A long, long time ago, the beginning of 2018 (like, February) I started to seriously consider my life after Peace Corps. Shudder. At that time I started to look into my options including graduate school through a Peace Corps Fellowship, but the few programs that were completely paid for were (are) few. Given that, I decided to extend my service to make myself more competitive for said fellowship. All of these thoughts and decisions made me restless, anxious and vulnerable. It was too soon to actually make any decisions yet but important to keep in mind, as I trudged to school after school, charla after charla, raising my voice to fight for the attention of the Guatemalan youth. Mostly to no avail, but I think 5% actually heard me. But, anything could happen at any time to pull service right out from under me: safety, medical, family emergency, political. Many things were out of my control.
Assuming I made it far enough, the extension would make me competitive for a Peace Corps grad school fellowship (primero Dios) and it will make my departure less of a bandaid rip and more of a bandage removal, unwrapping my departure in layers until it’s just my naked skin.
So I applied for the extension in July, for which the deadline was August 10, and I waited and feverishly checked my email like a recently peed-on pregnancy test, to see an email that said: “Congratulations!” but nothing, for weeks. Another 4 weeks went by and the day before our Close Of Service Conference, (COS- remember that) I got the email.
The email came through during one of my classes with Tercero Básico (some of my rowdiest students, but they’re all rowdy so I should say my biggest and rowdiest students) and I saw the word “Congratulations” at the top of my phone from Craig Badger, the Vice Country Director. I did not open the email, I continued my session on the harmful effects of smoking. But I think I was smiling. At the end of the class, I signed their notebooks: signatures are how they receive class credit… All of the students, stinky, clamoring, shoving their notebooks in my face: “Seño, Seño… Sign mine…” teemed around me. They pulled their notebooks from the bottom of the hovering pile and placed it at the top so I would take theirs next. Each notebook is connected to the arm of a student, standing, waiting for me to the theirs next.
Their writing is chock-full of spelling errors. I take my pen and write over their ’s’s that should be ‘c’s and ‘h’s that shouldn’t be there or ‘v’s that should be ‘b’s. Their spelling level is elementary and they are in the 8th grade. But if I am only correcting spelling, a surface issue, I am happy because that means that they understand the concept. But if they didn’t achieve the critical thinking required for the assignment, that means they missed the whole point of the exercise and is more disheartening to correct. As they crowded around me, stinky, impatient, juvenile, I thought “I could COS in November like everyone else…” but I am extending until April because I am certifiable.
COS= Close of Service. If we were in school, COS would be graduation. If we were getting certified, it would be certification. If we were dying, it would be funeral. If we were caterpillar, it would be butterfly. But we are people who’ve lived in a foreign culture for 2 years and 2 months, collaborated (as much as possible) with work partners, reported our successes and pulled our hair out at our frustrations, all in a second language (for most) and pooped, bused and tongue-tied our way through. Some of our cohort got medically separated, some ETd (Early Terminated) for grad school, for jobs or hot showers or hummus. The rest of us stayed, restarting at each sunrise. Some of us lived with internet in our homes, some of us learned Mayan languages, some of us lived with hot water heaters, some paid to have our clothes cleaned and others washed them in the pila. But all of us got caught in the rain, with all of our bags, searching for a bus or getting off of one and into a storm.
And I am staying for more.
On the morning shuttle I realized I did not have my cell phone. iPOCALYPSE NOW. Oh yes, in my 6am zombie haze, I set it on the window where the wifi is strongest to download a podcast. Good news: The podcast downloaded. Bad news: I have no phone for 6 days. I wouldn’t have it for the trip to the beach, not to take pictures, not to check Instagram when I wanted a mental retreat. I don’t wear a watch, I don’t carry a portable alarm, what about my white noise app that helps me drown out the evangelicals at 11pm and the bombas y cohetes at 5am? I would have to be present. Now I feel like a Peace Corps volunteer.
The rest of the group got in the night before for a blood draw early that morning. I did not have to do that (see: extension) so I came in on the morning shuttle. Galen, Teawan and I chatted all the way from Km 148 to Antigua’s central park, a 3-hour ride. Galen and I tried to sleuth our way to who was extending based on who didn’t have medical this morning. When we got to Antigua, I walked straight to Cafe Barista for a frappé, a bathroom break, treated Teawan, and the three of us found a taxi to take us to the hotel. After all of our bags stacked into the trunk we made our way, bumping across the streets of Antigua. We were excited, COS conference was to be a celebration.
The Remainders of Bak’tun 8, those people hanging on the edge of the math problem that could not be divided, arrived to Villa Colonial on Wednesday at 11am. The night before I looked up Villa Colonial for directions. Google Maps said Q860/night and my monthly rent is Q1,000. Pazapik nu wi, you’re not in the campo anymore. I opened the door to my hotel room and let the cleanness, the privacy, the fluffy pillows, the bathroom to myself and the luxury embrace me. I tipped the door man Q10 (turn up) and felt the peace that a soul like mine feels in the midst of a nice hotel room all to myself. Now, keep in mind it’s still not what you would expect as a ‘nice hotel’ in the States, but it was the nicest one I’ve ever stayed in in Guatemala. Of all the cohort, I am a top-runner for most appreciative of a private room. A Hotel Room. A Real Hotel. Not Hotel Mirador. Not a Hostel. With No One Else. And Paid for by Peace Corps.
I turned on the TV to check the time (no cell phone). Then I removed each item from my suitcase, article by article, and organized what I needed to put where, what was to be sent to the office (clothes I didn’t need anymore and books), a sweater I bought for my boss, my mom and sister’s new boots I ordered in the city, and my clothes for the beach. Money for beach transport for Gladys, money for t-shirts for Francisco, small note cards to give to friends. No cell phone. I readied myself for the energy of the group, which always feels like bombardment even if it’s welcome. I took a shower, for Pete’s sake.
After all of this, I still had time to run to a tienda. There I bought Tanya’s gift for taking the GRE: snacks that started with only the letters G,R or E: galletas, Emperadores, off-brand Ritz cracker sandwiches, Ginger Ale.. I saw everyone entering the hotel lobby and greeted Craig, him congratulating me on the extension. I saw volunteers with bags, always. We never see each other without luggage. I was filled with happiness but also anxiety, how to maneuver social situations in English again.. I handed Tanya her gift in a black bag (classic) and hugged her. Tanya is always my anchor at these things. Tanya and Eunice, but Eunice couldn’t be at COS (thus my empty room).
Soon it was time for lunch and we settled into our usual groups at the dining tables. The restaurant was beautiful. We were all unaccustomed to this quality of service. The wait staff was very concerned about who was vegetarian and who did not eat red meat amongst the group, while most Guatemalans (in site, anyway) are alarmed and mystified and ultimately dismissive of such dietary restrictions. And what was on the menu? Steak. Not the dental challenge of carne asada, either, not even tortillas or hot sauce in sight. We were so fresh and temporarily clean.
After lunch I walked back to my room because I could, brushed my teeth because I could, and arrived for the introductory session to start in “Salon Cúpulas.” What is Cúpulas? I asked Galen. He said: “bell towers.” Of course Galen knows bell towers in Spanish. I sat next to Tanya and as Carolyn greeted us, the first Peace Corps staff to greet us at the airport in 2016. I was immediately emotional and uneasy. Even the prospect of more coffee in porcelain cups wasn’t soothing. I could tell that being in the room with all of the other volunteers represented something I didn’t want to acknowledge: the end. Not that we even spent 25% of service together, maybe 10%, but we all came into this thing naked and we all will go out skinnier and naked. Like we were all babies in the NICU together. I didn’t fidget (no phone). I didn’t doodle. I listened. Here we all were, friends, acquaintances and some not fans of each other. But we all get along, a low drama group if you ask me, and we were uncontestedly thrilled about being in a hotel and not in básicos (for YiDers, or maybe I should speak for myself) and for getting some of the mystery dispelled surrounding COS.
Our CD Country Director Geralyn started off our conference with an interesting charge: “Did you know that 1/10 US Americans has a passport?” And out of those 1/10, she told us, the majority of those people use them only once: a graduation trip, anniversary, or retirement gift. We are unique, she tells us. We live in communities, not tourist traps, integrating into communities, eating the food, and going to sleep to the sound of falling rain on our tin roofs. I was reading the room during these words: every leader is dissected by the PCV, if they like them or not, if they think they hit the nail on the head, if they get it at all. I think her words were received positively, and I appreciated what she had to say.
Next up were Martha and David who gave us a session on Resiliency: Clouds, Rainbows and moments to remember. It made me emotional, shock to no one. Showing emotion in site is something I rarely do in my day to day life (other than anger and impatience at my students) so I can’t remember the last time I was emotional like this. Oh yeah, the last training. Sad and vulnerable and confused for speaking in English, but not around people I could just spill my guts too. I had to roll it up like a sushi of emotion and identify the ingredients later.
We had refa, como siempre, and I ran to my room again because I could. We were given a few assignments, finished our sessions, and had a few hours of downtime before dinner. To most of the volunteers, this meant drinking by the pool. After an hour on my phone scheduling a Spanish exam in the States, I reunited with everyone at the hotel pool. I jumped into the conversation, laughter and jokes. I used to love pools but now they shout: shaving razors, squeezing into bathing suits and sunburn, wet hair and mop head. Not worth it. Some dipped their toes in, others took selfies, swiped through Tinder or FaceTimed with their families. My phone was sitting on my windowsill in Santa Clara.
After dinner I was in my room and ready for bed by 10, but I did not sleep well. I think the rest of the group was getting turnt in another room. I was confused without my telephone, asking Galen to knock on my door at 7am…. And I thought Antigua would be hot but the night air was brisk and my warm PJs were in another province. Sure as mold on the walls in rainy season, Galen knocked on my door at 7 and I thanked him through my retainers and twisted the hot water knob on the shower. It was a trick: there was no hot water because everyone else was showering, too. I got dressed and ate a full, delicious breakfast: buffet style but with hawked waiters. There were omelettes, beans, vegetables, and FRENCH TOAST. AND IT WAS SO GOOD. Nandi advised that I go light on the syrup which I did. It was sweet and saturated enough on its own. The wait staff were like vultures, so intent on clearing our plates and making the slower eaters defend their right to finish their food incrementally.
I tried to sit at a different dining table than the day before, trying to find myself again in this social group I haven’t been with in a year, sit with new folks and catch up with people like Ben who I never see. This was the only full day of the conference, sun-up to sunset, and I could sense an unease in my gut because of the long day ahead without emotional reprieve.
The sessions began: how to write your DOS, your Description of Service. I wasn’t as wound up about this as the others because I had seen Amanda’s. When we were in a sharing circle, mentioning our reasons for doing Peace Corps, I raised my hand and said: “Health Insurance” to laughter. It’s a 2-page document, but there’s a lot weighing on it as it is your official proof of service. It can get you a year of NCE (Non-Compete Eligibility), it can facilitate a fellowship at a grad school and it can open all sorts of doors with employers. So everyone had questions… We are supposed to analyze our service through the acronym STAR, which I can’t remember now, but it has something to do with problems faced and solutions you implemented to resolve them. The technical nature of the session helped distract me from my feelings.
It didn’t occur to me until the second session that the reason I felt trapped inside my beautiful asylum is because all of the other extending volunteers are not staying in their sites. Come November, they will move to more developed communities to start their extensions. Of my cohort, I am the only one staying in my site for the duration, greeting the same faces, stepping in the same dog poop (but can you step in the same river twice?) and getting motion sickness for the hills, curves and manual transmissions.
And then it was over, and we ate our last meal and packed our bags for Monterrico. The Beach. I am not a beach person because I burn easily, I am from Florida where beach is a religion, and I just know it is going to be hot. And it was. We rode along, shoved together in Don Carlos’ car, with hot hair blowing on myself and Galen. We chatted about religion, service, what the world holds for us on the other side. Galen didn’t go home once during service, but he is going home this Christmas. He is extending but he won’t stay in his site. I really enjoy Galen’s company, but we never catch up outside of these gatherings.
On the way, we road through the destruction of the volcano on June 3. The earth looked black and scorched. Men were working, piling rocks. It looks like everything heavy and inflammable had gathered at this area. Some lonely trees were still standing but showed nothing of green.
The last 30 minutes of the ride felt eternal. The heat was unrelenting and every tropical tree we passed seemed to say “You’ve Arrived to the Beach” but we hadn’t. I tried to incorporate this tropical version of Guatemala into my paradigm of this country. What I know of Guatemala is cold nights and cloud-cover on misty afternoons. Sometimes the sunlight is very direct at the high altitude of Santa Clara, but to call it hot would be nothing more than exagerada. There are more mosquitoes and cock roaches in Atlanta than I’ve ever seen in my pueblo.
When we arrived to Monterrico, Galen said, “Thanks for the conversation.” Good guy. And we piled out of the van to more heat. Slowly but surely we found our rooms, because it’s the beach and it’s Guatemala, and myself and the other girls in the closet-sized room took our clothes off and stood in front of the floor fan. Then I tried to get smart and finagle the broken knob one setting higher but it just stopped running instead. I ran to the reception, desperate for another fan. The other rooms? Air-conditioned. ‘Cept ours. Eventually we got another fan, I got over my discomfort, made it into my suit and to the pool. Many from our group hit the beach or the restaurant. I was still letting this whole thing sink in. What was I celebrating? I have 7 months left in country, why am I in a pool on the coast of Guatemala, missing work?
And then I considered that this was my last chance to be with everyone, and that mattered most. I think they recognized it, too, that I was pushing myself to be with the group. As we sat and looked over the ocean, myself next to Nandi, Ryan and Gia, I decided that a black sand beach is so much better than white. Black sand complements the brightness of the water, allows your eyes not to crane, and anchors you in the beauty of volcanic leftover. I couldn’t take any pictures, couldn’t post to Instagram. The only camera I had was a polaroid. I felt happy. I said to Nandi: “I love this!” incredulous, and she calmly, just like Nandi does, said: “I’m so glad.” We sat in the restaurant chairs and watched the blueish ocean talk to the coral sky.
I was charmed by Sabrina’s antics, surprised by Mari’s frankness “Publish the fuck out of that book” she said, “but don’t put me in it,” and happy to talk with Madeline (listen). I slipped Antigua post-cards with notes in bags and under doors.
Later we each paid Q45 to go on a turtle hunt that night, we saw one turtle. I felt jipped because that’s what it was. The youngsters went out dancing afterwards and one of the ladies didn’t make it back ’til the morning. Teawan and I sat in our room, chatting, until we found sleep. Eventually around 11, I got bored of the water so I worked on a training video. You see, as a cancer, I love ‘home’ and I am more lost than ever about where ‘home’ is, so beaching seems like I’m kicking around waiting to get back to a place where I can build meaning. So instead I made a video, it was what I could make.
I was very happy about the pizza which was actually delicious, not even Guatemalan pizza delicious but like real pizza delicious. At 5 I got a Happy Hour drink and begin to chat it up with everyone again. We went dancing that night during which I broke loose and left 10 minutes later. Partner dancing is like, the only way in this country, and I like to make moves on my own. I got home, took off all my clothes and tried to make sense of the fact that there was no glass pane on the window that was right next to the club blaring music in the only room in the universe without air conditioner. I mean, I know Peace Corps Volunteers deal with this all the time, but I was paying for this under the category “vacation.”
Eventually sleep came and the morning greeted us with a rushed breakfast and piling back into Don Carlos’s cars. The trip home wasn’t as long as the trip there, leaving the envelope of heat for more comfortable temperatures. When we got to Antigua we had enough time to grab food and get to the shuttle at 11:50. I left the group, aimlessly uncertain of how much coffee I wanted and from where, with all of my bags in my hands. Antigua. I sat and wrote about COS, trying to remember the feeling of that conference and how unsettled I felt. The beach was the opposite: hot, beautiful, with friends. Even though we didn’t see any damn turtles.
And then, like that, I was back in Santa Clara with 7 months left to go.
