Poco a Poco

Yes I’m alive; yes I have survived my first week with the Peace Corps...

The only word I can think of to describe my experience thus far is surreal. This past week has been so intense that it is difficult to discern what exactly I should be writing about. How could I possibly recount an experience that has (so far) been incredible on so many levels? I might list my activities over the last seven days, detail what I have learned, describe my array of emotions, or I could illustrate the new people that have come into my life and inspired me…yet nothing I write could possibly convey with any kind of accuracy just how extraordinary and absurd this week has been. And so, to those few who may be reading this blog, I beg that you pardon my lame attempt at informing you of what’s going on in my life until I have time to process and reflect a bit more.

Let me begin by saying that everything about this experience so far has felt “right”…like this is what I am meant to be doing. I have met 39 wonderful aspirantes (what they call Peace Corps trainees) who all have similar credos as myself. This is a group whose members come from diverse backgrounds across the United States; all have had unique life experiences; there is a mix of ages and gender…yet everyone has expressed a passion for grassroots development, giving of themselves, saving the world, making a difference, learning a new language, culture, and way of living, and having one grand adventure…namely, these are people that “give a damn,” people that I have been longing to meet.

During the next three months of training, I will be residing with a host family on a hillside pueblo called Yanacoto. Living conditions are modest, but by no means uncomfortable. While I feel at home here, there are several minor things to adjust to. Things that we take for granted in the United States, like tiles, carpets, toilets that have a toilet seat and flush, paved roads, cars, etc. are all considered luxuries. I am one of the fortunate ones in that I have a toilet seat; but the floors are made of cement, the roof of corrugated tin, and we don’t always have running water. Scruffy looking dogs, both stray and domestic, roam the streets and howl at all hours of the night. Some are kept on the roofs of houses. If they don’t wake me up, I can surely count on the detestable cockadoodledoo of the roosters to replace my alarm clock. And if all else, fails, there is always the ice cold shower to jolt me awake…sans water pressure so the process, as if not already excruciating enough, takes double the amount of time to complete. After my shower, I sit down with my host mom and 21-year-old brother for breakfast. A typical “desayuno” consists of a roll with jam, soupy oatmeal drank from a mug, and half an avocado. Que rico!

There is a common expression here that I love: “Poco a Poco.” It means little by little. Every time I get frustrated because my Spanish isn’t coming along fast enough, or I’m feeling overwhelmed by the tasks that lie ahead, my host mom gives me a half smile and wisely reassures me, “poco a poca.” It is difficult to have patience when one’s ability to communicate is stunted. Most of our dinners consist of me pointing to things and saying “Como se llama?” Or “Como se dice…?” If that doesn’t work we resort to charades and sound effects. It is a rather comical experience, although at the end of a long day of training, I am so exhausted that the thought of going home to participate in this bout is very daunting. While I have tested into the level required of me to begin service at the end of August, I feel very incompetent and lacking in my language skills. It is hard to have faith that I will be able to achieve any kind of fluency in just three months, but then again it is only my first week here. Growth takes time. Poco a Poco.