The árbolita gordita

It never fails. I’m walking down the roads of my quiet Huancavelica town when all the sudden I’m greeted by one of the neighbors: “Heeeeey, Lyndsey! Lookin’ good! I can tell you’re really fitting in around here!”

Why thank you! Tell me, is it because after months of toil I speak Spanish like a guru? Is it because I can dance huaino like the best of them? Maybe it’s because I ate that sheep intestine soup like a native and even asked for seconds?

“Yea, look how gordita you are! You sure must be comfortable here with all that weight you’ve put on!”

Welcome to my life. Every. Single. Day.

Within the first week in Peru, I was introduced to that verbal brazenness that is so integral to Peruvian culture. In America, we tend to tiptoe around certain topics, trying with all our might to be sensitive and “politically correct.” Although we are often labeled for being direct in our conversations, Americans will jump through extraordinary linguistic hoops in order to avoid even the smallest possibility of offending someone (“What?! Of course that dress doesn’t make your butt look big. But have you considered this one over here? Now this one would make you look like a bombshell…”). That just doesn’t seem to exist here. Sometimes the frank dialog that often finds its way into my conversations with Peruvians can be immensely funny and useful (“Don’t believe anything he says. He’s a terrible mayor.”), to mind-numbingly dull (“It’s raining. The sky is overcast. There sure is a lot of mud!”), to, at least from my perspective, offensive (“Hey, chinita, you’re fat!”). On a good day, it takes every ounce of strength to remember that I’m interpreting these words from the lenses of American culture. The words are hurtful because I insert an extra meaning taken from my own experiences and background; the hurt does not lie in the speaker’s intent. So, when someone yells, “¡Hola, gordita! ¡Ven acá!” I instead choose to hear:

“Hey there, girl-I-feel-so-comfortable-with-and-like-so-much-that-I’m-going-to-use-this-cute-diminuitive-nickname-to-call-you-by! Come over here so we can talk and be best friends!”

On a bad day, though, it just sounds like this:

“Hey, fat ass, get over here!”

It doesn’t help that I come from a culture that has an incredibly shallow, two-dimensional definition of beauty. In American society, both men and women have an image of what a perfect body is. We’re absolutely bombarded with it. Through creative uses of Photoshop and the power of the media, we’re constantly presented with the impossible gold standard of beauty: that slim, toned, Barbie doll body that, literally, embodies success. What did you say? You’re body doesn’t look even remotely like that? Well then! Better go out and buy that gym membership, subject yourself to a completely unhealthy weight-loss program, and start measuring your self-worth by the size of your jeans because you just GOTTA HAVE IT! I used to see it all the time: women standing in line at the local café clad head to toe in overly-tight Nike sports wear, even though they hadn’t so much as jogged out their front door, swapping juice cleanse plans and beauty tips given in the latest Hollywood magazine. Clicking their perfectly manicured nails on the counter to signal their impatience for caffeine, they’d go on and on and on about themselves, too narcissistic and vanity-driven to give a hoot about the poor barista slaving away on their extra light, extra hot, no foam sugar-free soy latte. In their drive for perfection, they’d completely renounced all the glorious little imperfections that make humanity so beautiful.

It’s not within Peace Corps’ nature to attract people like these to be volunteers. We’re made of different material. We’re tough, strong, adventurous people who are beautiful by a different standard. However, we come from a culture where narcissism and depreciation are part of the every day norm. It’s ingrained, and even when we’re in a foreign country we still hold ourselves up to that American ideal. Worse still, we PCVs can be highly envious, comparative creatures. We compare our work, we compare our likability, and we compare our bodies. Worse still, we compare in an extremely self-depreciating manner. Often times during regional meetings, I will witness volunteers engage in body bashing; sometimes I even engage in it myself.

“Oh my God, I have gotten so fat since coming to Peru. Just look at how big my thighs are.”

“You’re thighs are big? Just look at mine. If yours are big, mine are huge!”

Sound familiar? According to the New York Times, this kind of body-denigrating dialog is called “fat talk” and is seen as a norm in American conversation. Unfortunately, it’s also a custom for PCVs. When we look in the mirror or talk to each other, we often times play a vicious game of comparison and focus on what we’d like to change; rarely do we ever focus on our strengths and see them as beautiful. Examine the following conversation:

PCV #1: “Oh my God, I have gotten so fat since coming to Peru. Just look at how big my thighs are.”

PCV #2: “You’re thighs are big? Just look at mine. If yours are big, mine are huge!”

PCV #3: “Really? I think your legs look just fine. I happen to think my own legs are quite stunning.”

Who’s going to be honest and admit that if you were PCV #1 or #2 in that conversation, you’d immediately think PCV #3 was a sniveling, smug asshole? I would. And isn’t that sad? It is more acceptable and comforting for us to depreciate ourselves. Being positive and empowering runs the risk of you being judged, ostracized, and disliked.

I know that our culture pressures us to have a body that resembles a skinny twig. I know that we PCVs aren’t immune to that. I also know we have this nasty habit of basing our ideas of success and worth on how we’re doing compared to the PCV next to us. I also know that Peruvians’ tendency to remark frankly on our bodies can, at least in our minds, make things even worse. We’re told by our home, our peers, and even ourselves that we need to be a twig and that those extra pounds we gain due to stress, different diets and lifestyles, or just by enjoying life is a mark of failure. But here’s the thing – why the hell would you want to be a twig, anyway?

Twigs are fragile little cast-offs. They are shed, stepped on, forgotten, and incredibly fragile. No one notices a twig, and few find them beautiful. They’re too distracted by the immense tree towering over them. Trees soak up everything life has to throw at them. They reach their limbs into the sun and bathe in its light and they plunge their roots deep, deep into the soil to grab hold of the richness that lies below. They’re firmly tied to the ground, yet they never stop reaching upward. They know how to bend, even to the point of breaking, and weather a storm. Even still, nine times out of ten when the storm passes they’re still standing. They change with the seasons, yet what makes them truly beautiful and unique never disappears. They provide comfort to those around them – a literal breath of fresh air, shade for escaping the heat, and innumerable crooks and crannies ideal for making a home or just for playing.

Twigs are those shallow, frail people who don’t find joy in their imperfections, who don’t cultivate their inner strength, and can only see worth when they’re better than others and striving towards an impossibly fake ideal. Trees are just the opposite.

Narcissism is the antithesis of why we become PCVs. Joining the Peace Corps is not about building strength, showing off, and wearing it like a fashion statement. It’s about finding that strength you never new existed, cultivating it into an unstoppable force, and measuring yourself against yourself every single day. We join the Peace Corps to feel good and to do good, not to look good. I am a PCV because I am not, nor shall I ever be a twig.

I’m going to be one hell of a tree, and so are you. 

My zombie, myself

As anyone who knows be back home can attest, I LOVE Halloween. It is, by far, my absolute favorite holiday of the year. Every year, I always plan some sort of ornate Halloween party or road trip with friends and family. And therein lies the main reason why I am such a Halloween fan: it has always involved all of those who I love most dearly. I have so many fun memories of my parents loading up a car full of kids to take us to some remote haunted house or corn maze. Better still, all age distinctions were lost as children, teens, and adults alike would scream, cling to each other, and run for what seemed like our very lives. Being a baker, Halloween is like a goldmine. There are so many cute, themed cookies, cupcakes, and other tasty treats to be made with fall ingredients. It is not uncommon for me to have 22-hour baking sprees to prepare for a Halloween party or event. Also, being from Indiana I can also attest that there is truly no better place to experience Halloween than in the Midwest. In general, autumn is always beautiful where I live. After all, what could be more picturesque than to go trick-or-treating beneath the red, gold, and orange-colored leaves of the neighbors’ trees? The sky becomes bright and clear; the air turns crisp and almost always smells like burning leaves. Cornfields get turned into haunted mazes and the local, run down farmhouse suddenly becomes the best haunted house you can imagine. Bonfires are lit, apple cider and donuts are passed around, and everyone gets bundled up for the next hayride. What’s not to love?

Unfortunately, Halloween seemed like it was going to be pretty dismal and humdrum this year. I was stuck in Lima recovering from a surgery on my toe. After all of my wonderful Midwest memories, being stuck in a big, urban city in Peru seemed like the last place I wanted to be for my favorite time of the year. Resigned to have yet another ordinary day, I packed up some work and headed to the Peace Corps office, determined to make the most of my situation and try to be productive if I couldn’t be festive. No sooner had I sat down and opened up my laptop, I saw Jennifer, our financial director, walk in the room.

“Oh! I didn’t know you were here in Lima.”

“Yea, well, to be honest neither did I.”

“Well, do you want to be a zombie?” Seeing my stunned face, Jennifer then turned and pointed at my foot. “I mean, with bandaging like that, you must already have the walk down…”

A piece of advice to all: when someone asks you if you want to be a zombie, the answer is always, under every circumstance, “yes.” Halloween was suddenly starting to look more promising.

Within the office grounds, there are a series of bins full of used clothes. Many Peace Corps Volunteers are eager to shed themselves of unwanted or unnecessary possessions when they close their service. Determined to be a passable zombie, I raided the bins for unloved, ratty clothes. I managed to find a rather worn-looking marathon shirt and yoga pants with holes in the legs. Perfect! Holding up my findings, I already had my back story planned…

She’s running through the woods, determined to take advantage of the solitude and fall weather and prepare for her next race. She’s jogging – alone – along the path when suddenly she’s surrounded. ZOMBIES ON ALL SIDES! She tries to run…but NOT FAST ENOUGH! *COMP!*

I have an overactive imagination.

Another nice surprise was the arrival of Jennifer’s husband, Kevin, who ended up being a secret makeup artist in disguise. Arriving with a whole plethora of face paints, fake blood, and prosthetics made of latex and painted toilet paper, Kevin was ready to turn us all into the undead. We painted our visible skin green, added some bruises, bite marks, open sores, and other mortal wounds, and covered our hair and clothes in potting soil and fake blood. It was FANTASTIC!

So we all piled into a van and were practically bouncing in our seats as we headed to the US Embassy. Getting into character, we growled and pawed at the windows whenever a car full of people would pass by. Thankfully, no traffic accidents occurred.

The US Embassy in Peru has an absolutely wonderful Halloween party every year. Organizations that work through the embassy, such as Peace Corps and the US Marines, and the departments within the embassy are allocated various sections of the basement and first two floors of the building. Each group chooses a theme and then decks out their area as much as possible. Peace Corps decided to do a zombie-themed haunted house, but others decided to create a mini version of Neverland, Alice in Wonderland’s tea party, a circus, etc. In this way, families of embassy workers could come and have fun and their kids could trick-or-treat in a secure way. Needless to say, it was the first time I had to have security clearance to enter a haunted house.

Patrolling the haunted house was a ton of fun. I got to amble after screaming adults and children alike and scare the pants off of them. In the end, I was told that four children cried. In all honesty, though, the biggest screamers were the middle-aged women. Once the crowd had passed through, I had a great time laughing with my fellow zombie-clad volunteers and prepping for the next round of victims. I did, unfortunately, spend a lot of time on my feet and received a good tongue lashing by my doctor, who unfortunately recognized me when she brought her own children to the haunted house. Thankfully, my toe was fine and no one stepped on me the whole night. Actually, several people thought my bandaged foot was part of my costume.

Once the embassy’s festivities wound down, we all hopped back in our van and headed to our country director’s house, who was holding his own Halloween party. Still dressed as a zombie, I got to socialize with the Peru 22-ers, who are still undergoing their own training in Lima. Seeing the doctors glare at me across the lawn, I refrained from dancing but still got to enjoy the cookout and talk with staff members who I hadn’t seen in months.

So, all in all, a most unexpected and highly enjoyable Halloween. I most certainly will not forget it. 

A little fear, a bit mistake, and a fantastic (mis)adventure

One of the many self-discoveries I’ve made during the time in the Peace Corps is that I have small, irrational fears that are deeply buried in my psyche. For instance, I have an irrational fear of skydiving. I have always sworn to kingdom come that I would never, ever skydive because a) I’m mildly petrified of heights and b) I don’t like the idea of trusting my life to another person or object. Since heights make me extremely uncomfortable, I tell myself that there is no way I could enjoy skydiving, even though I’ve never tried it. Because I don’t want to trust myself to others, I speculate on insanely improbable things-that-could-go-wrong: the faulty parachute that doesn’t open, the string that breaks and prevents you from launching said faulty parachute, the drunk guide who condemns me to plunge to my death due to his inebriated judgment, and so on and so forth. As anyone can tell you, though, skydiving is a perfectly safe, exhilarating experience 99.99999% of the time that usually results in an unforgettable adventure. And yet, I rationalize my illogical and ridiculous trepidations and convert them into seemingly viable excuses, thus barring me from ever giving my small fears, such as skydiving, a chance to be resolved. I have many such tiny fears, all of which would be so very easy to ignore. In all honesty, I know I could live a perfectly happy and fulfilled life if I just simply let them be. However, by doing so I would be inviting missed opportunities and experiences, both the good and the bad, to enter my life. Perhaps I’d enjoy 99.9% of what life has to offer me, but there would always be that 0.1% that I’d miss. And, maybe that 0.1% would make all the difference. Do I really want to risk that possibility? As a result, I’ve vowed that whenever I discover one of my irrational fears, no matter how small and insignificant it may seem, I have to root it out. When I hear myself thinking, “Oh no, there’s no way I could do that because…” I have to immediately stop and say, “Why yes, I’d love to.” However, as I learned this past month, sometimes saying that “yes” can have rather unfortunate and, in this case, hilarious consequences.

*********

“Well, you’re most definitely going to need surgery.”

Cursing my bad luck, I slunk down into the doctor’s chair and sulked. How could I have been such a stupid klutz and caused this to happen? Now I needed surgery? These are not words you want to hear when you’re living in a foreign country.

*********

It’s always sad when PCVs return back to the States. In this particular case, all those who arrived in the Peru 18 group were getting ready to close their service, finish their two-year long projects, and return back to the US. Saying goodbye is always difficult, but for those like me from the Peru 20 group, losing the 18-ers was especially hard. The 18-ers were like our mentors when we first arrived. They helped us get past our starry-eyed wonder and set realistic expectations for ourselves and our Peace Corps experience; they gave us the encouragement and pep talks necessary to make it through our first rainy season, our first holidays away from our families, our first disappointments and failures; they kept us excited when we wanted to be apathetic, positive when we wanted to blast everyone with frustrated negativity, and optimistic when it would be so much easier to lower our hopes and dreams. And now they were leaving. As much as we wanted them to stay, how could we not be happy and proud of those who did so much not just for us, but for Peru as well? So, we were determined to throw them an amazing goodbye party and send them off in style.

Fortunately for us, we were able to have an incredible event for our beloved 18-ers. In a Peru 19-er’s site, a family was converting a rural hacienda-like mansion into a hotel. Since it was still under renovation and had yet to get a lot of business, they agreed to let us rent out the entire facility for free. The hotel was in the middle of nowhere, so we didn’t have to worry about disturbing the local town with too much music and noise. It also came with a swimming pool, a huge tree full of hammocks, a dancing pavilion with lights and speakers, and a place nearby to horseback ride. Who could ask for more? The party ended up being very bittersweet. We all had an amazing time dancing in improv Halloween costumes, rocking out to pop music, launching fireworks, and enjoying a photo slideshow and a roast and toast. Still, it was hard to forget that, despite all the festivities, we were still saying goodbye.

In the midst of all of this, I did something incredibly stupid.

My family is notorious for being klutzes. Seriously, I don’t know how we do it. Somehow we always manage to injure ourselves in the most awkward and idiotic manners. So, I guess it’s only fair that it was finally my turn to join the list of ridiculous injuries.

So there I was at 1:00 AM Saturday, October 19^th taking a break from dancing when all the sudden my site mate runs past me yelling, “Lyndsey! We’re going skinny dipping! Come and join us!”

“Oh no, thanks guys but I don’t really…”

Damn it all. There it was. I had just found an irrational fear. Looking behind me I, I realized that all of the Peace Corps Volunteers in my region were dancing less than 15 meters away from the pool. It was dark out, but not nearly dark enough to give me the modesty I would have preferred. So what was my fear? That someone would judge me for jumping naked into the pool? That I was ashamed of my body? That I would be childish by skinny dipping? Probably a little bit of all the above. But here’s the thing – for whatever reason, I realized that I was afraid of shame, whether it be from myself or from peers, and I was going to let the possibility of shame prohibit me from having fun and from enriching my life experience with a potentially funny memory. I had just unearthed an irrational fear and, regardless if I really wanted to or not, I now had to take my clothes off and get in the pool.

So trying to be as quick as possible, I stripped and jumped in. Now note: I did not swan dive. I did not even do an epic cannonball. I just jumped like a normal person into the shallow end of the pool. Yes, the shallow end. Now, it was a wee bit shallower than expected, but not by a lot. This was not like jumping into a kiddy pool. It was just, perhaps, 1-1½ ft. shallower than you would expect an American swimming pool to be. Well, that 1-1½ ft. made all the difference. Before I knew what was happening, my left foot struck the bottom of the pool. Four of my toes bent naturally in one direction, but unfortunately my pinkie toe didn’t get the memo and bent somewhere between 45-90º in the opposite direction.

I immediately knew I had just done something very, very stupid.

Fortunately, my site mate is also an EMT. After hobbling my way out of the cursed pool and pulling on some clothes, I called her over to see if I had just broken my toe.

“Well, can you feel me poking it?”

“Yes.”

“Can you bend it?”

“Yes.”

“If I pull it gently like this, does it really hurt?”

“It’s uncomfortable, but not really.”

“Well, you still have circulation, too, so it doesn’t seem broken to me. At worst, it’s fractured, which you can’t do anything about. Most likely you’ve just jammed the hell out of it. All we can do is dry it off and tape it.”

Unfortunately, my toe was a lot worse off than either one of us expected. To complicate matters even more, there was no cell phone service where we were. As a result, I couldn’t have called the Peace Corps emergency medical hotline even if I wanted to. So what could I do? I taped it, stayed off my foot as much as possible, and waited.

            Time: 24 hrs. after the accident

The next day I left the hotel in the afternoon and went to Ica. As soon as I was back in a cell phone service area, I called the Peace Corps Medical Officer (PCMO) on duty and explained what happened. Not surprisingly, they immediately wanted and x-ray and scheduled an appointment in a clinic for the following day.

            Time: 48 hrs. after the accident

I arrived at the clinic relatively pain free. My toe was swollen and a little crooked, but I attributed its bruising and eggplant-like shape to uneven swelling. Plus, there wasn’t any searing pain, so I saw no cause for alarm. When the technician threw my x-ray up on the board, we observed four normal toes, but the culprit, my disobedient pinkie toe, was...well, different. The technician, hiding a smirk, turned around to me and said, “Well, that toe’s not even close to being where it’s supposed to be, is it?” I stared in horror at the x-ray. My toe was completely shifted over and askew. It was like having a mini version of the Leaning Tower of Pisa in my foot. Knowing things were only going to go downhill from here, I reluctantly called the PCMO again and, after explaining everything, was told that I had to go to Lima. I limped my way out of the clinic, grabbed my stuff from the hotel, and got on a bus.

            Time: 72 hrs. after the accident

It was Tuesday morning and I was sitting in a different clinic waiting for my appointment with Dr. Rojas, a trauma specialist. When I finally got into his office, I explained the entire unfortunate story to Dr. Rojas, whose face gradually darkened and looked more and more concerned as I talked. Frowning, the doctor asked me to lie down on the table and said he was going to try to relocate my toe. Cringing my teeth and trying not to yelp in pain, I waited as the doctor pulled, pushed, and jiggled my toe, trying to put it back in it’s normal spot. In his defense, he did it as gently as he could. Finally, I heard him sigh and say, “Well, this isn’t good.”

You never, ever want to hear those words leave a doctor’s mouth.

“Why? What’s wrong?” I asked.

“Well, you’re most definitely going to need surgery.”

I listened in dismay as Dr. Rojas explained that since the bone wasn’t immediately put back into place and it took me so long to see a doctor, a tendon had now shifted over and squeezed into the space between the dislocated joints. Now, no amount of pulling and pushing could put the toe back in because the stupid tendon was in the way. Instead, they would have to cut my toe open, put the tendon back in its normal spot, shift the bone back over, and stick in a metal pin to secure everything in place while I healed.

Fantastic.

            Time: 6 days after the accident

Friday morning I arrived at the clinic again with Dr. Carmen, one of the PCMOs. Together we checked in, settled into my hospital room, and answered various questions as nurses and doctors came in and out. I had my blood drawn, blood pressure taken, heart listened to, etc. Finally, in came the anesthesiologist, just the man I wanted to see.

Immediately I said I didn’t want to have full anesthesia. You can call me a wimp, but I don’t like going fully under unless it’s completely necessary. When I went under to get my wisdom teeth taken out several years ago, I was bedridden by vomiting and nausea for a full day afterwards. Thankfully, the anesthesiologist agreed with me, saying that full anesthesia was definitely overkill for a simple toe operation. Satisfied, I said I’d like local anesthesia instead.

“…I don’t recommend that.”

Stunned, I asked why not. Didn’t he just say this was going to be a simple operation?

“You’re going to have a pin inserted through your bone. While your toe might be numb, that pain is going to reverberate up you leg. I don’t think local anesthesia is going to be enough. I think we should choose something in the middle, something stronger than local anesthesia but not as strong as full anesthesia.”

“Well, what do you recommend, then?”

“An epidural.”

“…as in what they use for childbirth?”

“Yes, exactly. We’ll numb everything from the waist down. You won’t feel a thing.”

Good grief.

As the anesthesiologist left the room, I turned to Carmen and asked, with all seriousness, “Can’t we just amputate the damn thing?”

“…you want to amputate your toe?”

“Why not? Besides gymnasts and ballerinas, who really needs a pinkie toe? Honestly, this is waaaaaay too much trouble for what the damn thing is worth. Let’s just chop it.”

“Lyndsey, we are not amputating your toe.”

“Hear me out-”

“NO!!!!”

So there I was an hour later, staring at the ceiling of an operating room, hearing the beeping of my own heart on a heart rate monitor, trying to ignore the IV being put in my arm while watching my leg being swabbed in iodine. As a warning to any readers who might be undergoing a similar experience in the future, it is not wise to binge on seasons of House before undergoing surgery. It just freaks you out unnecessarily. As I tried my best to not dwell on the various, horrific surgical procedures House had to salvage on seasons 1-3, I felt myself being pulled forward by the nurses and having my spine and sides poked at.

“Ok, now DON’T MOVE.”

Don’t move? That has got to be one of the cruelest jokes on the planet. You’re sticking a needle directly into my central nervous system and you expect me to not move? So of course, I twitch like crazy. I wish I could say the process was more or less painless, but that would be a lie. As the needle was being inserted, it felt like every nerve between my skin and my spine was being poked along the way. Despite my best intentions, I spasmed uncontrollably as various nerves fired all along my back and sides. Then, just when I thought it was over with, I was informed we were halfway done. I forgot the catheter. So, next an even bigger needle was inserted and, I kid you not, I could feel the lidocaine being fed into my body and trailing towards my hips. Ladies, childbirth must truly suck to be worth an epidural.

As I laid back and felt the ceiling spin, I noticed something odd. My right leg and hip were completely numb; I couldn’t so much as bend my toes. However, my left side still retained a bit of feeling. Guess what side my operation was on? The left side, of course.

Even when your leg is 80-90% numb, having your toe splayed open is highly painful. Likewise, having a pin drilled through your bone is mildly excruciating. Now granted, I’m sure it would have hurt a lot worse if I had no anesthesia whatsoever. But still, it hurt. Thankfully, the procedure was short and simple. My suffering ended after about 30 minutes. However, I still had to spend the night in the hospital with an aching back and a throbbing foot.

            Time: 14 days after the accident

So here I am, still in Lima. My stitches have come out, but I still have the pin and the left side of my foot is covered in bandages. Since I can’t put a closed-toed shoe on, everyone in the clinic and the Peace Corps office agreed that I should stay in Lima until the pin is removed. If I were to return to my site in Huancavelica, the risk of further injury and infection would be extremely high. Since I am required to walk all the time in site, healing would be jeopardized. I could accidentally pull the pin out or jam it further into my foot, for example. In that scenario, I’d have to trek all the way back to Lima, which would be 10-11 hours away. I also imagine that I’d be in excruciating pain all the while, making that perhaps the longest and worst journey in my life. In addition, all the roads are dirt roads and there are farm animals everywhere. Since I can only wear flip-flops, keeping my bandaging clean would be a nearly impossible task. I really do not wish for my toe to become infected, especially since that pin goes through my bone. On the other hand, if I were to stay in Lima, I could reduce the risk of infection and only be a 15-20 minute cab ride away from the clinic if anything bad were to happen. Although I really, really didn’t want to spend my recovery in the city, it was obvious which option was the best solution for my health. As a result, I will be in Lima until November 18^th, a full month after when my accident occurred.

Despite the high degrees of unpleasantness, I want to make it clear that the Peace Corps was wonderful throughout the whole ordeal. The only time Dr. Carmen left my side was when I was in the operating room; she was right there waiting for me as soon as I was wheeled out. My Country Director also called me when he heard the news and even invited me to his house to make my time in Lima more eventful. I also received a lot of warm wishes from volunteers as well as staff, plus lots of condolences and hugs. I haven’t been lonely since volunteers are coming up all the time for various trainings, meetings, and appointments. Although this will most certainly affect the schedule I had planned for myself in terms of my in-site projects, I still have work to do, too. So, all in all it’s not the worst thing that’s ever happened to me.

In addition, in spite of all the complications, hassle, and frustration that have resulted from my skinny dipping misadventure, if I could travel back in time I would still jump in the pool. A misadventure is still a kind of adventure, after all, and now we all have something to look back on, shake our heads at, and laugh about. So perhaps I look the fool, but it makes me and those around me smile and remember a time of fondness. Call me crazy, but I see worth in that.

So, here’s a little lesson from me to you: whenever you hear that little voice that says, “Oh no, I can’t” never, ever hesitate to jump. 

Forgive my negligence

First of all, I apologize for the obscene amount of time I have been away from my blog. These past couple of months have been kind of a roller-coaster kind of experience for me, and getting myself to sit down and write has been difficult because:

1. I’ve been swamped with work (YAY!)
2.   I had to change host families, and the moving process has been very taxing
3.  I did some significant amount of traveling and have been away from the computer
4. I’ve just been lazy (sorry)

Hopefully, things will be returning to a state of normalcy soon. In any case, as you’ll see from my next blog post, I now have an overabundance of both downtime and internet. Expect several posts in the very near future.

Cheers!

The other side of the Good Samaritan

I would argue that whatever your faith or lack thereof is, everyone has heard some variation of Christianity’s Parable of the Good Samaritan: A man is caught and beaten by robbers and left for dead. He is passed on the road by various religious leaders and upstanding men, only to be ignored. The story ends when he is at last found by the Samaritan, a poor, humble man who cares for him by treating his wounds and taking him to an inn. Often times, this story is seen as a model of compassion and teaches us how we should treat those less fortunate than ourselves. Rarely are the origins of the parable looked at and studied. Why was the Parable of the Good Samaritan told in the first place? According to the book of Luke in the Bible, a lawyer tests Jesus by asking him what he needs to do to inherit eternal life. Jesus responds, “You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart, and with all your soul, and with all your strength, and with all your mind; and your neighbor as yourself” (Luke 10:27, NASB).

As Peace Corps Volunteers, we are both labeled by others and, whether consciously or not, by ourselves as “good Samaritans.” In most cases, our decision to join the Peace Corps in the first place was driven by that desire to love our neighbor. We want to change the world and make it a better place. We want to help others. We want to build communities and make a positive impact. We arrive with grand visions of picking up those around us, just as the Samaritan did to the robbed man, healing them in whatever way we are able, and giving them the chance to start over. Often times, those beliefs are also supported by those who love us back home: “I admire your courage and your willingness to sacrifice for others,” “We want to express our appreciation to you for all your efforts in doing great work for many people,” “You are making a wonderful difference in the lives of those around you.”

So why is it, then, that so many times we Peace Corps Volunteers are unable to fully love our neighbors? As a Peer Support Network (PSN) member, so often I hear volunteers that are worn thin and say, “I am so tired and I don’t know if I can do this anymore.” We are plagued with physical lethargy and mental weariness. It gets harder and harder for us to leave the (relative) comforts of our room and venture into the communities we once held dear. We become bitter. We start to point fingers. We seek escapism and long for the familiar. We begin to forget why we came here in the first place. What is it that ails us and gradually prevents us from loving others?

Now, I am fully aware that there is no singular reason behind these feelings. It is always a compilation of many separate problems: culture clash, home sickness, language barriers, lack of connection, lack of participation from local work partners, lack of support from peers or the Peace Corps staff, etc. The list can stretch on and on. However, I find that often times the root cause of our failure to empathize and connect with our neighbors is something else entirely. In fact, the key to loving others, which all of us often forget, is stated quite clearly in Luke 10:27: “You shall love […] your neighbor as yourself.”

Love yourself, and only then will you know how to love others.

When we are about to end our Pre-Service Training (PST), we are handed a set of initiatives and program goals that we are to advance through our two years of service:

By the end of 2018, 7500 low-income mothers will adopt practices that safeguard the health of their children. Each year, 50 health volunteers and community partners will work with mothers to prevent common childhood illnesses including diarrhea, acute respiratory infections and other preventable diseases through:

• Using the Healthy Homes Strategy (Peru Ministry of Health) to train mothers through workshops, one-on-one mentoring, house visits and health promotion events
• Apply the Healthy Homes Monitoring Sheet to observe improvements in knowledge, practices of the participating mother and infrastructure of the home
• Assess knowledge and behavior change among the mothers
•  Mobilize communities to secure access to safe drinking water
• Work with community members to increase access to improved cook stoves/latrines
• Train on the health benefits, proper use and maintenance of improved cook stoves/latrines.[1]
•  Blah, blah, blah things you must do things you must do things you must do things you must do things you must do things you must do things you must do things you must do things you must do things you must do things you must do things you must do things you must do things you must do things you must do things you must do things you must do things you must do things you must do things you must do things you must do things you must do…

We see these lists and their seemingly endless demands of objectives, outputs, inputs, data, and facts and we become over-excited and overwhelmed. We think to ourselves,  “I must do all of these things, and do them well,” and, “They’re all counting on me.” In our bloated sense of selflessness, we forget ourselves.

During her TEDTalk in 2010’s Charter for Compassion, journalist Krista Tippet observed, “You know, we spend so much time in this culture being driven and aggressive […] but again and again lived compassion brings us back to the wisdom of tenderness.” I find that her words are painfully true, but often misinterpreted in the Peace Corps. It’s correct to say that America’s culture is one driven by an aggressive, high-paced sense of competitiveness and progress. Peace Corps Volunteers are all Americans, and we carry that cultural identity with us when we settle into a new, culturally-foreign environment. As in the States, we begin to measure our self-worth by the amount of product we are able to produce. We push and we push ourselves, making the impossible demand that everything we do, we do for others. Our work, our life routine is centered around the constant outflow of ourselves and what we have to offer to our communities.

When that flow falters and is reduced to a trickle, we see it as the result of an inner fault. We blame ourselves and wonder why we fail. “I’m not good enough,” and, “I’m not doing enough,” are common words I hear all the time from my Peace Corps peers. When volunteers take the time to try to sort out inner conflicts, to restore their flow and inner sources of strength and peace, they often times feel guilty. In other words, the Peace Corps Volunteers’ way of implementing Tippet’s “lived compassion” results in tenderness for others, but rarely for themselves. To show tenderness for the self before others is misinterpreted as a betrayal of “the calling,” our mission to make this world good. How dare we take time for ourselves, when our job is to give to others? People need us; people depend on us; people are looking up to us, both here and back home. See how easy it is for our selflessness to turn into a form of self-righteousness, of selfishness?

It is very easy, then, for our biggest enemy and our biggest challenge to be our own self-perception. Our overly harsh-judgments and unnecessary sense of shame handicap our ability to love our neighbor. Why? Because we fail to love ourselves. In another 2010 TEDTalk titled “The power of vulnerability,” social worker and author Brené Brown described those with courage and a sense of worthiness in the following manner: “They had the compassion to be kind to themselves first and then to others because, as it turns out, we can’t practice compassion with other people if we can’t treat ourselves kindly.” In other words, love yourself, and only then will you know how to love others.

So what does it mean to love ourselves? I wish I could give you a complete, comprehensive guide, but tomes of self-help books have already been written on the subject. Unfortunately, I am also no expert in this area and often find myself having to learn and relearn just how to love who I am and how I’m made. I expect everyone does, just as I expect everyone deals with this sense of shame and guilt even if they’re not in the Peace Corps. But, after living here in Peru for around ten months now, here is what I would suggest:

1.     If you need time for yourself, take it. Let yourself rest, reflect, and be at ease. Do not be afraid of being still. Giving yourself time to work out your needs is never a waste of time. You have all the time that you need to do what needs to be done. You should remember, after all, that it’s not all about you. You are valuable, but it’s likely that you’re not nearly as important as you give yourself credit for. The world will turn and people will survive without you. So, if you need to step back, let yourself breathe, and pour into yourself for a bit, it won’t be the end of the world. In fact, the world might just be a little bit better if you do.

2.     Let your inner voice speak with kindness. When mistakes are made, when you look in the mirror and are disappointed with what you see, when you fail to meet the expectations that are set for you, forgive yourself. Calling yourself names, dwelling on your failures and repeating them in your head, and punishing and belittling yourself leads to nowhere but downward. Realize that you are human, just like everyone else, and that in every great difficulty, there is also great opportunity.

3.     Indulge once in a while. Is eating three Snickers bars the thing you really need to feel good? Would letting yourself spend an extra day in the city and treating yourself to a hot shower, a nice meal, and a YouTube binge do the trick? Is letting yourself go on a bit of a spending spree and buying that new, sexy pair of shoes just the thing you need to make yourself feel beautiful again? Then go for it. You only live once and life is meant to be enjoyed.

4.     Take care of your body, mind, and spirit. If you need to eat three Snickers bars one day, that’s fine, but don’t make it a habit. Look after your health and exercise, eat well, and sleep well. Take time for your faith and ponder the Beyond. Exercise your mind and strive to learn something new – pick up a new hobby or revel in an old one, read books, talk to others who are different than you and share opinions, let yourself try something new that you never had time for or were always scared to do.

5.     Immerse yourself in what brings you joy and happiness. If you know there is something that renews your soul and makes you feel happy – playing the flute, baking cupcakes, hiking, whatever – make it a priority in your life. Set aside a time each day or each week to let yourself do it.

6.     Surround yourself with other positive people. Are the people you hang out with negative and belittling? Do they overshadow your small triumphs by bringing up other looming challenges or past failures? Do you come to the table excited and energized, only to find that your work partners are pessimistic, unhelpful, and unwilling to participate? Dump them and find a new crowd. Work with those who want to work with you and socialize with those who aren’t afraid to see the sunny side of life.

7.     Don’t be afraid to ask for help and to let others know you’re hurting. Pain bottled up is pain that grows even stronger. Let your emotions go in a way that is healthy and self-healing. Don’t be afraid to call up a trusted friend and explain that you just need to vent for a bit. When things seem to be slipping away from you and you feel lost, ask for someone to help you. No one is able to do everything on their own, nor would you want to. We are wired for connection, so don’t be afraid to let yourself be a little vulnerable and ask for assistance.

8.     Laugh whenever possible, even if it’s at yourself. Life is full of humor: snarky, dry humor, ironic twists, slap-stick comedy, inside jokes, awkwardness and embarrassment, corny puns, and other funny moments. Never fail to laugh with them. And don’t be afraid to be the butt of a joke. If you make a mistake or if you become the fool, laugh. You’ll often find that if you laugh, you’ll be rewarded with a fond memory and even a new friend.

9.     Always enjoy beauty. If you know that the sunsets in your area are gorgeous and happen around 6:00 each evening, set your alarm and make sure you don’t miss it. Turn off your cell and take off your headphones when it starts to rain. Observe the changing of the seasons. Take the time to watch children play, and don’t hesitate to join them. Marvel at nature and the complexity of people around you. The Earth is a beautiful place, and it would be a shame if you walked through life without noticing its glory.

10.  Celebrate the little things. Every accomplishment, no matter how big or how small, deserves to be recognized. Pat yourself on the back when you resist that insufferable chocolate craving. Strike a Rocky Balboa pose when you finally are able to run up that hill without stopping. Be proud when someone compliments you, misses you, or enjoys your company. And, when it’s someone else’s turn to celebrate, celebrate with them. Never fail to appreciate a birthday, a promotion, a good test score, a high school graduation, the purchase of a new house, the overcoming of sickness, a wedding, the birth of a child, and life’s other milestones and pebbles. Life is full of blessings, and each merits recognition.

We are not superheroes. We cannot give everything we have to others and expect things to be fine as usual. Even if we could, would we really want to? Isn’t the person who is most invincible also the most boring and unapproachable? Each of us is human for a reason. We have a responsibility to others, that is true, but we have an equally important responsibility to ourselves. Compassion is far too complex to be reduced to a one-way street. Only by being compassionate to ourselves, by protecting our own personal happiness, by respecting, nurturing, and reveling in our own identities and abilities are we able to begin doing the same for others. Only then can we truly begin to love our neighbor.

Love yourself, so that you may know how to love others.

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[1] Peace Corps Peru Community Health Program Project Framework, 2013

Be strong, be courageous

We all like to be comfortable. As Peace Corps Volunteers, we often dream about the comforts we enjoyed and took for granted back home: sitting on the couch with a bowl of cereal or mac ‘n cheese, dogs you could pet without any fear of being chased or bitten, getting cozy by the fire at wintertime, pumpkin spice lattes and hot chocolate, being at home during the holidays surrounded by friends, refrigerators, air conditioning, central heating, shaggy carpet, philharmonic concerts and seeing plays in the theatre, celebrating family traditions in the presence of family, being in our own beds, Thai food, Indian food, Mexican food, Southern food, German food, really any kind of food other than what we’re eating right now. Joy can be found in the familiar – we know exactly what to expect, we’re never disappointed or unpleasantly surprised, we’re safe, satisfied, and filled with a sense of wellbeing. But if everything in life is a comfort, are we really having a comfortable, fulfilling life?

Life as a Peace Corps Volunteer is rarely comfortable. In fact, I would say that it wouldn’t be an understatement to label a volunteer’s life as two solid years of being highly uncomfortable. Since arriving here in Peru, I’ve had more than my fair share of discomforts: My bathroom is a cement latrine with a hole on the ground no bigger than a coffee cup, which, although perhaps easier for men, was clearly not designed for women. I have to live through a three month-long rainy season each year. The rain knocks out the electricity, making it difficult to cook, and also shuts down cell phone service. Even on good days, the cell signal in my town is shoddy and calls to my family are frequently dropped or riddled with delays and static. I have to travel seven hours by bus to check my mail or have reliable internet. I have been peed on by various farm animals as they are loaded on top of the bus and wiz through the windows. I’ve had mice crawl over me as I sleep. When I first moved into my host family, I was presented with a room that was covered in dust and dead insects, had holes in the walls, and had a bed with sheep pelts for a mattress. I have to work in a foreign language. I live at high altitude, making it hard to exercise. I have to wash clothes by hand. I have to constantly prove to authorities in my town that my work is worthwhile and I have to fight tooth and nail to advance my projects. I have to work with women who are so used to being disappointed and hopeless that they don’t believe change is possible. I have to constantly show my community that my promises aren’t empty. I have to gently swat away notions that I’m a human money bag, that I’m an eligible bachelorette ripe for the picking, and that I’m somehow worthwhile just because I’m American. As a college educated woman, I have to learn to be humble and happy in a community where most people have a high school education at best. Life, to be sure, is hard.

The question, then, is not whether life is uncomfortable, but whether that uncomfortableness is worthwhile or not. Is it worth being in pain? Is there something to be gained from feeling alone, in trouble, and misunderstood? In the midst of discomfort, is there some treasure to be found? To all these questions, I would answer unequivocally, “yes.”

Although we long for comfort, we are most defined and marked by our moments of being uncomfortable. That moment when we allow ourselves to jump into something unknown, when we pursue the end anyway even when we’re not certain if it’ll be good, that’s when our lives really begin. As a friend of mine, Pastor Jim Walker of Pittsburgh’s Hot Metal Bridge Faith Community explained in one of his sermons, “If it's always comfortable you never grow. You never take that step into the unfamiliar. The step into the unfamiliar is a gift. The step into the unfamiliar, the step off the cliff is a present from God. The real enemy isn't the cliff. The enemy is fear." If that’s the case, what exactly are we afraid of? Do we fear the discomfort itself, the physicality of pain and the emotional uneasiness? Perhaps. Personally, I think these fears are superficial, mere byproducts of a deeper, more human fear that we all have, regardless of circumstance: the fear of being vulnerable.

As Brené Brown explains in her 2010 TEDTalk on vulnerability, all humans are programmed for connection. Our mission in life and our happiness depends on our ability to make connections with others. However, in order for that to happen, we have to allow ourselves to be seen, really seen. We have to permit our innermost parts to be out in the open for others to see and, perhaps, to judge. We have to take the risk of being hurt, of being betrayed, of being disappointed or let down. We must, in the end, display and offer ourselves wholeheartedly. Being vulnerable, then, is the epitome of courage. “Courage, the original definition of courage when if first came into the English language,” Brown explains, “ is from the Latin word ‘cour,’ meaning ‘heart’ and the original definition was to tell the story of who you are with your whole heart.” Truly courageous people, she continues, view vulnerability as neither comfortable nor excruciating, but rather something necessary. Why? Why is it essential that we make ourselves vulnerable? Why must we place ourselves in fearful situations where we are stretched beyond our limits? Why do we need to sometimes be in deliberate discomfort, to deprive ourselves of the routine? Why, as Jim explained, is the unfamiliar a gift?

Because it is only when we step off the cliff and we are in the midst of a fall do we learn how to fly. Vulnerability is not fun. It is not easy. It is always risky and often unpleasant, too: “Vulnerability is kind of the core of shame and fear and our struggle for worthiness, but it appears that it's also the birthplace for joy, of creativity, of belonging, of love” (Brown, 2010). By taking risks and by revealing ourselves for who we truly are to others, we are able to truly revel in some of life’s greatest joys: the opportunity to identify and overcome our fears, personal growth and discovery, true human connections and relationship-building, reconciliation, community cohesion, real love. When the opportunity to be in the unfamiliar is denied, when vulnerability is numbed and ignored, you are also denying yourself of all these things. You cannot have one without the other.

For this reason, as a Peace Corps Volunteer I feel validated in my discomfort. Regardless of how my projects fair, I see my time in Peru as worthwhile because of the growth I have achieved by gradually overcoming or bearing through my hardships. Regardless of your walk in life, I hope you all feel the same way. Whether we want to or not, we are all going to be thrown into the unknown at some point or another. My hope is that we all remember to face these moments with joy and with courage. For it is only through courage that we remember that we’re worthy of love and belonging and we discover what we’re really made of. And it is only when life is at it’s most alien and unfamiliar that true, genuine life has the potential to begin. 

Animal house

Animal house

There’s a mouse in the bed, a chicken in the soup, and a dog in the church. This sounds like the opening of a children’s book, doesn’t it?  After all, we’ve all heard of famous titles such as Wishbone, If You Give a Moose a Muffin, and The Cat in the Hat.  In each story, the central character is an animal that displays characteristics that are remarkably human. We see that their greed, curiosity, love and friendship have the ability to make life for their human companions either a riveting adventure or an endless source of frustration. In many cases, life with real animals is no different. As a Peace Corps Volunteer, I’ve had many interesting and unforgettable (to put it mildly) interactions with animals here in Peru. Sometimes they’re heartwarming, and sometimes they’re downright disgusting. I’m no children’s author, but in this blog post I’m going to write three short stories about my most memorable moments with animals over the past month, which range from the good to the bad to the ugly.  

The Mouse in the Bed

It’s the sound of a Peace Corps Volunteer’s worst nightmare. That soft scuffling, the crinkling of plastic bags as tiny padded feet scurry across them, the light scratch scratch as tiny claws meet a dirt floor once the lights go out. It’s the pitching sensation in your stomach as suspicious and dread sink into you as you try to sleep. Your skin starts to crawl, your eyes squeeze shut, and you bury your face in your pillow as you try not to think. But no matter how much you try to ignore it, no matter how much you deny it, deep down you know.

There’s a mouse in your room.

I’m lying in bed asleep, dreaming away when something strange happens. Something in the dream doesn’t seem to fit; it doesn’t feel right. No, literally. I feel something - four tiny, squishy pads on my left hand that immediately jolts me awake. I wake with a start, flinging my arm and smacking it into the headboard. But there’s nothing there. A dream, I tell myself while nursing my new bruise, This is what happens when you watch too much Game of Thrones before you go to sleep.

My hand still smarts as I settle into bed the next night. I turn of the lights, nestle under my covers, and curl up into a ball when I hear it. It’s faint at first, so faint I almost am able to ignore it and go to sleep.

Scratch scratch scratch…

My ears perk up and the noise gets louder.

Scratch scratch scratch…

I bolt up, snatch my flashlight, and douse my room with a beam of light. I shine it over my books, my closet, and my fruit crates that serve as a pantry. Nothing. It’s just an animal on the roof, I tell myself, Or maybe the house is settling, or perhaps it’s just a big bug.

I turn off the flashlight, roll over, and try to sleep.

Scratch scratch scratch…

And so it goes. After about five times of waking up and swinging my flashlight around madly, I leap out of bed and turn on the lights. I freeze and wait.

Nothing…

Nothing…

Nothing…

And then I see it. A small, brown form pokes out tentatively from my pile of scarves. Twitching its nose, it makes a mad dash across my windowsill, scampers down my purse hanging on the wall peg, and leaps nimbly at the floor and stares at me.

“Oh no,” I moan as I stare into the beady eyes of the mouse, “Oh no oh no oh no oh no oh no oh no oh no oh no oh no oh no oh no…”

For the next couple of nights, I watch in horror as it crawls across my dishes, my books, my shoes. At night, I ball up in the fetal position under all my blankets, barely able to breath, as I hear it’s tiny claws. It races across the floor, across the mattress, across me as I try to sleep. I practically destroy my room as I tear it apart, trying to catch the little bastard (sorry, not exactly children-book-appropriate vocabulary, but trust me that’s tame compared to the obscenities I was screaming at the time) and chase it out the door. I swear the thing had lightning for feet. Try as I might, I could neither herd nor catch my new rodent roommate.

There was only one solution left.

After a week of hell, I went to the store and bought rat poison. I left for the weekend, came back, and voila! There was no more mouse in the bed, or anywhere for that matter.

Fin.

A Chicken in the Soup

My family has bought two chickens. They have one purpose: when they are old enough they will be plucked and eaten for dinner. I’m convinced they know their fate, and so they’ve decided to live like kings for what little time they have left.

Mr. and Mrs. Chicken rule over the courtyard behind the house. They strut and cluck and poop constantly. They hold court inside the latrine, but only when you’re inside and in most need of privacy. Trust me, there’s nothing more unnerving than having two sets of beady eyes stare at you as you go to the bathroom. They prance into the kitchen, which for them is both dining hall and bathhouse. They feast on scraps left on the floor and relax in the local hot springs. And by hot springs, I mean the soup. No joke, I once entered the kitchen to find them both sitting in pots of soup that had been left uncovered on the floor, as if it were their own personal jacuzzis. Seeking to expand the boundaries of their kingdom, they frequently break into the house when a door is accidentally left open. They often enjoy going to the storage room, which leads to the staircase to the second floor where I live. Marking the uncharted territory as their own, they poop all over the place. But only, of course, after I’ve swept and cleaned it.

These chickens are dictators and I, a mere plebian to them, cannot wait for their demise.

Fin.

A dog in the church

It’s May and the town is getting ready to celebrate Bajo de Cruces, the celebration of Jesus’ crucifixion and the lowering of his body from the cross. The doors of the Catholic church have been unlocked and swing open, the nuns from a nearby town arrive to facilitate the masses and parades, the town gears up for nights of music and partying. I, ever the dutiful volunteer, am working. I’m on my way to the municipality to turn in a monthly report when suddenly I’m bombarded by small children. They’re friends of mine – each is the son or daughter of one of the health staff.

“Lyndsey! Lyndsey! Look what we found!”

Josef, the 9-year old son of a nurse technician, holds his hat out reverently as the children crowd around. I look inside and see a black, wriggling, crying form. It’s a puppy. My heart sinks as I realize that it couldn’t have been more than a couple of weeks old. It didn’t even have its eyes open yet.

“Where did you find him?” I ask, trying not to panic.

“In the church! In the church!” They chant back.

Very calmly, I explain that it’s important to return the puppy back to where they found it. It is far too young to survive without its mother. Sadly, the kids lead me to the spot where the puppy was found – a small, dusty broom closet filled with broken pews and other forms of tattered bric-a-brac. As we lay the puppy down on the ground, a hesitant, shivering black nose pokes out of the shadows. The mother, thankfully, was still at home and very grateful to have her son returned to her.

And so, I met one of my best friends here in Aurahua. Milagros, a name I gave her which means “miracle” in Spanish (appropriate, I thought, for a dog found in a church), is one of the sweetest dogs you’ll ever meet. She comes no higher than my knee, has ears that resemble bat wings, and long, black fur.

When I was unable to find a new home for her, I decided to make daily trips to the church to give her some food and company. The church is normally locked unless it’s a religious holiday, and once the Bajo de Cruces was done the gates were shut. However, underneath one of the side doors was enough space for Milagros to squeeze in and out. Every day, I’d wait by the hole and call her. She’d wiggle out, wag her tail, and I’d leave her breakfast and later dinner. Sometimes she’d find me in the plaza and sit beside me. Other times if she spotted me in the street, she’d race up, jump, and wrap her front legs around me in a hug. When I had to travel to town to attend a meeting, she’d accompany me to the bus to say goodbye.

Unfortunately, the end of Milagros’ story isn’t entirely happy. During another holiday when the church was open, someone entered the broom closet and took her puppy. At this point, he was probably somewhere around 3-months old – old enough to survive without his mom, but too young to leave so soon. I had seen him the night before. He was nothing but a bundle of black fuzz with brown and white socks. I had debated taking him with me, but ultimately decided to leave him in his home until I could find him a new home. I had just arranged for my friend, a fellow Peace Corps Volunteer, to take him when someone got to him before I could. I can only hope that they thought he was an orphan and decided to give him a good home.

Milagros and I, though, still meet regularly. I’ve since learned that she’s partially being taken care of another family, which is a huge relief. She comes and she goes but, as always, whenever we find each other she greets me with a big hug. 

Fin.