulled up to her new home, Becca was amazed at the size and the beauty of the house. Gloria and Lucho lived within high brick walls which housed a spacious garden, driveway, the main house, and the internet cafe they owned. Not long after the vehicle stopped, Becca met her host brother, Felipe, who was 22, and her host and aunt and uncle.

After moving her bags into her room with the help of the entire family, a very long lunch, and a broken conversation about September 11th with her host uncle, Becca began unpacking her things and was finally alone with her thoughts. However, finding that her thoughts were most saturated in fear, confusion, and a drizzle of homesickness she was trying desperately to suppress, she quickly unpacked her bags and rejoined her family in the dining room.

The conversation was limited at best, and exhausting beyond compare but Becca had never fallen so in love with a group of people so quickly in her life. They had invited this exhausted, illiterate, and probably smelly volunteer into their home and more than that, into their hearts and that was a debt she’d never repay.

Staging, Travel, and Bienvenidos a Peru!

As she sat in the internet cafe telling her mom via Skype all about her last few days, Becca had a massive amount of trouble believing that she was in Peru. That she lived in Peru. That she was, in fact, now a part of a Peruvian family, granted she was the non Spanish speaking kid, but still a part.

Somehow it seemed entirely impossible that she had left her family with a tearful goodbye in the Spokane Airport on Wednesday, been in DC on Thursday, and then Peru on Friday. Wednesday's travel had been easy; baggage fees were waved, window seats were given, the taxi wasn't overly pricey and in the end so made it to her hotel room exhausted from travel.

On Thursday, Becca had coffee with a friend from high school she hadn't seen in several years. They talked for a couple of hours and then Becca walked her to work and went on to see the White House, the Reflecting Pool and the Lincoln Monument. By noon she was in a large meeting room doing paperwork, getting to know her fellow voluntarios and getting entirely overloaded with information. By Thursday night when she had to say goodbye to a boy she cared quite a bit for over the phone, Becca was exhausted emotionally and physically. Though she tried to reassure herself, tears couldn't be entirely dammed up that night.

Friday morning, Becca was up at five, in the lobby at 5:30, on the bus at 6, through boarding information and bag checking by 9, and in the terminal by 9:30. At 1:30, she was in Miami. At 9:10 pm, local time, she was in Lima, Peru. By midnight the bus had taken her to a retreat center about 90 minutes out of Lima and by 1 am, she was asleep.

Saturday contained a whirlwind of paperwork, introductions, questions, and Spanish. Spanish which Becca did not speak. At the end of the day, she went for a walk on the road with some new friends, talked with more new people, and then had a nice dinner and played cards - it was the perfect end to a very long day and she was feeling very good about her group.

Sunday morning, Becca and her training group moved to Chaclacayo, the home of the training center and where they would later meet their host families. After more information and introductions, they saw their host families walking into the grounds and braced for the most important introductions of all.

The Night Before

‘Twas the night before Peace Corps when all through the house,

The computer was still clicking, especially the mouse.

The bags had been packed and set out with care,

In hopes that somehow she’d find room to spare.

The PCV was nestled all snug in her bed,

while nervous excitement danced in her head.

Hoping she remembered a tooth brush and slacks,

she trying to calculate Peruvian tax.

When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter,

she sprang from her bed to see what was the matter.

Away to the front door she sprinted in haste,

but still with a worry she’d forgotten tooth paste...

The moon shone down on late summer’s lawn,

and as she stood there she uttered a yawn.

When, what to her wondering eyes should appear,

but a man dressed in Chacos and light camping gear.

With a worn wide brimmed hat and a polo of white,

A returned volunteer stood in the moonlight.

More rapid than eagles her service had come,

So of his experiences, he said he’d name some.

“First a plane from my hometown and onto DC,

then Pre-Service training to become a great PCV.

Language and other skills they taught in 10 weeks,

to fill up your brain and then check it for leaks.”

He was kind and patient, a vision of help,

She laughed when he’d spoken and gave a small yelp.

With a wink of his eye and a twist of his head,

soon gave her to know she had nothing to dread.

He sprang from the yard, clicked up both his heels,

And away he flew, off to chase pro-deals.

But I heard him exclaim, ‘ere he flew out of sight,

“Dude you’re gonna be fine, it’ll sure be all right.”