Two weeks in and come Tuesday of the third week, I was NOT feeling it. Not feeling training, not feeling the other volunteers, the staff, the classes, the tone, the schedule, the emphasis, nada. NOT NO NADA. I sat at one of the plastic white tables on one of the plastic white chairs and drank out of a generic white coffee cup in front of a flat powerpoint screen for most of the day. I didn’t smile, I wasn’t happy. I felt like poison was coursing through my blood. I felt equal parts anger and devastation, a paralyzing combination. I sat and looked down at my paper, doodling. I think a lot of people asked if I was okay. I’m not sure how I replied. Colorful, Goofy, Participatory First Impression Natalie was somewhere in my dirty clothes. I still hadn’t learned how to wash clothes here yet.

But Week Three didn’t ask me, it sho ’nuff did not ask me, what I wanted.

Usually we go in to the office on Tuesdays for a powerpoint refill and shots. Week Three we went in twice, two days in a row. This means bus stop at 6:30am to get the office by 8. This means breakfast at 6 to leave by 6:20 to get to the bus stop by 6:30. This means waking up at 5:40 which is la madrugada (waking hour) but might as well be the witching hour. From Ciudad Vieja to Antigua, I take a camioneta (US school bus retooled into public transportation). In Antigua, I greet the other volunteers with hugs, maybe buy coffee, walk to the other side of the plaza and wait for the Peace Corps microbuses (mee-crows). We take the micros from Antigua to the office (20 minute ride or so) bumping knees and elbows with the other volunteers and rocking right along.

Tuesday started with presentations on sexual health, pregnancy in peace corps and how that is addressed among volunteers. I spiraled into an oozy slump. The statistics on how many volunteers get pregnant every year were more than I expected. Shocking as it may be, finding a sexual partner or even escapades while I’m here is not even on my list of to-do’s. I was sad at the thought of women in peace corps being med-evac’d home to get an abortion and then return to teaching Guatemalan kids about sexual health. I know that mistakes happen, I believe that abortion is actually not a simple issue, but I just can’t believe that finding yourself pregnant in peace corps is a responsible choice. I’m not trying to argue against women’s rights or judge anyone, but it stung in a place I didn’t know it would.

To provide further context: I grew up in a strictly abstinence until marriage, pro-life household. Being the daughter of a pastor only intensified the need to stick to the straight and narrow. I’m not saying that’s where I find myself now (when in fact, the only place I can say with certainty I find myself is Guatemala).
I realized I was experiencing culture shock: culture shock of MY VERY OWN CULTURE. I left behind my religious/conservative family in the south (as I’ve done many times before) to go further south and find myself in the care of Washington DC. As Washington is the herald of progress in my homeland, I’m hearing things and learning things and seeing things from a different perspective about my own country. And I’m not even here to learn about my own country. I’m here to represent my own country, not be shocked by it. The things one cannot anticipate.

But what I keep finding is that I learn more and more about my own country every day. I’m learning the latest policies on gender roles, gender expectations, sexual health, sexual expectations, and so on. In fact, there’s a giant fishbowl of multi-colored condoms perched on the desk of the medical office. Tootsie roll, condom, rabies vaccine, anyone? The next morning, the group split up into sub-groups (like we do at least 5 times a day in training) and got markers, a marker board and a topic. I was with the other female volunteers, the guys volunteers were another group, and female and male professors made up groups 3 and 4. Our Topic: SIGNALS YOU GIVE WHEN YOU ARE INTERESTED IN SEX. 

Hold on, let me ask my inner self:

So, I stood with the married ladies in the group and said nothing. In fact, I read the list and realized that I can’t even LOOK at anyone in Guatemala without implying sex, not if I can’t dance with someone in the US without implying it. My other female co-volunteers were suggesting: “Dancing, grinding, having deep conversation, snuggling, eating a meal together..” and I wanted to crawl into a hole with a jar of peanut butter and a coloring book called Freedom and never come out. So stupid. I understand why they were having the session because we are grown women and the overwhelming majority of us, according to statistics in Washington, will be sexually active within the first year of service. Are you overwhelmed at reading this or is it just me and Sister Mary Joseph holding the lynx?

I felt so isolated and so dumb and so lost, within myself and without myself, and I was with a group of young Americans. What’s it going to be like when I am living in a pueblo explaining to an indigenous population that living in the United States is not actually anything like the movie Pretty Woman?

And to add another tortilla, learning Spanish is not easy and I was feeling very aware of the fact. I am often wrong and corrected constantly. I eat beans every day. I eat tortillas. I like beans and I like tortillas. And I eat them every day. I don’t poop every day. And then on Thursday night I learned by experience that there were fleas in my bed. I don’t think this is what Peace Corps meant when they referred to being sexually active. I woke up the next morning with bites and there were ants in my cereal. My host mom got the ants out by shaking the cereal in a strainer and pouring it back into my bowl.

Week Three just wasn’t my week, man. I talked to Johanna, our healthcare provider, and I felt slightly less weighted. I talked to Rocío, my project manager, and I felt slightly less weighted. But I was still feeling inexplicably poisoned.

My friends kept checking on me but I wasn’t sure what to say. I wanted to tell them: “You’re seeing the real me. The melancholy, introverted, agitated, uncertain, inchoate Natalie. HERE SHE IS GUATEMALA. POUR ME SOME SALSA AND SEND ME TO EL CAMPO.”

And the week culminated in a three hour Mayan ceremony on Saturday. 25 Estadounidenses sat around a small fire and watched a small woman in indigenous ropa circle the fire and call us up, nahual by nahual, to put candles into the flames and return to the circle. Then we ate a giant lunch as the chuchos (street dogs) hovered closely for scraps. I drank 2 cokes out of need for familiarity. I don’t even drink coke at home.

On Sunday, I dressed up for a confirmation. The dress ended above my knees and my only formal shoes had heels. As I walked to church, I was greeted by all manner of men passing by on motorcycles, in trucks, guiding donkeys, whistled at, “hey baby!,” gawked at (to be honest, Alaska wasn’t that different except trade out donkeys for slugs).

It wasn’t my week.

Then Amanda and I went on a hunt for choco-fruit. We left the Confirmation church ceremony after 30-minutes standing in a crowded entryway.

We bought two choco-bananas for 1 quetzal each (15 cents), one choco-coconut and one choco-papaya. We walked up and down Fourth Avenue talking and catching up and being. Then we went to the party for the confirmation. There were a bunch of teenagers and so we danced with them. Then we drove home and I went to sleep. New language classes started Monday with a new teacher, and it was suddenly a new week.

Week Four started whether or not I was ready and through it I found myself eventually feeling normal again. I was surprised that the fleas went away after I sprayed my room and washed the bedding.

The cold water in the shower prevaileth, my Spanish is still hopping along like a three-legged tongue, and I ate my first Fried Kentucky Guatemala yesterday and felt like an engorged rat the rest of the afternoon.

But, the idea is to keep moving. Poco a poco. Right Sister Mary Joseph?