Fat and Happy in Guatemala

When the bus drops me off at the entrance to the community I think I am entering Neverland. The fog is so thick that it looks like I am going to walk off the end of the world in the next 10 feet. As I wind my way up the dirt road, out of the fog appears a fence post, then a horse tethered to it, the blurry edges of fields planted with vegetables, and finally a small school. The kids here are talkative, and the teachers engaged. Recess is extended as we digress in our conversation about the Healthy Schools Program to discuss new immigration laws in the US and my disloyalty to my country in my World Cup top picks.

Walking down from the school later that morning, the fog has cleared and the landscape unfolds before me like a green patchwork quilt on a lumpy bed. The mountain breeze feels familiar, like it knows me, although I can’t be sure from where. Is it the breeze that filled my sails on chilly days on the James River? Or is it the wind that whipped my hair around on Lake Michigan’s beaches? Either way it gives me a feeling of nostalgia that I can’t quite place. The mud-brick homes I pass are the kind that 6 months ago I had imagined myself living in in Peace Corps. Not that I am complaining about the painted cement walls that I am so lucky to have. It is 12:30, so when I greet a woman with a “Buenos Dias” and then quickly correct myself after consulting my watch, she laughs and stops to chat with me. I think how lucky I am to have this job, and how much I love walking.

It is a good thing that I am doing so much walking. Everyone seems to want to feed me here. This wouldn’t be a bad thing, except that all of the veggies I bought at the market over the last two weeks are going bad. And my host-aunt is continually forcing bread from her bakery on me. Today she entreated, “Just take one piece to make a bean sandwich for tomorrow’s morning snack.” “I don’t have any beans.” I replied pragmatically. “Ham?” she pondered. “No… but I do have jam.” “Perfect. A jam sandwich. I don’t want you getting sick from not eating.” Ha. That should be the least of her worries.

The moral of these stories is that I may be getting fat, but at least I am happy.