I got to Paquip at 4:45pm on a Thursday in April. Seño Juana, the school principal, was running past me out of the gym. When I saw her that morning at another school where I work, she said: “We’re going to get Wendy at 5pm so you will just need to get there before then. Will you acompañar us?” This is how you find things out, on the day of, when you run into each other. Not by cell phone, text or email. No sir. Being an outsider means being on the outside coming in every single time you arrive. What does “Go Get Wendy?” mean. They kept saying that like I knew what it meant. Wendy is a student. Why isn’t she coming to the event just like everyone else? Did something happen to Wendy? Did she break an ankle?

Communication is the first reality check volunteers (often) go through: it’s different. This we should have expected, moving to a new country, but it’s still surprising. One often wonders “How do people know things around here?” because until you show up, you don’t know what’s going on. And that’s if you’re lucky. Sometimes you show up and you don’t figure out what’s going on until it’s happening. And that’s if you’re still lucky. Sometimes you show up and you figure out what’s going on after it’s happened.

So I got there before 5pm recognizing that I was mostly in the dark to this whole affair, La Noche Cultural (Culture Night), and in it for the long hall. “Going to get Wendy” What does that mean? “Culture night” what does that entail? Will there be food? Probably, food is the first consideration here. But will I be drinking hot chocolate out of green plastic mugs with bread rolls or tamales with a pinch of chicken inside with gaseosa/ soda; only time will tell. They all have this planned out but they don’t tell these details to me. And yes I could ask. But asking logistical questions of events I’m not in charge of usually does the following: Makes me look impatient, often provides different answers with each person I ask and leaves me just as confused. So: better to wait.

I brought only my bag: no water bottle, no lecture bag with all of my classroom goodies like markers, post-its, masking tape and toilet paper. No umbrella (this will be important later). But I did bring a sweater and my purse with a small notebook, pen and pencil, hand sanitizer, flossers (which are lifesavers after mangos), headphones and 25 quetzales which would be a little more than enough for transport and a snack. I didn’t charge my phone before I left and a 3.5 year old iPhone 6 doesn’t a full day of battery make. Thankfully there are corner tiendas for things like toilet paper, snacks or more phone minutes as necessary. However, I felt a bit up a creek with just a purse small full of trinkets and a dying phone.

When the directora was running from the school, she said: “go inside to Johnatan!” and I walked inside to the gym which looked all clean and fancy. The balloons were strung across the gym ceiling and I wondered: “How did they get up there?” Questions you ask in places where ladders and electric lifts are a far cry. Did they have class today? The results of the afternoon were in front of me: a clean gym, some leaves arranged in choice spots as adornments and three balloon lines stretching the expanse of the gym.

“Jonathan” was sitting, shoulders slumped over his head, with a cell phone in his head connected to speakers. He was blasting music over the speakers, Los mayoreee-e-e-e-essss followed by additional top 40 Latino Pop hits mixed in with classic marimba. I began to draw floor plans in my pocket notebook, my reprieve. I switched my phone off, conserve battery, and the usual neighbor kids ran up to ask me how to pronounce “Juana” in English, laughed, and eventually ran away. Oh! I had 1 quetzal of sweet bread in my purse in a thin, plastic bag. This would help in an emergency.

After 30 minutes of music and sketching and repeating random English words to a group of children in an otherwise loud, empty gym, I ate the bread. I looked on the schedule posted on the wall, sure enough my name did not appear. I had my USB in my purse for my presentation about the US, goal three of Peace Corps that I’ve never really practiced because there wasn’t time. “Noche Cultural” I thought.. A perfect opportunity to share about my culture, I could report this activity in my VRF (our twice-a-year reporting document we have to provide to our project managers and then to Washington). But I looked around and there was no cañonera. I called Graciela, the nicest and most communicative of the staff at this school: “Hi Seño… fíjese que, I see no cañonera. Will there be a cañonera?” (a projector). The same question I asked the day before. “Yes seño, the thing is it’s going to be borrowed so we still have to pick it up.” “Okay seño, nos vemos….” And I sit again. I ask Daniel by the computer: “Will there be a cañonera?” “I don’t see one. Where would they project it, anyway?” he responds. I have a feeling about this projector even though it’s been confirmed to me twice that it will be there. Without a projector, I cannot give my presentation.

I sit again. I sketch again. I should buy more emergency bread. I leave the loud gym and go to my favorite side store across the street where the old lady always greets me in K’iche’ and I have to ask her to explain a lot of what she says. The mother/daughter at the shop take my picture because I am wearing traje, head to toe. I tell them I am going to run back and thank you! I take my pan and Seño Graciela has appeared outside of the gym, asking if I am coming or not. What do you mean? I’ve been here an hour sketching an imaginary Tiny House in my notebook. I run to the tuk-tuk and greet the others smushed inside. Xe’q ij… I say to the other teachers inside, dressed in their finest and wet hair from washing in the pila. No one uses hair blow dryers here and they have four times as much hair as me. I use a hair blow-dryer. I also use it to dry out my shoes when they get soaked in the puddles.

And again I ask: Where are we going? And they say: We are going to get Wendy. (Oh, okay). And the hills of Paquip, the village outside of Santa Clara, roll past us like only these stunning mountains can. I hope I never forget this vista: the casual moments when I look at beauty that is anything but casual, it’s stunning. When we get to Wendy’s house, we walk down a steep incline of bricks down to a small, dirt courtyard, partially covered by lamina/wavy steel, and partially uncovered. The girls sit down and I snap their picture. Who knows if my phone will be able to take any pictures in about 30 minutes. They duck and cover their faces, like always. I don’t know why they do that. I feel like it’s partly because their friends do it.

Many of us file into the house and become quiet. I don’t see Wendy. We fill the edges of what I think is the living room. Then I see Wendy, she comes out of a room opening and stands next to her dad, wearing a sash and a tiara over a sports uniform. She is the Señorita Deportiva this year, the sports Señorita, of the middle school. We all become quiet, except the horde of kids still outside in the patio, making teenager ambient noise: laughter, yelling, hushes and so on. Wendy’s dad begins the evening with thanking everyone for coming, for being in the home of Wendy, that he is proud of his daughter, and then Seño Débora says a prayer. I don’t know what her duties are, but it appears she is passing off her tiara at this event. This is why we “go get Wendy,” it appears. Then I see the classic baskets, prepared with a warm drink and followed by another person carrying a wide, thin plastic bag. Bread and a warm drink to go with it, the drink is probably atol de arroz con chocolate, or simply hot chocolate or sugary coffee or tea. I’m not looking forward to drinking it. But it’s not my first uncomfortable culinary experience. I sip the drink and it’s piping hot chocolate and it’s actually quite tasty. I take my sugary bread, we quickly eat and leave the house. Wendy is one of my favorite students. She always shakes my hand literally every time I see her when I am at school. Sometimes 10 times in one afternoon. She smiles wide. She used to be purely molestona in my eyes, a kid who doesn’t pay attention, but ever since she came to my camp last year, she has taken my class more seriously and I appreciate her. We say “Muchas Gracias” to Wendy’s family and leave empty plastic cups in trays and stow bread in our bags, scaling the steps up onto the main street of Paquip once again.

The teachers get back on the tuk-tuk and I ask again: “Where are we going now?” and they say: “We are going to get Juana.” Of course. We are going to get Juana, obviously. It’s become dark and everyone is wearing a sweater, but its not cold. It’s brisk, barely. But people here take being warm very seriously. We get to Juana’s, I offer to pay the tuk-tuk driver but he is one of the teachers and refuses the money saying: “It’s anniversario.” We hop out and walk down a steep decline to Juana’s house. We walk in and I see that a table has been cleared for guests, I greet the grandmother and grandfather of the house with “Shoka’ap” (Good Evening in K’iche’) and they respond with “Shoka’ap.” Eventually I see Juana, wearing a tiara and her finest traje típico underneath. She looks beautiful. She looks like she knows it, but still feels a little shy or maybe just excited, to have all of the students in her home.

As I move towards the table to sit, I see a face I definitely recognize and cannot place. I am staring into eyes so familiar to me but I am so confused: Why here? I can’t place her in the moment but I know that this is not where I know her from, Paquip. I say “Seño, por qué estás aquí??” And she smiles, her eyes kind: “I live in Santa Clara because my husband is from there, but I am from here: from Paquip. This is my family.” In Guatemala, the daughter-in-law often moves in with the son and his family when they get married. So she is from Paquip but she lives in Santa Clara now. Oh my goodness, she is my next door neighbor whose name is also Natalia. I feel relieved to have solved the mystery, disturbed by how long it took me to place such a familiar face with my own name.

There is going to be more food: I should not have eaten two rolls of emergency bread.

We find seats around the table, seated under one bright light that they seemed to have connected to one long extension cord from the house. There is a thick plastic tarp stretched over the seats outside. I notice the chuchos roaming around, the street dogs. They hardly look like pets but having animals here is nothing like what it is back home. Providing seats is taken very seriously in this culture and the other teachers encourage me to: “Sit, Sit Licenciada.” We sit and wait for Words of Welcome.

The Señorita Paquip, Juana, moves to stand next to her grandfather, the man on the school board who I often see leading events at the school, and while he is dramatically shorter than me, he has a lot of power in the community. The jóvenes are hushed by the teachers, Juana’s grandfather welcomes us to their house, thanking the teaching staff for what they contribute to his granddaughter’s education. He mostly speaks in Spanish but he also speaks in K’iche’. When he finishes his 5 minutes of words, he says laughing: “Una vez al año no hace daño!” and we wait as the women in the house begin to passing out tamales, wrapped in wide green leaves, and a crescent-shaped piece of bread to eat with it.

We quickly eat, saying “Muchas Gracias” to everyone around us and responding “Buen Provecho” to anyone around us who says “Muchas Gracias.” It’s the only time I’ve seen Guatemalans eat quickly. We thank the household, I say goodbye to the chuchos, and climb the steep path. “Where are we going now?” and at this point my phone has died. “Byebye love. Byebye google search. Byebye instagram. I think I’m gonna di-ie.” I see the school in the distance and a small crowd gathering around the outside of the large gym.

The music is still blasting from the speakers in full effect. As the seats fill, and I continue to sit in one of the plastic seats myself, I feel fully immersed in the community of Paquip, this village outside of Santa Clara. So often I go to events in Santa Clara and, yes, Paquip members participate. But this is different, this is an event put on by Paquip attended by Paquip. I see the faces of moms, grandmothers, fathers, nieces and so many Paquipeños, people I would never otherwise see on a normal workday in Paquip. This weird feeling sinks in, not of belonging but of integration, of being apart. After 1.5 years of showing up and feeling awkward, unwanted (sometimes) and often an extra burden for the director, I get to simply sit back as an observer and experience Paquip. Last year I did not come to this event because I didn’t think I could get a ride home (the tuk-tuks stop running at like 6:30 from Paquip). I was still new to service at that time.

I take my seat as I see that Seño Graciela (my secret favorite teacher to see, tell no one) approaches one mic and Profe Alex, the eternal MC at every event in Paquip, approaches the other mic. They stand on either side of the stage and I love this and let me explain way: rarely do I see a woman and a man co-host like this as if they are occupying the same place of influence, the same power. In fact, Seño Graciela begins the night with Palabras de Bienvenida and Profe Alex follows after her.

And it is clear: no projector.

Continued in Post Two.