Pre-Shit Storm

Several times a day, I walk along my cobbled street, past houses with tin roofs, ‘yards’ with burning toilet paper and loose chickens, and up the hill to the center of town. All along the way, children crawl out of the woodwork and start yelling my name. Sometimes they ask me where I’m going, or where I came from, but most of the time they just keep screaming “Eric!” until I turn around and wave. Sometimes I stop and say hi, ask them what they’re doing, and try to learn their names. Flashing their rotting teeth, they inform me that I’m a gringo. “I know”, I say, “and you’re a chapín.” We fist bump, and I’m on my way.

After three months, I still enjoy semi-celebrity status among these children. To them, I might as well be from another planet – I’m tall, white, and speak in tongues. When I walk by talking on the phone in English, they love to mimic what I sound like: “sha sha sha sha…” Even my host siblings haven’t tired of me. They will do anything in their power to come hang, even returning a lent soccer ball just to ask for it back. If they know I’m home, they will knock on the door and scream until I answer. I counted once; Saulo yelled my name 18 times before I couldn’t take it anymore and came to the door. “How’s your mom?” he asks, “Can I see if you made your bed?”

I can do no wrong by these children. Playing monkey in the middle, I lifted Saulo in the air so he could try and catch the ball. After succeeding in catching the ball (with his face), I put him down and bent over to see if he was okay. With blood streaming out of his nose, he laughed hysterically, “Do it again!” For a kid who cries at least half of his life, it says a lot that he was not bawling his eyes out.

Being such a spectacle means that I live in a fishbowl; it’s impossible to walk down the street without being noticed. At the same time, it provides me the opportunity to represent my country in the best way possible. In order to teach composting this week, I walked around the Sunday market with a garbage bag, picking up fruit and vegetable scraps. Most of the people I passed stood stared as I collected banana peels, surely thinking ‘this gringo is out of his mind’. But some people stopped to ask what I was doing, and maybe, as a result, might think twice about what they do with their apple cores in the future.

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I am finally starting to work on a regular basis. I’ve now met all of my schools and most of my women’s groups. After my initial frustrations with my counterpart, he returned in January ready to work, and has been very supportive and helpful. Within the next few weeks I would have had a pretty consistent schedule. Would have, being the key phrase.

I had started this entry a few weeks ago, but a lot has changed. Forgive me, this hasn't been my best post, as it was a little rushed. I want to write something new within the next couple days to explain the giant shit storm that has become Peace Corps Guatemala, but didn’t want to let my most recent experiences go undocumented. Erego, I'm going to end this entry with something a little different, for the sake of time. I call this section, “You know you’re in Guatemala when…”

You hop into the back of a pickup truck and almost crush a pig in a bag.

Upon first meeting your women’s groups, they are already offering you their daughters in marriage.

You can’t make it more than a month without getting sick (so close this time!)

You are offered to go to a whorehouse by a married man.

Coworkers play Mario Kart on their computers to kill time in the office.

You hear your host siblings get the belt on a daily basis.

You direct indigenous Mayan women on how to make a compost pile, at the same time thinking to yourself, “I have no idea what I’m doing.”

I’ll post a new entry soon, hopefully later today. In the meantime, enjoy these pictures of my future dog, born on January 12^th!