Spoons

Some weeks fly by, others just seem to keep going and going. This would be one of those weeks, one of those “Oh my god could this week really go any slower?” weeks. Occasionally, that’s a good thing but not usually. Hence, the saying “Time flies when you’re having fun.” And honestly, things are not that bad, but I’ve had better weeks. Let me explain.

Monday: I rushed to the Health Post for my first sign-up for the improved cooking stove project I organized only to sit there for, oh, six hours. One person happened to stop by and chat and, as an afterthought, signed up for his FREE stove. As everyone in my community was well-informed I expected an impressive turn-out.

Tuesday: I lost my cell-phone for the second time.

Wednesday: My six year old friend informed me that the neighbor stole bamboo from me.

Thursday: An unexpected visit from my friend Susan, alarmed that I might be dead in a ditch because I wasn’t answering my phone, came at the perfect time. However, in the midst of our jubilant reunion she delicately broke the news that, due to the problems the municipality was experiencing during the Presupuesto Participativo process, it is no longer valid. In other words, I will most likely not receive money to do an improved cooking stove project.

Friday: Before I describe the seemingly insignificant event which provoked tears later as I was talking with the nurses at the health-post, let me back up to Thursday. As Susan was going to leave, my host-mom yelled at me for leaving my dirty dishes on the table. At this point, she must have noticed that I had, heaven forbid, borrowed one of her spoons. Now, back to Friday, I discovered that my host-mom had moved all of her silverware, a plethora really, to the only lockable drawer in her hutch, surely to prevent me from furtively stealing more of her apparently precious spoons. Maybe I’m over-reacting, but I’ve lived with this woman for NINE months. By now I imagined she would be affectionately calling me hija (daughter), a possibility which long ago went out the window. The least I could have hoped for was that, by this point she would care for me enough to share a spoon. I’d been living with the delusion that, despite her unfriendly façade, she secretly cared for me, but no one locks up her spoons from a trusted companion.

Also on Friday morning, she told me she wouldn’t be back until later in the afternoon, so I should prepare my own lunch. That was normal enough, but then she returned by 11:30 and ate with the neighbors and didn’t invite me, which culturally is insulting given the importance placed on sharing food with others. Basically, I’ve been living with a passive-aggressive old woman for the better part of a year, and I could go on about all of the little things she has done and not done to make me feel straight-up lousy, but, in general, I’ve had enough. So, I don’t know when or where, but I’m moving.

Weeks like this provoke plenty of thought about my actual purpose for being here. By that, I don’t even mean to suggest that I’ve considered leaving, because I’ve never come close. But it is natural to grasp for an explanation of why things aren’t going smoothly and very difficult when no simple explanation exists. I can not justify my disappointment in a lack of support from my community and my host-mom when, in all reality, it was my own decision to become a volunteer. Yes, they did request a volunteer, but can you blame them if they didn’t really understand the Peace Corps philosophy or care about it for that matter? It is difficult to understand the lack of involvement on the part of my community, when I can see how affective little changes in lifestyle could be. But couldn’t the majority of the human population be blamed for the same apathy? It’s not fair to place the blame on anyone when the factors behind the situation are, in all reality, so complicated as to be nearly indecipherable.

- - - - - -

I encountered another creature in my room—an owl. I think it was a Subtropical Pygmy Owl, but I’m generally terrible at bird identification.

- - - - - -

When I first arrived at site the nurses at the health post insisted on measuring my height because I didn’t know it in centimeters. Now, I’m pretty good at math, but I’m also lazy when it comes to doing math in my head. Thus, I took their measurement of 190cm as veritable fact and told everyone who asked that I was indeed 190cm. As they view me as somewhat of a giant, everyone believed me. I started doubting myself when a couple of times males who were taller than me reported their heights in the high 170s. Nonetheless, I never bothered to double check the measurement. Then recently I was watching the Olympics and the U.S. basketball team happened to come on. I wasn’t listening that intently, but when the announcer chanced to mention the height of Koby Bryant, a staggering 198cm, it caught my attention. I’d been telling everyone that I was nearly as tall as Koby Bryant!