Hmm, the subjects herein might detur a few readers for the simple fact that they’re gross, but a few of you might just enjoy reading it because it will be gross enough you have no choice but to laugh. And in the end, I do not wish you all to think I’m going insane—I’m sane as I’ve ever been—which you might agree has always been a little questionable. : ) The simple truth is that talking about being sick in another culture, how it comes about, how it is complicated, and how it’s treated, etc. definitely displays yet another aspect cultural differences and how we deal with them.

Health is such an important issue that every single Monday, when we spend the entire day at the training center, two hours of our time is dedicated to talking about health. Some one who thought themself very comical, or perhaps was just sick, decided the time slot for talking about our health would come right before lunch. This has turned out to be the most disgusting on D-day, or rather the day we dedicated two hours to talking about nothing other than the technicalities: types, shades, frequency, causes, and cures of DIARRHEA. It is the number one health issue for Peace Corp volunteers around the world. I would say the second grossest day was this past Monday when we talked about skin diseases. Since most of them are caused by things feeding on, living inside of or off of your skin, or biting you, we all felt sufficiently revolted before going to eat.

Thankfully, our wonderful nurse team realizes the disgust and discomfort brought about by their presentations, so they go to great lengths to maintain a sense of humor. D-day started with all of us singing the diarrhea song for example. You know, “When you’re sliding into first and you feel something burst…diarrhea, diarrhea…” On the day we talked about STD’s, HIV, and AIDs (particularly overbearing in that it was the week my town-mates and I were helping out with the teacher workshop on the same subject) the nurse gave the presentation wearing a condom hat—literally a giant condom just sitting rolled up on her head—with a segmented sword in hand that could be flung out or retracted at any moment (and just an interesting side note covered on that day: if I got pregnant here the delivery and everything would be covered under workmans-comp, but it’s also an automatic ticket home). Finally, on skin disease day the nurse brought a box of furry, cute stuffed animals in—all from a little website called giantmicrobes.com. The little critters were scabies, lice, fleas, bed bugs and more, all with witty little explanation tags.

The easiest, least awful day would have been the day we talked about stress and stress management, except it happened the day I had just reached my limit, so I stood at the back of the room trying not to cry the entire time. I guess that illustrates that these little talks are, in fact, pretty relevant and important. But even with so much information at hand, sometimes you just have to wait the problem out.

By this point, almost everyone in our training group has a health story to tell. The thing is, any time you travel your body naturally has to do a little adjusting to the change in schedule and diet. Unfortunately for those of us not vacationing, but rathering trying to live like the natives do, that change period is kind of harsh and kind of long. About week two I had the first occurrence of the big D, but it wasn’t horrendous. In fact, the rule is don’t call the nurses until you’ve had four loose stools in a 24 hour period, and I only had it 3 times, so I was good to go after lots of water and a good long nap. The problem only became apparent when I realized that there was a distinct pattern. Most of the time I felt just peachy. You see, I ceased going to the bathroom at all, except once every four days. One huge attach of the dreaded D, and then a big long nap, a little lingering quisiness, and I was good to go again for the next four days.

I kept thinking, “Well so and so had food poising horrendously and couldn’t even give her presentation. At least I didn’t have that. Man, and so and so has had diarrhea for two weeks straight now. At least I don’t have that. And, geez, this and that can’t get through a week without puking at least once, poor guy. I’m doing alright.” You can indulge yourself in the At Least game for quite some time. But eventually you have an experience that destroys you, and while trying to work on a project with your friend at a cool little cafe in Antigua, you have to explain to her just why you are not able to sit down for more than about 10 minutes at a time. And because she is somewhat sorry for you, and incredibly relieved it isnt’ her telling that story, you will be able to laugh about it, kind of grossed out and embarrassed, together. These are the bonding moments here.

Being sick wouldn’t be so trying if we didn’t already feel like we’re being treated like little kids with doting mothers. I’ve learned, for example, never to flush the toilet at night because my parents’ bedroom is underneath the bathroom, and my host mother sleeps through nothing. She regularly gets up three times a night just to tuck her kids in so they don’t catch a cold. Thus every time she hears the toilet flush, she automatically thinks the worst, and is likely the scare the begeezus out of me coming to see if I’m alright in the middle of the night. So when we have to explain to our families that we are sick—and for some people after a night of food poisoning and still working with limited spanish it’s hard enough just to get the words, “I’m…..sick,” to come out of their mouth before crawling back in bed—it can make for some awkward situations. Other times it just ends up being truly annoying.

For example, the first time I had to miss an official field trip for being ill my family postulated that I had just eaten too many avocados. They’re a cold food, you know. The second time something happened my dear host mom thought that perhaps the tea I had for dinner the night before was too hot—though it was, in fact, the same temperature it had been every other night. You see, in Guatemala, in order to stay healthy one needs to maintain a good balance of hot and cold in his or her system. But for us foreigners the system of hot and cold is a little confusing to grasp, much less balance, since ice cream is “hot”, and many teas, though served steaming, are “cold”. And after long enough dealing with a body that is simply not digesting food like it should, these ridiculous notions just get down right irritating.

Unfortunately that still doesn’t make it alright to yell, “JUST GIVE ME FRUITS AND VEGETABLES FOR CHRIST SAKE! I DON’T CARE WHAT’S HOT OR COLD!” Because after weeks of trying to be polite by not making any specific food requests outside of the family’s normal diet and trying to abide by their side-stepping, indirect communication so that you’re only ever hinting constantly at what you think might be the actual problem or possible solution, you succumb to the reality that you’re body is not working because your diet consists of not much more than corn tortillas, liquified black beans, white rice, and the occasssional egg. Then being sick just gets depressing, because you know what you need, and you’re dependent on someone who isn’t giving it to you.

It’s funny how we can all walk around our towns now, like it’s just the most normal thing, feeling like we’re absolutely fine. Then, quite suddenly, the realizations hits us that we’re not fine. We are not well, and we haven’t been able to fix the problem. Then we remember: that all of our time is being scheduled for us by the Peace Corp, with hardly a day and half off on weekends; that we don’t get to see our friends or spouses to just relax hardly ever; and that when we’re supposed to get those opportunities, our families have these weddings and baptisms and quinceañeras to invite us to; and we’re being rude if we don’t go. And it never fails that someone says, “Dance Gringos, Dance” like we’re they’re friggin’ pet monkeys! Then we feel like THEY—all these people who aren’t us—have invaded our space and time right down to controling how our body is functioning. And when all this hits the day after we return from working in the campo all week in the cold and rain, as we’re waiting for our ride, which is two hours late already on our only day-off, to our third wedding in five weeks…well…then …….there was nothing left for me to do but throw myself down on my bed, fancy clothes and all, and just sob, for a good long while…then rinse my face with cold water, and walk out the door to that wedding.

It was precisely the next day that the nurses talked about stress management. I wasn’t quite over all the trauma of the day before, but I had decided to ask the nurses for help with my problems. First I just had to sit through two hours of talking about stress, and try not to cry. Then I had to stand in line for what felt like my 17th shot since I’ve been here. I have hated every single one, but I just take a deep breath in, then out, and then they stick me, and I’m done. Except that day, when they stuck me, and it just felt so overwhelmingly painful I burst into tears like an infant. I left the training center that Monday with fiber supplements, information on where to buy flax seed, and nurses orders for a mental health day off that week.

It’s a good thing those nurses have a sense of humor since they get to deal with crazies like me.