My sister founded an Inner-City Soccer League in 2010. Every week she would pick-up a group of young kids and bring them to a church program. My sister would ask for everyone’s Hi-Lo on the ride: What was a highlight and a low point of their day? I remember the answers being colorful, heartfelt and entertaining.

I’m going to borrow the idea. How about a Hi-Lo appreciation of this experience in the months that I have left in service? I can’t think of a better way to capture the memories in an honest way. The challenge with writing now is that time has finally picked-up a *bit* of speed, but also, the details run together as I become more accustomed to the oddities of this life.

Everyday I experience something that tickles me to the core, sends my heart through the floor or bowls me over by its beauty.

Sometimes I can’t remember what came when and how I was feeling at that moment. There’s a weird bombardment that goes on when you’re a foreigner meant to be a part of a community that’s unfamiliar to you, because you’re the unfamiliar one, and it can be hard to keep everything straight. Además some memories are uncomfortable, frustrating or sad. But they are real and I’d like to pair the memorable ones together, like a nice wine and cheese.

Here is my first installation of a Hi-Lo series to remember the rollercoaster and the isolated moments, memorable and strange, that replay through my psyche when my head hits the pillow after I’ve wiggled into my sleeping bag under my fairy lights.

One day, many months ago (maybe March?), I walked outside to buy more picante sauce up the street from the house. When you walk outside, you are immediately in the public. There’s no transition (like, say, your morning commute, or wearing your bathrobe to get the mail or talking on your phone), you’re all at once in the mix. So, following suit, I said to a woman I did not recognize: “K’ash waim y waram” in K’iche’ which means, “Eating and sleeping is hard work!” It’s like chit-chat that I always say to Abuelita. The Woman looked at me with a scowl, said nothing, and then spat: “Bruja. No sos de aquí.”

First of all, people in the pueblo believe in witchcraft as a powerful, negative force. Calling someone a witch (bruja) is truly pesada and I was very surprised, and a bit embarrassed as there were other people around. The people to her left looked at me and made an ancillary gesture to indicate the witch-caller had been drinking, as if to you: “No tenga pena, she’s not in her right mind.” 90% of the time I am greeted with smiles and laughter, 9% confusion as to who I am (sometimes I forget that I don’t know everyone in the pueblo) and 1% this: rudeness. And like all the wise women of the world say: one rotten egg spoils the bunch, just takes one runt in the litter, too much fat on the bacon to kill the pig or something like that.

I couldn’t believe it: She called me a Witch. She didn’t call me puta, or malcriada, rather she leveled a claim that I am of evil subterfuge. I’m not perfect, and I have my weaknesses but a witch I am most certainly not. I don’t have the energy or the concentration for all of that. So you can imagine, that was my Lo.

Now for my Hi: One day in the market I ran into a woman who I did not recognize. She said: “Seño, I’ve been looking for you. It’s that one day you asked me to give you my güipil and, I want to give it to you. But I haven’t run into you, though I’ve been looking for you.” I was surprised, but immediately doubtful: “Do you mean you want to give it to me or sell it to me?” And in my defense, I have been asked to loan people money on the street, buy things I’m not interested in buying or chased after in hopes I’d buy merchandise. So I thought it worth the question. But she said: “No, give it to you.” Do you have time now? She asked me. And I said: “Pues, sí” surprised, delighted. And she brought me to her house. As we walked up one hill and down another, she told me a little about herself. In the back of my head I was sitting in the movie theatre of this moment, absorbing the monumental generosity and gift of unexpected kindness this woman was extending me. She was lifting my spirits like she might never know.

A Güipil/Hüipil is a woven blouse that represents a certain pueblo. “Traje típico” is what you can refer to as all the local, woven clothing in Santa Clara. It is sacred. It is also very expensive, it takes forever to weave and sew, and it is a representation of the culture of the Indigenous Guatemalans. Whenever I buy a piece of traje, old or new, my host family purrs and coos and asks me: “Where did you find that? How much was it?” They tell me the origin of the pattern: “Oh that’s from Santiago Atitlán” or “That’s from Nahuala” they’ll say, even if I already know ‘cuz I asked the vendor. A new güipil can cost anywhere from Q150-Q1,000. A chicken dinner costs me Q12. Cortes, the woven skirts, cost even more because it is more material. And even if it means eating cooked herbs and tortillas for a month, people here invest in their traje no matter the cost.

When we arrived to her house perched on a hill, on a street I never walk, I entered with a “Con permiso” as she disappeared into her bedroom. She unfolded the güipil (she had washed it, she said, to give it to me) and I vaguely remembered it. It is a light aqua blue, with pink and purple birds stitched across the front. I was so happy: yes, this güipil had many years of use, and while that made more sense as to why she was willing to part with it, it made it even more special to me. It smelled like laundry detergent. To be honest, I don’t remember the face of the woman (prior to standing in her house) and I hardly remember asking her for her güipil. When I said it, I’m sure I meant it with 0% expectation that the woman would do anything more than laugh.

I lingered for some expectation to surface in exchange: Can you teach my daughter English? Do you think that I could visit you someday in the States? Can you help me get a Visa? Nothing. Just: Here’s your güipil and may you be on your way. I was so elated and surprised, I asked her for a selfie so I could identify her to my host family. Also, I am going to get the picture developed as a thank you.

A few weeks ago I saw the “Witch-Caller” in the street. My host family told me she was a lady who drank a lot, who was often in the streets, and that she “wasn’t from here.” When you say someone’s “Not from here” it means their actions can’t be accounted for. And even though she may be down on her luck, she asked me for 1 quetzal and I said: “Ma’am, I don’t give money to people who call me a Witch.” She looked confused, so that makes two of us.

And that concludes my first Hi-Lo.