My Mostly Companion

It all started one early morning back during training.  I had woken needing to use the restroom just before 5 a.m., but was unable to do so because someone was in the shower.  Another person got into the shower immediately following the first, leaving me with an uncomfortably full bladder and an irritated attitude.  I hadn’t slept well, and really wanted to take care of things and get back to sleep.  Instead, I was halfway in bed feeling huffy while I tried to listen for my cue to run into the restroom. 

Finally, I gave up on sleep around 6:20, as I needed to be down to the highway and on a bus by 7:00.  I grumpily turned on my light and went to put on some clothing (still awaiting bathroom access).  To my bleary surprise, this is what greeted me.

I wasn’t sure what I was seeing at first.

No, I wasn’t crazy.  One of the host family cats had somehow become a stowaway in an upper shelf of my wardrobe all night long.  It was so strange (and she was so cute) that it broke me out of my funk and made me laugh out loud.  I wasn’t even able to work up anger over the fur she left on my clothing.

That little ball of fur that changed my mood is named Canchita, meaning blonde or light-haired; this is usually applied to foreigners, but can also be used to describe Guatemalans who have anything other than black hair.  Even slight streaks of brown will get locals labeled Canche. 

Right away Canchita had pegged me as a sucker.  She must have learned from the previous two Trainees that Americans are softies and willing to offer pets, laps, and general cuddling in a way that almost no Guatemalans are likely to do.  At first she would sneak onto my lap in the main room, but was soon cleverly escaping the family’s attempts to throw her out of the house at night by entering my room through a hole in the wall between my room and the kitchen.  The family assured me she had fleas, but I saw no evidence of them.

Now, Canchita’s sister, Blanca (meaning white – not the most creative names, eh?) was pregnant and had three little kittens while I was there.  My madre offered me one of them, and said my friends might adopt the others, too.  Admittedly, they were adorable.

I spent plenty of time playing with them (and my host brothers).  I kept putting off choosing, saying I needed to see their personalities.  But when my madre mentioned her plans to keep one of the kittens (who were all male) and give away the adult cats to avoid having more litters in the future, I saw my opening.  If she was going to send Canchita away, she was sending her with me!

So, when I moved to Site, Canchita came too.  She made the trip stuffed into a costal (woven plastic tote bag), and ended up making a smelly mess all over my host mother’s foot in the bus.  She spent the first week and a half hidden under my borrowed bed and I feared she’d never forgive me (or clean herself off properly!).  Of course, she eventually warmed to the change of scene, though is still wary of the kids and dogs.  Now that we’ve moved up to my cottage she can come and go freely by entering and exiting the house through the roof, and accompanies me on my household chores.

When I’m doing laundry, she basks in the nearest patch of sunlight, just on the edge of the shade from the house.

When I head to the latrine she’s got my back, day or night.

If I turn my back, she’ll try to be helpful with the dishes.  In fact, she’ll try to be helpful eating my bread, tortillas, tostadas, and granola if I’m not careful with the pantry.  While she’s been happy with the switch to concentrado (actual cat food), she must still get nostalgic cravings for her pan dulce days.  I’m going to be investing in some more sturdy storage containers.

If it’s napping that needs doing, she’s happy to lead the way.

Overall, I’d say adopting Canchita (well, allowing myself to be claimed by her) has been excellent for my mental and emotional health.  I can talk to her in whichever language I want, she’s a reliable and prompt dinner companion, and helps warm me up on the chilly (occasionally freezing) nights.  Best of all she makes me laugh when it’s tempting to let petty grievances get a little too large in my mind’s eye.  Maybe I sound like a crazy cat lady alone in my cottage anthropomorphizing my little friend, but I'm glad Canchita is my Mostly Companion.

Making a House a Home

This weekend I had my first house guests, as I had a mini cottage warming party with four good PCV friends. I've been in my new place just over a month, and the work back in November and December sweeping, disinfecting, and adding fresh coat of paint certainly helped brighten the mood.  Moving in was a relief, and my kitty (to be profiled later) helped make the place feel lived in.  Still, there's nothing like some good laughter and companionship to make a place feel really one's own.  

Friday two of the crew arrived and we made mango curry for dinner.  Breakfast the next morning was pancakes and hash-browns.  Once the other two arrived, we hiked up to the cemetery to enjoy the view and a picnic of granola-tacos (tortillas with peanut butter, granola, and honey inside: delightful).  After a trip to the neighboring town to pick up supplies, we entertained ourselves by producing large and scrumptious meals for dinner (tostadas with spicy bean dip and mango tomato salsa, home made macaroni and cheese) and breakfast (french toast with mango sauce, hash-browns, scrambled eggs).  

We probably spent most of our weekend preparing, consuming, and cleaning up after our culinary adventures, with a movie huddled around my laptop thrown in for good measure. I suppose the opportunity to pool our resources and eat some gringo food after all those beans and tortillas was too good to pass up.  Last night we had three in my bed (plus one cat), and two on a futon-ish mattress on the floor with sleeping bags and shared blankets for a cozy night indeed.  

On the way down from the cemetery we found some wheat just after harvest (a fairly uncommon crop) and played farmhand for a photo.  (Our 5th companion is taking the photo, of course).

Below are the long promised shots of my pleasant little place, well spruced up with the many items I was able to buy for a one-price-fits-all screaming deal off another volunteer who ended up leaving Guatemala early.  Many times over the weekend I was asked "where'd you buy this?" and I would respond, "I inherited it..." to my companions' increasing envy.  The shots start in my cooking corner and rotate clockwise around the room (skipping the doorway).  

Kitchen.  Where the magic happens.

Rest of kitchen, and mud room... er... bench.

Wardrobe, bath, and laundry room area. 

Bed.  Not made due to a sleeping feline.  Please excuse.  

Office + Refrigerator space.
Look!  I have a microwave!  Not something I'd ever have imagined in Peace Corps or considered purchasing for myself, but since it came with the rest of the furniture.... I mean, I didn't even have one of these in the states for a good while there!  I think I've used it four times, so far.

The room is pretty spacious, and allows me to feel like I have a separate sleeping area from cooking, with my little office-y spot in between.  The door behind the oven leads to the grandfather's office (but we don't use that door, clearly), and the door to the left of my bed leads to a storage room that I don't have rights to use.  I just keep the door open to let a little more natural light through from the other little window.

Taking Care of Business

I’ve often found that the type of restroom amenities (or lack thereof) becomes a popular conversation topic when traveling.  I have friends who have been to Japan who describe not knowing what to do with all the buttons and options for toilet services.  I have stayed in places in Europe where the bathroom was so small I could easily sit on the toilet with my feet in the shower and my hands in the sink.  I have accompanied friends on their first pit stop in the wilderness and coached them through the use of a hand trowel and techniques for using handy rocks, trees, and logs to find a comfortable position to take care of matters (hopefully with a nice view, and a lack of mosquitoes).  At restaurants friends have urged me many times to go use the bathroom, just to check out the décor or ambiance. 

So, it’s no surprise that we in Peace Corps end up talking about our bathrooms too.  We also commiserate over our actual digestive issues in pretty fine detail, but I’ll spare you publishing that.

The first lesson learned in Guatemala, is to always enter a restroom packing your own supplies.

Image from Threadless Tees

I've definitely been in this situation in Guatemala, and like to think I've done Macgyver proud, but still... I do my best to avoid needing to get creative.  

One of the essential tips we received the first night in country was to remember to put our T.P. in the trash can.  This is familiar to most who have traveled in Central or South America, so wasn't much of a surprise.  

Sumpango host family bathroom

I was a little less prepared for learning how to manually flush the toilet when the water is off -- it's a learned skill of throwing water into the toilet from a bucket nearby just so... to make the contents of the bowl go down, and not come out.

Just as throwing T.P. into the trashcan was becoming second nature, I moved to my site, where we use latrines exclusively.  Now every time I go into a bigger town, I have to remember to switch back to the wastebasket, then back to the pit again when I get home.

This is the main latrine that the family compound shares.  Toward the end of November we had a wind storm come through that blew over two of the walls and blew off the roof of this latrine.  The pieces were all more or less propped back into place, but there are gaps in the corners, so people are much more quick to say, "Occupado!" to prevent others from getting too close while they're inside.

The toilet seat in this latrine was painted with limestone, I think to help keep it disinfected?  It tends to have the effect of highlighting whenever someone misses the hole and hits the seat.... happily I now have my own latrine that I can clean when I please.

Some people use their latrines to make their political allegiances known.

My latrine (the one up at my cottage, which I share with the grandfather) is made of adobe.  It's got a roof that slopes down from just about exactly my height to much shorter, so I'm a little scrunched, but hey, it's not like I go there to hang out.  The boards my left hand is resting on are the makeshift door that I can drag across the entrance should I so choose, but I mostly don't bother unless I know someone's nearby.  I prefer the fresh air and the view of flowers growing outside. 

The grandfather uses old newsprint for his toilet paper (above left).  I bring in my own plush Scott roll.  This is one of the things I've decided it's worth splurging for on my Peace Corps budget.  I really don't mind using a latrine, but I do mind newsprint.  There's also a wooden lid for our outhouse (upper right).

When moving into my new place I had to go through a PC housing checklist for safety and security.  One of the requirements for those of us with latrines is to have a cement floor.  I've seen (and used) latrines with wooden floors (or just a few wooden boards to balance on) and apparently there have been cases of boards rotting, leaving unsuspecting users to fall down into the latrine.  This is definitely one regulation I was happy to comply with!


Besides all the infrastructure issues around restrooms, I've noticed some cultural differences as well.  When I go to the public restroom in the mall in Xela or Chimaltenango (these are pretty similar to U.S. malls), the women spread out and stand in lines behind each stall.  In the U.S., the line of women forms at the entrance to the restroom and the woman in the front takes whichever stall is vacated first.  In Guatemala, it's more like choosing a checkout line in the grocery store.  If you choose the one that moves more slowly, tough luck.

There may be a stereotype that U.S. women always go to the bathroom in groups, but I can assure you that when we do, we use separate stalls.  In Guatemala I've seen two or three girls entering a stall together, each taking turns at the toilet.  I don't just mean 5 year olds here... probably up to 13 or 14 year olds.  I'm not saying this is the norm, or very common.  But it's definitely not uncommon.  Odd.

Lastly, for all Guatemalans are said to be indirect communicators, they're surprisingly direct on some topics.  This includes asking if you have diarrhea and if there was enough toilet paper for you to get by (not to mention how much things cost, how much money you make, if you're homesick/sad, why you are single, and so much more... but those are topics for another day).