My Toenails Aren’t Growing (And Other Concerns)

One evening after a far-too-long long day,

I stretched out on my bed to drift away,

Then looked down at my feet,

A strange thought I did meet,

My nails haven’t changed since last May...

Surely the polish had started to chip,

But all sign of growth had taken a dip,

When I glanced at my fingers,

Where polish yet lingers,

I found the same thing on those tips.

For that matter where did these bumps come from,

And my ears have developed a permanent hum,

My knee hurts when I hike,

My shoulders when I bike,

And my tailbone’s now permanently numb.

Some days there’s a quick sprint to the bathroom,

On others I long for the need for that zoom,

When with other PCVs*

It’s topics like these,

Make me wonder if I’ll ever find a groom.

In the mornings I wake with a sore throat and back,

I think that I’m shrinking from the calcium I lack,

Do I have a parasite,

I think that I might,

The cure will surely be watching TV on my mac.

All of my hair is turning grey or falling out,

I have six new moles from cancer no doubt,

Host mom says it’s the cold,

Or that my coffee’s too bold,

Oh and I’m sure I’m developing gout.

It’s crazy though, each day I’m sure that I’m dying,

But if I said I’d like to go home, I’d be lying,

Toenail growth or no,

Toilets as friend or foe,

When I leave here I know I’ll be crying.

*Peace Corps Volunteers

Higado

It was no secret that Becca had had a rough start to her Peace Corps service, or perhaps it was to some, either way, times had been less than desirable in those early months. But a strange sort of shift had started within her that she couldn’t have seen coming. 

The day that she did finally notice it left her in a brilliant mixture or glee and total shock. Sitting at lunch with two friends, Monica and Gina, during vacation, Becca ordered a menu which consisted of soup, a main course and a drink. As they chit-chatted, the truth came out.

“I really like this place and it’s so sunny, I feel like I never---,” Monica began.

“Score!” Becca exclaimed staring into her soup. Sifting through with her spoon for a moment, she revealed a small, smooth, brownish blob. “I got higado*! I love higado!” She plopped it in her mouth and grinned wildly as she chewed.

“Becca...” Monica began, but stopped short, running out of whatever thought she’d had as she watched Becca, still enjoying her soup while bopping about to the loud peruvian music playing in the street.

“Oh sorry, I cut you off, what were you saying?” Becca said innocently.

“Are you dancing?” Monica asked, still confused.

“How can you not dance to this music? It’s so catchy, I love this song,”

“Becca...” Monica began again. “Who are you right now?”

Becca paused for a moment and looked at her grinning friend and found herself confused for a moment as well. In a matter of months the girl who never danced and would have blanched at the thought of higado was...well, this...? “I have no idea, I’ll keep you posted,” she answered and finished her soup.

*Higado = Liver

Early "Winter" in Photos

Becca's story was beginning to tell itself in photos, but she figured that probably wasn't the worst thing that could happen. (Photos from: Día de Logro, Camp VALOR, and a friend's wedding!)

Learning, Failing, and Carrying On

If she was being completely honest, English class, at least as far as comprehension and any actually education, had been a bust. Though she had a suspicion at mid-term exams, the final exams confirmed it with average scores of 50% on a test of only easy vocabulary review.

It was a lesson that education is not the same in different countries, it was a lesson that a lot of parents don't put their children's education's first, it was a lesson that sometimes things fail. Hard.

The good side was that the kids were cute, a couple of them did learn a lot, and Becca remembered that teaching is a learning process too.

¡Sillas Musicales!

After nearly two months of teaching English, Becca had learned three very important things about Peruvian students.

1. They can outlast even the most resilient kid from the United States in refusing to answer questions and creating an awkward silence.
2. They do not respond to games the same way that US students do.

Becca had tried Capture the Flag with brooms instead of flags, which had resulted in two minutes of madness and running around followed by the mysterious appearance of not one, not two, not even three, but four brooms...

She’d tried Pictionary with vocabulary words which had resulted in a lot of guesses to quiet to hear and a few more loud enough but only spoken in Spanish.

She’d had high hopes for English Jeopardy, but that had only brought on long silences and confusion.

Finally, in a fit of frustration, Becca had pulled out her computer and ordered her students to take their chairs outside and form a circle. 

“¿Conocen en juego...Sillas Musicales?” she asked, ready to explain when the answer was no. (Do you know the game Musical Chairs?)

“Yes!” many of the students said at once and grins began to spread around the circle like wildfire.

“Yes?” Becca was surprise. “Ok, vamos a jugar y cuando una persona falta una silla, tiene contestar una pregunta sobre vocabulario de inglés.” (Ok, let’s play and when some one doesn’t find a chair, they have to answer an English vocabulary question.)

The music started and each students started walking cautiously around the outside of the circle of chairs. When the music came to a stop, the frantic scramble of chaos went on until only one was left standing, Erika. Becca motioned her over and Erika stumped a bit, walking begrudgingly toward her.

“Como se dice cama en inglés?” Becca asked. (How do you say bed in English?)

“Como?” Erika asked. (Excuse me?)

“Cama,” (Bed)

“Como?”

“Cama,” this set off a round of giggles they’d all done so well to hold in, even Becca found herself fighting a terrible case. When they’d finally calmed a bit, Erika seemed to understand and thought about the question, obviously trying to conjure unpracticed vocabulary into her brain.

“Eehhhhh,” she began and the noise turned into a half sigh, half panicked hope for an answer that finished off with the beginnings of a fit of giggles. The other students followed suit, again giggling themselves silly and again Becca couldn’t help but join in. 

Eventually the silliness died down a bit, a few questions were answered correctly, but the activity accomplished more in saving some of Becca’s sanity than anything else had in the last three months.

What´s Your Name?

            “I’m going to speak in English and Spanish today. I’m going to...speak...in English...and...Spanish...today,” Becca said the words slowly and precisely, trying not to laugh at the panicked expressions staring back at her. She explained twice more in English and then broke down each word with the Spanish translation.

            In the day of English Teaching training they’d had, the point had been brought up that language classes should always be taught in the language, but that that was extremely difficult and possibly not realistic. However, Becca had had an amazing Spanish teacher in the beginning of her training, Pilar. Pilar had never once broken into English to explain anything, she’d painstakingly explained and reexplained, used hand motions and generally done everything possible to pound Spanish into her brain. So standing in front of a bewildered class of eleven to fifteen year olds, she pushed forward in what she thought of as 80% English (she wasn’t as good as Pilar, but she’d try to get close).

            Whenever she got frustrated or they got frustrated or it was just too hot or the day was too long, Becca had one thought: What would Pilar do? Of course, this usually meant dancing around, yelling, singing, or miming but hey, those kids were going to learn English.

Bastante Calor

There had been a lot of walking that week. A lot of walking and a lot of sun. Becca and her site-mate, Lily, found themselves on the road yet again without sign or sound of a combi, mototaxi, or colectivo for what felt like hours. They’d been visiting the surrounding caserios for days and while travel to each site was simple enough, catching any sort of travel back was rough. And so, they walked.

And walked.

And walked.

Until finally Lily had had enough.

“Shade,” she murmured and crossed the dirt road. She plopped herself down on a log and closed her eyes. “It’s so hot.” Becca nodded.

They waited for a few minutes, happy to sit in the shade, but no combis passed and eventually dogs from one of the farms started to approach. Becca immediately feel panic flood through her even though they appeared to just be playing.

“So maybe let’s walk,” Becca said already turning to speed walk down the road. Lily dragged herself up and followed. But there was a lot of walking that week. And a lot of sun.

“I think my brain is melting,” Becca remarked.

“There’s dust in my eyes...and my nose...and...just...everywhere,” Lily replied.

Becca perked up as she saw a horse standing nearby. Oddly, the horse stood in a ditch about four feet deep on the side of the road eating the grass that was growing at the bottom of the ditch.

“Horse,” Lily said. No response.

“He doesn’t speak English, caballo,” she waited, but still no response.

“I’m a little concerned that he’s only tied to a bushel of grass...” Lily noted.

“He’s not going to jump out of a ditch that deep,” Becca replied. The horse blew air from its nose producing a deeply horsy noise. Becca imitated the sound and Lily imitated after. They carried on like this several times, but fairly certain the sun had instead melted their brains.

Then, without warning, the horse turned to them, Becca cooed at it and before their eyes it leapt from the ditch and onto the road. Without a moment’s considerations both girls screamed, turned around, and took off running, their arms waving wildly above their heads.

When they looked back, the horse was standing solidly, eating grass from the side of the road, though Becca swore she could see a glimmer of a smirk.

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.

Morose

            Becca was feeling morose and perhaps a bit deflated. Maybe it was the holidays, or the lack of snow, or maybe it was receiving communication from some one at home she wasn’t yet quite ready to talk to, or the heat, or the language barrier, or illness that had persistently ravaged her digestive system for over a week. The Peace Corps doctors had a theory that with all of the factors of daily life in the campo, it was nearly impossible to figure out what exactly made you sick. Becca was beginning to think that applied to her mental health as well.

            She could already feel herself burning out hard; feeling that she couldn’t get anything accomplished, that she’d never learn Spanish, that she wasn’t going to be a good volunteer. How could this all be hitting her during month four...when she still had 23 more to go? Rationally, she knew it was likely normal, that nothing she was feeling was new, but the rational part of her was tired.

            She resigned herself to creating a new work plan, talking to more people, finally running in the mornings, talking to other volunteers, and remembering that time is all relative. It wasn’t a total fix but it was going to have to work. And in those moments when she really struggled she remembered the words of another volunteer; that everything passes in a few days, if you’re sad for a few days, wait, it’ll get better. She believed it would.

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.