At 935 Euclid Avenue a year ago, I got an email.

An invitation to join Peace Corps! I wasn’t expecting to hear from them until at least March and it was February 2nd.

I just interviewed for the job in Alaska last week. That was supposed to be from April to September. How could I commit to plans for September before I knew what I was doing in April? You know that visual calendar you keep in your head- maybe you scroll through the months to determine when the next big thing is coming, maybe you color code certain months or have a list of years that you mark. Por ejemplo, here is how my calendar looks: September suggests shades of shy caramel and conjures pumpkin spice, a nip in the air and the warm anticipation of Christmas the morning of lax consumer-coma fire-lit togetherness. There’s a beautiful lull between December 22 through January 3rd. January through March feels like the snowball static on old tvs. Nothing much happens, just repetitive tasks and early sunsets. Valentine’s Day is an annual bummer starting at age 13. Those bone dry winter months stand between me and whatever the year holds. (This year hasn’t fit the mold.. January has been rad but the Fall was ratchet).

I told Kristin who just got back from Guatemala, “I’m supposed to decide in 7 days if I do Peace Corps!” What do I do? She shared her experience: Guatemala is really beautiful, the culture is lovely, and your poop will never be normal.

Without further adieu, I present: The Poop Post.

A year later on January 20th, 2017.

I got to Xela (shay-luh) with an hour and 25 minutes to get everything done. I saw the list of volunteers who would also get picked up on the shuttle, so I knew I couldn’t be late. I made it to Walmart by weaving through backroads, got my basket on wheels and wheeled around The King of Roll-Back: Walmart.

I’m blazing through aisles when my lower belly sends a message to my brain: “mmmmmmmmaaaaerrrrhhhhh” accompanying the kind of discomfort that threatens approaching relief but only the kind of relief that doesn’t ask permission or check with your assistant for a convenient time. But I can’t stop and find a bathroom because I’m short on time and still have a list of things to find. I press on my belly for who knows what reason and keep moving.

A month earlier, I bring my trash basket from the bathroom downstairs. You see: toilet paper doesn’t get flushed down the toilet here, it goes in a waste basket next to the toilet. The pipes in Guatemala are too thin to transport anything beyond bodily transgressions.

“No tengas pena con ese. Todos tienen po-po.” The second syllable is pronounced: poPO.“Is that really the word for poop? I’ve been wondering” I thought. I watch My host mom “enseñarme” how to arrange my own toilet paper and she picks some of it up with her hand inside the plastic bag. From this I feel grossed out, ashamed and fully accepted all at once: I don’t think anyone else has spent this much time with my poop other than my own parents. You see: we are burning the toilet paper. And again I say Burning the toilet paper once deposited into the unluckiest trashcan that sits next to my toilet. I am bent forward in the temezcal/sauna so as not to hit my head. I watch the toilet paper erupt into flame. I feel like I should be chanting as I oversee the burning of the toilet paper.

My host mom scolds me- why are you staying in there?? It’s getting smoky and makes my eyes water. (I should elucidate: There’s no odor other than the smell of burning). Then we sweep it up and ‘ya!’ Simple as that. She tells me: “My mama (abuelita) burns our paper because then we don’t have to pay 2q to give it to the guy who collects trash.” I’m just cheap enough to follow suit.

Back at Walmart, I stop to ask an attendant: “Disculpe, donde estan pasas?” She brings me right around to where I just was. “Muchas gracias.” I find pasas (raisins) and wheel on to the next thing. I see toilet paper and decide I am not going to skimp: I’ve become one with my toilet in the last month and a half. I used to think that spending more than the cheapest amount on toilet paper was egregious, but I’ve become so intimately acquainted with waste below the waist that I waste no time on my decision: I press on the plastic to feel the quilted thickness of the rolls and buy a quality brand. Toilet paper advertising is all lies below a certain price point: “Twice the thickness as the original roll! Lasts twice as long!” Whoever is responsible for  their copyright has a different list of questions waiting for them on the day of reckoning. I toss the package in my basket and wheel on to the craft section, get my white board markers and keep zooming: “Disculpe, donde esta aluminio?” I struggle to get the word out “Papel de aluminio?” she responds and leads me over. (I just asked: where is aluminum?) I have to decide: do I want 25 feet, 75 feet, 50 feet, a refill roll, Great Value, they want almost 20q for the cheapest kind of aluminum foil! when my body makes a continental address in the form of an unusual delivery. A weird toot passes as I pass through the aisles. I feel relief. Toots usually help with relief. And then I feel it. Something is slippery in my floral leggings. I say out loud “oh God.”

A month later, I run to the library (always late!) and once I get there, I’m happy to see my new friends still sitting there, Claudia and Lucrecia. One is singing along with a youtube video on “how to sing” and the other is trying to log-in to gmail. I have to pee. I run into the bathroom and I see toilet paper no where. I have some in my purse but I left it in the computer chair. Oops. I ask my new friends “Can you all bring me papel? There’s some in my purse!” The next thing I know Claudia slips three pieces of paper through the door.

I look it over: it’s got the mayor’s signature and seems like it should have been shredded. But I do it one better. I use it to wipe myself post-pee and throw it in the trash. That was a first using printer paper as toilet paper. Your documents will not be tampered with, Mayor, only used for hygienic purposes.

I shat my pants in Walmart. I burnt my toilet paper in the sauna. I wiped myself with official documents. No, no my poop will never be normal.