Week 27 - Early Mornings: Suck.

They say that the morning starts out with a quiet calm, and those up early enough catch the worm. Let me tell you: If the person weren’t so sleep-addled, they would realize they have no need for a worm to begin with. After almost 7 months of Peace Corps life, I can tell you that my relationship to the dawn has drastically changed.

The day's genesis isn't always bad, it just feels that way at the time. When I first stir at 5:10am, wipe the sleep bogeys from my eyes, and stumble over to the toilet followed by the percolator (rarely confusing the two pots), I can hardly appreciate the way the mist rolls through the trees and down the mountain behind my house. I can barely stand that soft chirping of sparrows, and truly despise the rustic call of a rooster echoing along the valley.

Gone are the days of forcing myself to bathe as soon as I awake. Our shower is solar-heated, and while you can have a truly divine experience later in the afternoon (just before the rains), at 5am it’s no better than the river. My body has awoken to a hot shower almost every morning since 8^th grade. Even those terrible 8:30am “1a” classes in college usually were preluded by a quick rinse. Now waking up at 8:00 seems like an unfathomable luxury. Oh, how spoilt was I!

During high school I always took a certain amount of pride in the maximal efficiency of my morning routine. It was a team effort, not unlike those rapid pit stops during Nascar races: Wake up at 6:33, out of the shower by 6:45, dressed by 6:48, and out the door by 6:55. I had memorized each split, and the slightest slip from any of my pit crew—“Dad, get out of the damned shower!; Mom, peanut butter that bread faster!”—was enough to upset my morning. Today it’s the same race, but a different course, a solo dune buggy sprint across a feral landscape: Up by 5:12, urinated by 5:16, coffee started by 5:18, pack my bag for the day by 5:21, coffee off the burner by 5:22, and then head back to the bathroom to brush, primp, and deuce. Of course there’s usually no water that early in the morning, so precious minutes are wasted going to the pila with a bucket and bringing back enough water to manually trigger the flush mechanism.

By the time I return to my room for the second time, my coffee has cooled enough to drink, and I spend a few more minutes feebly trying to appreciate it while reading an online article of the New York Times. That first taste of coffee, now taken with a half-spoon of sugar and no milk, is good, but my dozing taste buds can hardly make the distinction between this organic, hand-picked, from the finca previously just-for-family-but-now-also-a-few-select-gringos and that brown swill that's patented by Nescafé.

I toss on my pants—those same dungarees that I’ve been wearing with adroit comfort for 22 consecutive days now—but the coffee has already begun to stagger in its daily war against the tentacles of that beast Slumber. In a final excruciating feat of masochism, I make my bed and flop out the door.

The time says 5:55am.

I live on the very outskirts of town, and walking to the center to beg a ride up the mountain takes just under four minutes. By the time a suitable chariot is found, the caffeine is starting to hit my system. I perk up a little, especially now that the siren song of my bed is drowned out by the chug of a poorly maintained combustion engine and a concentrated effort to not fall backward out of the pick-up bed. The wind is fierce, and I’m jealous of those older/cooler/more pregnant teachers who have secured a seat in the cab. My butt begins to hurt from the rock-strewn road’s constant jolts. I tell my butt to shut up. I’m in the Peace Corps, damn it. It reminds me that this is not that type of hardship it signed up for, and furthermore, I’m talking to my ass. Point, butt.

There are only cars moving along the mountain in the early morning and in the mid-afternoon, so while we are coming up the mountain workers are usually coming down to work in the lower fields or in Huehue. Despite the fact that they see me almost every day, the workers, all indigenous, gawk and whisper. I’ve become more brazen, too; while they stare at me coming up, I stare back. Neither side is willing to give in, their bemusement against my indignation, so we rotate like geriatric sprinklers, hardly blinking as we pass. This uncomfortable dance finishes when the road finally makes another of its ungainly switchbacks, blocking us from each other’s view. In the wind I hear a final Mam catcall of me’xj (pronounced “mesh”; lit. guy-with-the-hair-made-of-corn-silk). Despite the fact most people in the US would consider my hair to be some synonym of dark brown, here in Guatemala there are only variations on the shade of black. Since mine is not equally jet, I automatically get lumped into the category of “blond.”

Trying to distract myself from my growing discomfort allows for a lot of planning: I plan my walk. I plan my pit stops. I plan how I’m going to get back down the mountain, and if there’s anyone I can guilt into giving me a ride. I typically visit two schools each day, and and that means four to seven miles of walking. If I finish early for the day and don’t want to wait for the afternoon cars, it means another ten or more to get home. The Peace Corps does not allow me to own a motorcycle, and the mountains are too steep to use a bike. I often fantasize about owning a hang glider.

The truck stops and I get out. The time says 7:15am. I have reached my job site. It’s time to begin my day.

The photos, an equal mix of work and the walks between, can be found at https://picasaweb.google.com/sigrinj/Week27?authkey=Gv1sRgCL31itPUieWRqgE