On Tuesday night, I couldn’t sleep. A mac track of tasks hit me: packing for a travel day the next day, packing for leaving forever, plus all the work I had to do tomorrow. All of this was stacked with emotions about returning to Santa Lucía Milpas Altas where I haven’t been since February. Since before the break-up. It’s a place that’s packed with memories and some that I know will make me profoundly sad. Not to mention it’s the Peace Corps office, and being in the office is a flurry of trying to get things done and getting refills on what you need, utilizing free printing, going to medical appointments in the city and chasing down staff. Then you’re supposed to be social and chat with all the volunteers when you see them, and then share rooms with them at the Hotel Mirador. You can use the Peace Corps kitchen, but otherwise you have to eat out every meal which gets pricey on a volunteer budget. I’ve finessed the art of office visits but still, there is only so much you can accomplish. It’s a cluster.

PLUS when I returned to Santa Clara, I would have my despedida party the next day. In the States, it’s normal that someone might throw a party for you, but here, you throw the party, pay for the cake(s), rent the chairs and tables, all the while guessing how many will come because RSVP no existe. And neither does saying: “Sorry, I can’t be there.” So I was running around making it rain quetzales in Santa Clara at the same time packing to leave, packing to move and wrapping up work.

So I was tired and had a lot to accomplish when I pushed myself out of bed on Wednesday. I boiled my water, poured it over the coffee grounds while brushing my teeth and addressing my still unhealthy bathroom situation. My poop was problematic since Saturday, and continued..

After the last two charlas of my diplomado, ever, the teacher apologized. She said: “I’m so sorry it’s just that my..” explaining why she was reading from the paper for the majority of the session. But her posters looked good. At this point, I don’t care. Some teachers adapted the content and made it good, others less so. But they will still get their diplomas.

Next I ran home, and finished preparing my documents to print off for my afternoon staff meeting. I still had to go meet with the Municipal Counsel to say goodbye. I got to the Muni and asked Johanna, the secretary, if I should wait or print. Eventually I left to print. Otherwise I was just going to sit in the big wooden chairs and wait. That’s what you do in the campo. You wait. After successfully compiling my folders for each of my work partners, I went back to the muni. After 5 more minutes Johanna said: “Pase adelante.”

I walked in and was immediately sweating. THE MUNICIPAL COUNSEL. I wasn’t sure what I was doing there, what I was supposed to say, other than “Gracias y Con Permiso.” (Thank you and excuse me). In my two years I didn’t work with the counsel, and I had little contact with the Mayor. When I first arrived to site, I brought him my marco de trabajo, my project framework, in an envelope that was labeled Señor Alcalde. Ever since our brief interaction, we pass like ships in the night or perhaps more relevant: tuk-tuks that don’t honk at each other.

But I had to say Thank You. And Goodbye. So I launched into my speech… “In my country, we don’t have palabras de bienvenida. We have one palabra and it is bienvenido.” They laughed. I gave them a recap of my work and my project, the amount of time I lived in Santa Clara, and what I will always carry with me from the pueblo. I told them my country doesn’t have the richness of culture that Guatemala does, and that I hope my students in Guatemala can appreciate what is so beautiful about this place. After I finished thanking them again, we paused. Señor Alcalde spoke. “Primero que nada, Buenas Tardes Natalia- Natalia va?” (He had to confirm that that was my name). “Hemos tenido varios voluntarios aquí en Santa Clara pero creo que Natalia y Santa Clara hicieron un ‘clic.'” I took that as a good thing, smiled. I think he was saying that we clicked… I felt sweaty, nervous, under pressure, until I had to get up and hand-shake/kiss-cheek the 15 people around the table. When I finished, I felt like I had run a cultural marathon, uphill.

I remember when I went to introduce myself to the counsel when I first arrived (December 2016). José came with me, he was another volunteer. He helped me practice my words because Spanish was still unscalable. He said, say “Soy dispuesta hacer…” And I said: “What is dispuesta?” And he said: “Willing.” OK Willing. I am willing to… What am I willing to do? Dedicate 27 months of my life? To what? Service. Make this pueblo, that I don’t really know, better?

José took a picture of us at the end. I’ll never forget him doing that for me.

And now, over two years later, I walked into the Mayor’s office, with the municipal counsel present, and improvised in Spanish. I think that I said everything I was meant to say and didn’t make any major cultural mistakes. I made sure to start by acknowledginging the: “Señor Alcalde.” Maybe I forgot the “Señor”?? Ahh! I don’t know! I was still sweating but I felt a rush, recognizing and feeling that I had achieved more than I realized in Santa Clara. I could speak Spanish, and mix in some words in K’iche’, and I didn’t have to think about it.

I ran home, I had to finish securing my bags for the afternoon trip, eat lunch, and be in the Educational Supervision Office at 1 de la tarde en punto.

As I walked out of my room, I heard a meow. MEESH had entered my room! And stayed in there. He’s only even come in a handful of times.. My host family clapped their hands and scolded him as he ran down the steps.

I got home and walked in to the kitchen, the ladies were finishing lunch. I told them how nervous I was when I talked to the Mayor today, and the counsel. “Qué dijiste?” my host mom said. Wide-eyed. And I recounted the meeting before running upstairs to get my stuff and leaving my coffee thermos. As I walked down the steps, I saw that Clara was crying. I said: “Ka bisontaj Ali…” “Don’t be sad, Señorita” and then the wheels came off. She started crying, Host Mom saw her crying and started crying, and then Abuelita stood between them, not sure what to do. I held Clara in my arms, her head resting against my chest like she is my child because of our dramatic difference in height. I knew what sparked this: my suitcase.

We all know I am going to leave, but when you see a suitcase, you know. And you cry. Of course, me leaving reminds them of when they’re sister/daughter/sobrina Rosario died. It’s a long story but the point is, I sort of took her place. And now I am leaving. So it reminds them of when she left, too, forever. And we were all crying. And I had to go. I told them not to cry, but I wasn’t sure what would happen when the door closed behind me. I’ve only been crying for the vast majority of 2019: what could I expect?

I shoveled down my 15Q lunch of Chao Mein at the yellow comedor. I got a picture with my favorite Chao Mein that Tanya and I ate together, and said was our favorite, and I paid and ran out. I didn’t even finish my coke. I ran to the supervisión and walked up just in time. One principal was there, there were supposed to be three more. We waited for the others. After the second principal arrived, we started. I had to watch the clock because the Peace Corps shuttle waits for no one.

I presented the folder and jumped right into explaining what it was. This meeting was meant to formally wrap-up my time in Santa Clara with my work partners. It was a summary of my scope of work. I realized, as Lic Enrique started speaking, that I had to back-up and give words. Thank you, Lic, for inviting a Youth in Development volunteer to Santa Clara… Thank you for the partnership that we formed in the schools..” etc etc. And then I said: “Maybe I should leave a space so we can look over the information.” After a few minutes, we discussed the parts where I mentioned ‘Retos’ in my packet (challenges). I said: “Lack of respect on the part of the students” “Lack of co-facilitation in the classroom, or presence of teachers with the volunteer, during her sessions.” Crickets.

It was awkward. I felt like tugging on my shirt collar, that’s how awkward it was. And I was reminded why it’s important that I move on. I took on the project Youth in Development, and hoped it would make a difference, but struggled to find interest in my community on the part of my counterparts or youth participants. I managed to get a little bit of traction but for 95% of it, like my host sister says, Chipilín. Nothing.

Then the three directors gave me palabras. They didn’t have feedback, but they expressed their gratitude, said I was a brave woman for taking this on, mixing in some words in Spanish I didn’t recognize, and that they would miss me. One school principal said: “I saw you frustrated and I saw you struggle…” Damn straight. But it wasn’t a time for anger or annoyance. Just a time to accept that this is the way things are, and that we had two years of beauty pageants, tardes deportivas and classes (when they weren’t suspended for the aforementioned activities). I thanked each of them, shook their hands and we took pictures.

After our meeting, Lic. asked them to stay back. I knew they were discussing if they wanted to request another Youth in Development volunteer. That is awkward. I just left the room. Pero ni modo, ya estuvo. Xutzirik’.

I ran home and Clara was ready. The cat had pooped on my door-stopper towel, I discovered. I told my host family and they said: “He probably senses that you’re leaving….” I’ll be damned. Rural Guatemala hardly recognizes that animals are sentient beings and here they are, totally right, and it never occurred to me. We gathered my things: Clara was going to accompany me to the bus-stop so she could see the Peace Corps shuttle bus. We made it to Los Encuentros terminal but I still had to get my heavy bag to the other side of the street. “Porque no hacemos una cosa?” Clara said. And she suggested I grab one handle and she grab the other. And that was how we walked across the pasarela above the street. (I would tell you what pasarela is in English but I cannot think of it. Or maybe I just don’t know it). Holding one strap each of my heavy canvas costal we went. I’m not used to having help.

When we got to the shuttle, I introduced Clara to the driver and we left for ice cream. It was warm. We said goodbye and she left to find her bus back home. It was just me on the shuttle until we picked up Caroline in Chimaltenango. She and I chatted about her site, how it’s been affected by volcanic activity, and my transition into COS (close of service). By the time we got to the office, we made great time. Less than 2 hours from Encuentros. I arrived to Eunice’s house and left my bags. I was so happy not to be staying in Hotel El Mirador. My back hurt from my heavy bags, but I was just happy to have made it. And I was happy about a brand new, fancy mattress to lay across.

I decided to walk back to La Torre and buy dinner. I brought my journal and thought I’d cry it out. I made sure to pick a table far away from the place I sat the first time I met him. I didn’t cry, but I ate gringas and wrote a poem about my love of gringas on instagram. I know I was using social media as a point of distraction but it was (perhaps) better than crying. I am tired of tears.

I distracted myself with a super hot shower upon my arrival home, and went to sleep. I had to be in the medical office at 8 the next morning. 8am is a tall order for a tall woman such as I. Goodnight Wednesday. You threw the kitchen sink at me today. Or mejor dicho, la pila.