The Potato Incident

Here in Lima, I was getting along great with my host family. I was adapting, learning the new culture, enjoying the food and mejorando-ing my Spanish. I thought I was doing pretty well.

That is, until, the potato incident.

We were cooking lunch at the training center, and we all needed to bring in a certain assigned item. Mine was 3 kilos of potatoes. Simple, right? Well, it got a little complicated. I'll explain.

Twenty soles a day go to our family to cover food, lodging and laundry. I had been sick since visiting my site, and I hadn't eaten dinner with my family all week. We also had two days where lunches were already provided by Peace Corps, and I rarely eat breakfast. My meal total was low, and I was hoping my family would pick up the 5 soles it would cost for the potatoes.

Money matters are always a little bit awkward. And being the conflict-phob I am, I gently approach the issue by talking about the lunch and how excited I am for it. I then continue with how I will need to bring 3 kilos of potatoes and would that be an issue to get? Oh no, not at all, my host mom assures me. You can buy them at the market.

Oh ... I say, a little surprised. Not quite sure how to approach the matter, I let it go until later in the week.

Like I said, I had been sick, plagued by an all-consuming grossness that culminated the day before the big lunch. I still hadn't gotten the guts to bring up the issue again, but I was down to the wire. I was hoping my host mom would have a little pity for the girl who was clutching her stomach, slumped over on the couch.

I can't go to the market today, I say. I'm really sick, but, shoot, I still need to buy the potatoes.

Don't worry, my host mom tells me. You can go tomorrow morning before you go to the training center.

No "how awful you're sick! Is there anything I can do?" No "don't worry about it, Robyncita. I'll go grab them for you." Nothing. Not a shred of sympathy or offer of assistance.

Naturally, I am miffed. I grab my favorite hoodie and hide myself in my room, curled up under my covers for the rest of the evening. The next morning, I get out of bed, dress quickly, and go to the kitchen where my host mom is prepping the family's breakfast.

Are you going to eat? She asks me.

No, I can't, I say. I don't have time. I have to go to the market.

Oh yes. The potatoes, she says. Ok, have a good day.

That's it.

I step outside the door, absolutely fuming. I go straight across the street to the host family of another Peace Corps volunteer and ring the doorbell. She invites me in, and I sit down at her breakfast table, trying hard not to burst out in a violent string of profanities.

I ask my friend if she wouldn't mind going with me to the market to get the potatoes before heading to the center, and her host mom, overhearing everything, interrupts me.

But Robyn, she tells me. You didn't tell your mom you needed the potatoes? She's supposed to buy them, you know. It's her responsibility.

I know, right?? Exactly! I want to scream, but gossip is a pretty big deal in Peruvian culture, and I don't want to fuel any negativity about my host family. The truth is, I'm sitting there in the kitchen, on the verge of tears.

Here, I was going to have to figure out how to get to the market and back before our training sessions started, when, really, it shouldn't be my responsibility at all. Not to mention that I had hardly eaten a scrap of food from my family that week, and then I had to front even more money when I shouldn't?? What's worse: She didn't even ask if I was feeling better!

It took me a Coca Cola, a single-serving package of Oreos and a whole lot of venting for me to realize how irrational I was being. Sure, my family should have offered to get the potatoes for me. And they probably should have offered a little human empathy for my being sick. That part of my reasoning is logical. But who am I to expect that they have the same culture of social courtesy and astuteness?

What I really should have done is just been upfront with my host mother. She would have bought the potatoes if I had just asked, and I probably would have avoided a really awkward couple of days and at least 300 calories.

But when you're new in a culture, it's difficult sometimes to find the balance between offending and being clear about what you need. I was expecting my host mother to meet me halfway by offering. When she didn't, I was irrationally offended.

This all transfers back to my life in the States. My Minnesotan raising has made me a little too passive-aggressive. But this lack of communication can get even more slippery with another culture and another language. Yes, I need to be sensitive and not come on too demanding or too strong. But at the same time, I need to be able to express myself clearly, without the expectation that those around me will pick up on my subtleties — which might be even less pronounced here than I think.

For a while, I will be a little awkward and uncomfortable. But if I continue down this conflict-phobic path, I mind just end up in totally avoidable, frustrated tears, drowning in a sea of Coca Cola bottles and Oreo wrappers. And for what? A sack of potatoes?