Thank you for your responses to my post last week! They really make me feel good to know people are reading what I write and feel inspired to comment.
Let’s see if I can keep up the good work…
I’ve now been in San Lorenzo for a little more than a week, and a few things have been clarified for me. First off, Vilma and her husband don’t live full time here, but it seems that with the new baby they are in need of some support. The baby, who currently doesn’t have a name, is celebrating his 23rd day of life today! Doña Mayra is more than willing, of course, to cook, clean, and care for the young ones with Vilma while Julio works, and they seem to stay for a few days at a time and then go back to Julio’s (Julio’s parents?) house. So while it can be a little stressful in the early morning when everyone is trying to get ready for the day, it’s not usually as bad as I previously thought.
On that note, I would like to register my growing distaste for bucket baths. It’s not that the practice is so bad—I’ve actually become pretty good at getting the water to wet what it’s supposed to—it’s just that it’s pretty uncomfortable taking a bucket bath in 55 degree weather with 55 degree water. Let me paint a picture for you, if I may:
It’s 6:43 in the morning. I’ve just brushed my teeth, taken my morning constitutional, and have stepped into the bathing closet, closed the door, and undressed. It’s brisk outside, and goose bumps are already beginning to form on my arms and legs. In collegiate vernacular, I’m “nipping out hardcore.” The water, taken directly from the spigot on the wall, fills the basin. I test it with my hand, grimace, and fill the dog-bowl-sized guacal (essentially, the “scooper”). With a wide stance, bent as far over at the waist as I can possibly be, I timidly dip my head into the frigid liquid. It’s not so bad. One might even call it refreshing. My head is somewhere in the vicinity of my knees, and all the water trickles up, past my ear, and spills onto the ceramic drainage basin. No water has touched me below the neck; so far, so good. I put shampoo into my hand, lather my hair, and let sit. Now comes the bad part. I sigh loudly. Now comes the cold part. Standing upright, I refill the guacal and bring it to mid chest. I take a deep breath, count to three, and pour it on myself.
A slew of words escape my mouth, some English, some gibberish, most consisting of four letter words or their offshoots, and all of which are thoroughly unprintable. If there was any doubt before, there can be none now: My body would rather be dirty than go through this every day. The first few are the worst—stomach, armpits, back…after that my body enters a mild sort of shock and doesn’t register the abuse it’s receiving with as much clarity. I scrub my body, rinse my hair, and then reach for my towel. One shower down, 76 more (but probably more like 800) to go.
I suppose I could ask Doña Mayra to heat water up for me, but since she’s already up before all of us getting breakfast (from scratch) ready, I don’t want to burden her with heating my bath water, too. She did it for the first couple of days, but she’s since stopped and I don’t have the desire to ask her to continue. When I’m able, I try to shower during midday when it’s warmer, but more and more often we’re doing something during training that takes up our entire lunch break. Frequently, the morning is the only time I can shower.
Besides that one uncomfortable aspect at the beginning, my days are starting to settle into an easy routine. Wake up, do Peace Corps, eat, do Peace Corps, fall asleep around 9pm, repeat. I’m finding San Lorenzo more and more charming. Everyone is exceedingly polite and friendly to me, a fact which Francisco (“the not-family-but-living-with-us-
It’s becoming more and more obvious that my family is very wealthy by Guatemalan standards. Don Tereso, Jacobo, and Fráncis all work 6 days per week, and I’m assuming the children’s money goes towards the general family fund. We have two cars and, as of Friday afternoon, a brand new motorcycle. Don Tereso and I had a rather frank discussion about the differences between Guatemala and the US the other day, and he told me that he makes about 400 Quetzales per week (about 50 US Dollars). They’re getting an additional 450Q from the Peace Corps for hosting me, and assuming that Francisco pays ¾ of that for his rent, that’s still only about 7,500 dollars per year. Add 350Q each for Jacobo and Fráncis, and it bumps it up to 12,000 USD. It makes me feel kind of guilty for spending what I did on my tuition…
I took Doña Mayra’s sister’s 10, 5, and 3 year old children (my host-nephews?) to the circus on Saturday. I can’t recall if I mentioned in my last post that there’s one parked just up the street from me. I had already gone once before, but they kept making it obvious that they wanted to go, if only they had the money. At first I was a bit uncomfortable about it—if I paid then, would I always be expected to act as a source of money? Would I box myself into the very common stereotype around here of rich gringo? Then I noticed just how they were asking: They never explicitly requested, but instead kept circling around it. “I’ve never been to a circus, and tonight is the last night”; “I would go if I could, but my mother doesn’t have the pista [cash]”; “Don’t you want to go to the circus again before it leaves?” This lines up well with my more general observation of everyone being hesitant to explicitly say no. Instead, they too dance around it without explicitly saying it. Does indirect questioning breed indirect answering? Eventually, I decided that I could afford the amount, 20Q for all four of us (about $2.50), and it seemed an equitable exchange for this valuable bit of cultural information. For this relatively low price, I had learned out how to approach subjects here that I want but shouldn’t ask for. As we left, any remaining doubt was erased; their faces were truly priceless.
No comments:
Post a Comment