My first Navidad

It began with a soul-rattling shriek of a dying pig at 5 a.m. The screams (which can only be described as demonic) woke me with a start and provided just the motivation to get up and go running — if only to get away from the bone-chilling sounds of an animal taking 5 minutes to bleed to death.

After my run, my host mom offered me some fried piece of the poor little creature for breakfast. I passed and opted for simple tea and popcorn. I’m so happy other countries appreciate such delicious culinary marvels as much as we Americans. I am equally as giddy about the fact that as a gringa most of the things I do are considered odd, so when I actually do something a little quirky (like popcorn for breakfast), people just shrug their shoulders in a gesture of passive acceptance. It’s very liberating.

The rest of my Buena Noche (Christmas Eve) passed quite pleasantly despite the heat. There was a visit to Amara, another volunteer close by; followed by a delicious lunch of rice, chicken and lentils (lentils!! I never get alternative sources of protein); and a solid 3-hour block lost in Kristin Gore’s Sammy’s Hill.

Around 7 p.m., I felt it: the crippling weight of being away on Christmas. It wasn’t so much that I wanted to be home — though I did — it was more that Christmas is always a time when you are with the people you love and who love you. You eat, you play, you fight — that’s Christmas. But here I was, smack in the middle of South America surrounded by a crowd of people — not one of whom really knew me — and man, I felt lonely. Trying to call home was a fiasco, but I finally got through. And in between a fit of heaving sobs, I was able to (at least vocally) be with my family on Christmas Eve.

Thankfully for me, Buena Noche is anything but solemn and calm. It culminates in a wonderful swirling mass of fireworks, hot chocolate, cake and food, which didn’t allow me to be too sad for too long.

Dinner’s eaten at midnight, and everyone went to my host grandmother’s home for the meal. My five-year-old cousin, Sheik, poor thing, was sick, and wouldn’t even eat my cookies! But the rest of the fiesta was a riot of cumbia music, fireworks and joyfully squealing children in the streets. We stumbled into bed at 2:30 a.m., full and thoroughly exhausted.

Three other volunteers (the Saritas and Michelle) and I spent Christmas Day at the beach, reading paperbacks and bathing in the warm but powerful waves of the Equatorial Pacific. We sang carols to ourselves despite a curious/annoyed nearby audience. We ate fresh fish and reminisced about Holiday traditions back home. In short, it was awesome.

I say boldly and without shame of corniness that I felt incredibly grateful to be with my friends, celebrating life instead of sulking in our rooms, wishing we were back in the States.

I realized as I made my way home how important my family of other Peace Corps volunteers has become to me — especially right now. When everything is new and exciting and daunting all at the same time. When every day we have to make the decision of whether to stay in and hide or to step outside and engage. As supportive as our host families are, our short few weeks with them pales greatly in comparison to those we left behind to come here. And it’s cheering to know that we have this bridge to help us mend the gap.

I hope everyone had a wonderful Christmas. When you get a chance, please send me a note to tell me how it was. I’d love to hear!

Me with my family

Me with my friend, Sarah, at the beach on Christmas Day