La Graduacion

Me, my host sister, my host mom. Can you pick me out? And no, my host mom is NOT angry, despite appearances. Guatemalans generally don't smile for pictures.

So I thought perhaps I should back-track and talk a bit about that glorious Cinderella-esque transformation from "Trainee" (aka you-don´t-count-yet-you´ve-proven-nothing-scum-of-the-earth) to "Volunteer" (aka the-real-deal/legit/badass).

Needless to say, it was a beautiful sunny day. I had asked my host family if I could wear a traje for the ceremony (traditionally, many of the Trainees that were in Indigenous training sites have worn traje to the graduation) and they were delighted. (I also, if you noticed, straightened my hair with my friend's straightener-- just to balance things out.) So I endured the stares and comments on the camioneta to the training center. I arrived to find I was one of 4 girls that wore the traje, and I must say I don't believe I've been photographed so much in one day since my high school graduation. We were definitely a hit. (But looking at these pictures, it dawns on me that it's NO WONDER that people stare at me! I'm hudge! I'm shockingly white! I look like a different species! I'm a freak of nature! ... note to those who perhaps do not recall, but I am actually somewhat normal-looking in the United States, not even particularly tall!)

After the ceremony, I endured yet another bus ride in the traje back to my village to have one last lunch with my host family. They had prepared my favorite lunch for me (roasted vegetables and chicken in this light tomato soup... with, of course, tortillas) and they gave me a gift of a rosary. I gave them a framed collage of photos of me and them (even one of me and mechanical baby Diego, which they appreciated). As happy as I was to be graduating, to leave the bottom rung of the ladder, to be a "real Volunteer" (after months, no, years, of waiting), my heart did ache a little to say good bye to them. We of course had our moments of misunderstandings, being from very very different worlds, but by the end I had considerable "confianza" (roughly, "closeness", though there is no word in English that captures the beautiful essence of this word) with them. There was a lot of teasing and laughter and sharing of stories and experiences. I was very blessed to have them as my host family.

What followed was the inevitable but amazing celebration in Antigua (yet another Peace Corps Guatemala tradition). My training group completely rented out 2 1/2 hostels for Friday and Saturday nights. After almost 3 months of hurrying home before 6 p.m., it was bliss. We all did our best not to think about the daunting challenges ahead, and instead ate good food, danced, watched movies, went shopping (yay move-in allowance!) and just sat around, enjoying each other's company. It was a good weekend.

Ahh!!! What's that huge pale demon-creature in a traje?!! Oh, right, that's me.

Then on Sunday, I waved good bye to denial and left for my site about mid-day. There were many other volunteers on the bus, but when I got off at Cuatro Caminos (a major transportation hub), in the pouring rain, with almost more luggage than I could haul, it was time to go it alone. I stood and waited for the bus to my town... and waited... and waited, letting the ayudantes (bus assistants) know again and again my destination, but no luck. I tried calling my host dad, but some guy I didn't know answered and I left a message I wasn't sure he understood. At last an ayudante for a bus to a different town told me that on Sundays, that bus went to my town. (Which seemed to make sense, right? There are less commuters on Sunday.) So I gratefully got on. But what the ayudante conveniently didn't tell me (ayudantes have a way of "bending" the truth to get more passangers) was that the bus only went to the entrance to my town on the highway, not actually to my town. My town is set a good 5 km from the highway, on a deserted, rought dirt road that I've been specifically told not to walk because it is sometimes prowled by thieves... not that I could have walked anyway-- I could barely move with all the stuff I had! We're talking 2 years, people!

Needless to say, I was dropped off on the side of the highway in the pouring rain with my enormous, very conspicuous suitecase and backpack, and it was beginning to get late. This was in fact worse than being at Cuatro Caminos, where at least, as a last resort, I could have hopped on to a bus to Xela and got a hostel for the night (which I was thinking of doing before this bus came along). Fortunately a nice older man, who also got off the bus, for some reason took notice of this sopping wet gringa with 2 times her weight in stuff took pity on me and asked where I was going. I told him, and he said there were no buses late on Sundays (so NOW I find out!), but fortunatley there was a pickup truck there to shuttle people to town (sometimes people with trucks work as unofficial shuttles to make a little extra cash), so me, all my stuff, this man and a couple others hopped into the pack of the truck in the pouring rain and traveled the rough 5 km road (which takes a half hour) to my town. Did I mention is was pouring rain? (The truck was going to drop us off about 1 km from the center of town, but the nice man convinced them to take me to the center-- in fact, to my front door.) I arrived sopping wet with my sopping wet stuff to the exclaimations of my new host family (my host dad had in fact tried calling many times but I hadn't heard in the noise of the camioneta, rain and truck).

Congratulations, I thought. You're a real volunteer.