Opportunity to Give

Dear Family and Friends,

I hope this e-mail finds you well and enjoying the summer. As you may know I am currently serving as a Peace Corps volunteer (PCV) in a small town in southern coastal Peru. Serving as a PCV in a community means that you live and work with your community to improve various aspects of everyday life like water and sanitation, health, environment, small business and youth development. My assignment is in water and sanitation, but I work in other areas as well. In southern coastal Peru we have about 25 PCVs serving and every year we come together to host two youth camps, one for young men and the other for young ladies ages 11-15. This year I am co-planning the young ladies’ camp with a fellow volunteer and our theme is ‘Reach for the Stars’. The camp is three days and two nights and will be held in Chincha, a town central to most volunteers. Volunteers will bring youth from their sites to spend the weekend exploring career and education opportunities and learning how to write a resume and interview. We will also have a doctor talk about basic sex education and a nutritionist discuss personal health and nutrition. All of our speakers are local professional women working in the region. Last year we focused on community leadership which was a success and we hope for similar results this year.

How will my donation be used?

Once the donation request is filled then the money is sent to me, the volunteer. We will use all the money to fund the camp: pay for food, posters, paper, markers, t-shirts and transport for campers and speakers.

How do I donate?

Go to the following webpage and remember every little bit counts: https://www.peacecorps.gov/index.cfm?shell=donate.contribute.projDetail&projdesc=527-061

Thank you for your time and donation,


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A Moment

The other day I was sitting in a combi waiting for it to fill and then head out to my small town. As I waited I watched as this little girl helped her mother. She is probably about 2 years old and her mother is in her twenties. They are always here. The mother has popcorn, ice cream, and snack carts lined up against the old slightly graffiti covered adobe wall and she occasionally stands up and extends into the combi advertising peanuts, ice cream, crackers, cookies and other items she has for sale. In her line up there is also a stroller for the toddler when she takes naps. This particular day was not really any different from the others, except that I noticed the baby doll the little girl was carrying was almost identical to one that I had around her age. I don’t really have any memory of this doll except the stories I’ve been told and the pictures I’ve seen. His name was Michael, after my cousin, and I carried him everywhere. I threw-up on him once on a road trip with my grandparents. That might have been the end of Michael, if I remember the story correctly.

So here I am in the combi watching this little girl and her doll, thinking, ‘Oh just like me at that age with my doll.’ Then this man sitting in the combi called the girl over and handed her a piece of trash and told her to put it in the bin. Here I thought, ‘Oh, just like me.’ I have been told that I was a very busy and helpful 2-year-old after my younger brother Sean was born, running to fetch things to assist my mom. Then in an instant my moment ended and reality came crashing in. This was nothing like my childhood. I did not spend my days with my mother sitting on the street selling snacks day in and day out making a living. I did not take naps in a stroller on the side of the road with a dirt covered Michael. And I wasn’t taking empty wrappers from strangers to put in the trash.

As a Peace Corps Volunteer it is very easy to simply not see the reality that is around you. It is just easier to live and participate in the world around you if you do not see all of your reality.

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A Reflection

A couple weeks ago I was sexually assaulted while on vacation. Yes, it happened during Holy Week, which I won’t get into here. This is the second time that I have been assaulted during my service as a Peace Corps volunteer in Peru; the first time was in January of 2010. After the first incident I found myself avoiding the world and have chosen to take a different route this time, like dying my hair, which I haven’t done before. I was reflecting on this instance and came to the question: why? I know that the unsatisfying answer is because I was there and am female; such is life. I put forth the following series of questions not to receive answers (because many don’t have answers), but to get them out of my own head and to give a glimpse of what goes on in the mind of at least this PCV.

Why did I sign up for this again?

What was I thinking?

What do I do now?

Why do people live here in one of the driest deserts in the world?

Why don’t people wash their hands?

Why aren’t there toilet seats?

Why is there urine on the toilet again?

I have been here for months, why are people still staring?

Why am I arguing with these people about 1:00 to 3:00 being two hours?

Why is it so difficult to communicate?

Why is it that the longer I am in world the less the world makes sense?

Why do people burn their trash?

Why is it that some days it feels like the world is slowly steeling my optimism?

How did I end up with such great friends?

How do I go back to the U.S. after this?

Why will this f*#@ing fly not leave me alone?

How do people just sit there for hours doing absolutely nothing but watch the world go by?

Are these clothes going to last for my last six months?

Does nobody read in this country?


Why are there so many naked pictures of women in the newspapers?

Am I really sitting in surgery watching doctors remove a woman’s gallbladder?

Do people really poop in this country with all that rice in their diets?

Really, we only get water every two weeks?

Was that a dirty diaper in the irrigation canal?

Do the dogs have to be so evil?

Who knew that sunsets in the desert were so amazing?

What did they just say?

Will you repeat that?

How much longer do we have?

Did that really just happen?

What is it with eighties music?

Michael Jackson died?

Why is there never any toilet paper or soap?

Who steals water pumps?

Do I look like I have tons of money?

What do you mean I have chicken pox again?

What baby?

Is that ringworm?

Did you see my bruise from the dog that bit me?

Why are there always cockroaches?

Why do people keep asking me about husbands and boyfriends?

What keeps me here?

Why can’t things just work the first time?

What am I doing here?

Am I actually helping anyone?

Did you really just say that to me punk?

How did I get so lucky? Is it really luck?

ARG! Why?

What was he thinking?

Why holy week of all weeks?

Isn’t this supposed to be one of the times when we are supposed to take extra care of our fellow man?

Why does it feel like all men are bastards sometimes?

Why does it suck so much to be a girl sometimes?

Why didn’t I do anything?

Why is there not more delicious dark chocolate in the world?

Why o why?

*Photo is of the square in Ayacucho during Holy Week. I will put more up about this later.



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There is not really an easy starting point to sum up over a year’s worth of time especially if that year was spent in another country, culture, language and climate. So I will begin with where I am today and then talk briefly of how I got here.

I live in a small town about two hours south of the city of Lima, Peru in the Cañete river valley. My town has about three thousand people most of who are employed in agriculture. The average daily salary in my region is between 20 and 30 nuevos soles (the exchange rate is about 2.8 nuevos soles to the dollar). It is higher a bit further south in the department of Ica because their crops have a higher value. I am a water and sanitation (Wat/San) Peace Corps volunteer (PCV) as I have mentioned before so some of the facts about my town lean in that direction. The water source in Roma, the unofficial name of my town, is the irrigation canal that runs along the side of town. Right now the water is super brown since it is raining in the mountains, but it is still the source of water for my town as well as a bathtub, washing machine and sometimes trashcan. As a Wat/San PCV one of my goals is to improve the accessibility and quality of the drinking water and to that I am trying to start a project with the local and municipal mayors to repair and expand the local water system. I am also starting swim lessons, cooking classes and when school starts again I will continue tutoring student in English and math.

Now the question remains, how did I get here? If you have read my blog in the past then you know that Roma is different from the original place that I lived. I was originally place in Ocucaje, Ica, but I was unfortunately attacked by a Peruvian man one morning during my first few months of service. I was not physically harmed, but my world and sense of security was broken. In July of last year I was moved to Roma where I have a lovely host family and community. A special thanks to all my friends and family in the States who listened to and supported me through my tough times and especially to my fellow PCVs; I would not still be here if it were not for y’all.

I hope that everyone had a very merry holiday season; I know that I did!!

Until next time,


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Lunch in the Market

Last Saturday my friend Jason, another PCV, and I got together for lunch. As many of you know I do not eat meat so our options were a little bit limited, but fish is abundant in Cañete so we headed off to a fish place in the market that Jason recommended. When we arrived there were not two open seats, a good sign, so we occupied ourselves around the market. Jason wanted an apple manjar churro and I needed a phone charger since I accidently left mine at a hostel. When we returned to the fish place there were two stools available so we sat. This place is open air and has a make-shift canopy above the tables which are set up in a “U” shape. At the open end the stove and pots are boiling and frying up fish. Jason feeling a little under the weather and expecting to eat lunch again when he got home ordered the soup and me not having interest in the head of the fish ordered the plate. There are three options at this menu spot, soup, plate or soup & plate. Jason got his brother with a large fish head floating in it and I got a plate with a hunk of fried fish with rice, yucca, sweet potatoes and a few sprigs of lettuce, standard Peruvian fare. At the end of the meal I had yucca, rice and some dark fish meat left on my plate and Jason just ate the meaty part of the head. As we sat and enjoyed the market ambiance a man standing behind us started mumbling at Jason. After we turned to interpret his speech he reached over Jason’s shoulder and took the fish head and then moved to my plate and snagged the yucca and dark fish meat. Jason and I just looked at each other and took in the moment. That was the first time that had happened to either of us. We figured it was time to move on and I had a hankering for one of those apple manjar churros after seeing them earlier. We got the check and it came out to S/ 4.50 total (about $ 1.70), for three people.

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Shorts 4.0

Aissa & the Phone Call

As I have mentioned in a previous story, Aissa is the five year that I live with. In order to further illustrate her cunning and mischievousness I share the nickname the family has given her, Choocki. It took hearing it a few times to understand what my host family was saying and then I asked Aissa’s aunt what the meaning of “Choocki” is. She said, “You know, Chucky, like the doll.” Yes, I know what you are thinking “the evil processed Chucky doll from the movies?” Yes one and the same. It seems crazy to me that her family would refer to her as Choocki, but then again they call my host mom, La Rubia – the blond, when she is clearing not blond. Also they call me Katita – little Kate, when I tower over most of them.

Now as previously stated, Aissa is a smart, slightly evil, curious, little girl, especially when it come to the tall (relatively speaking, I am well aware that I am not tall) white lady living in her house. She not only has taken to following me out to the latrine but also to the bathing room. Now when I say bathing room, I do not mean a bathroom, where there is a shower and tub. No, I mean a room where everyone goes to bath that also doubles as storage. It is a room in the back half of the house and the door opens to the back expanse of dirt. The room is more fabulous than I sure you can imagine. I am pretty sure that it has a cement floor, but I cannot really tell for all the dirt on it. The door does not close completely and between the frame and the wall part of the mud has warn away. To top it off, there is not light in the room. So if you start the bathing process to late you end up fumbling around in the dark. I almost forgot the most important part, I stand in a bucket in the middle of the room with a sketchy stool to one side that has my toiletries on it and then I use a solar shower back that my host mom happened to have as a shower. The bag is hung from the ceiling on a meat hook. There is one large one, actually metal hook, and many others protruding from the ceiling, which are coat hanger type wire fashioned into hooks. And yes, it is a little weird bathing in a bucket in a room with meat hooks hanging from the ceiling. And my biggest fear of all is falling over onto the dirt floor. Words cannot describe.

One fateful day I went to bath and had avoided Aissa on my way to the bathing room. I was well into the bathing process standing there naked in the bucket when Aissa appeared at the door. I of course quickly said, as assertively as I could in such a vulnerable state, “go away.” She replies, “but Teigan is on the phone” and holds my phone out. I slipped into my flip-flops and grabbed my towel then went over to her and to the phone. She then scampered off with a grin on her face and a twinkle of the devil in her eye. When I put the phone to my ear there was no one there, so I set it and the towel down and finished bathing. When I was back inside I called Teigan and when she picked up I said, “Hey, you called.” She replied, “No I didn’t.” Curses.

Mighty Berugas

On a Friday a little while ago I had some warts (berugas) removed by a Peruvian dermatologist in Lima. Now I am not a fan of going to the doctor, but it was time to get rid of the warts and I have gotten warts removed in the past, so I figured I knew what I was getting myself into. I arrived at the hospital at 9am for my appointment and went to the front desk as instructed to do by PC. I waited for a nurse to guide me through the Peruvian medical system. As I waited I had a lovely chat with a dad and daughter from Canada while the Peruvian mom and grandfather handled their medical paperwork. After half an hour the nurse arrived and we proceeded downstairs to an entryway filled with desks and lines. I am still not sure what was going on, but it was something to do with insurance. Then we went up to the second floor and she left me to wait for my name to be called.

Now waiting to see the doctor is normal, but after two hours it was time to say something. The ladies at the desk assured me that I would be seen soon. After three hours of waiting I was escorted to the inner sanctum. The doctor’s office was nice; it was a combined office and examination room. She looked at my paperwork and warts, and then said she had nine more patients on her list that she was supposed to see before noon and asked if I could come back later. I obliged and she sent me with a list of stuff to pick up from the pharmacy downstairs. After finding the correct pharmacy I left with a syringe, a vile of some liquid, gauze, a topical cream, and a pair of rubber gloves. I was to return at 5pm so to fill my afternoon I lunched, coffee-ed in little America, and returned to the PC office to use the internet.

I arrived at five and went through the paperwork dance again and after a much shorter wait found myself sitting once again in the doctor’s office. I handed her my medical goodie bag and laid down on the examining table. The vile of liquid was a local anesthetic. She started with the wart I had on my knee. She gloved up, cleaned the area and injected the wart with anesthetic. This was an uncomfortable feeling, but soon the area was numb. She then pulled a tool off the wall and proceeded to burn my wart off. I do not think there is a word that really describes the feeling or thoughts running through my mind as I could smell my flesh burning with the knowledge that this was the first one. She then moved on to my left hand. The application of the local anesthetic to the knee was not really any different from getting a vaccination, but when applied to the fingers excruciatingly acute pain ensues. I had six warts on my left hand, two on my thumb, one on my pointer finger and three on my middle finger. As the smell of my burning flesh wafted through the air, all I could think about was how in the past when I have had a wart removed usually the doctor uses liquid nitrogen to freeze it to death and how this was a whole other level of attack on my warts. After getting through five sticks and burnings she went for the sixth and final wart on my thumb. I could no longer hold back my reaction to the pain and jerked my hand away when she stuck me, only to be stuck again. If I were to attempt to describe the feeling I would say it is like sticking a callous. A callous that is really tough and filled with nerves so that there has to be extra force behind the needle to get it to go in, and then a slow flow of liquid as the anesthetic permeates. After she burned the crap out of my hand, I had holes. The doctor then applied the cream, put a band aid on my pointer finger and covered my middle finger and thumb with gauze. She then proceeded to tell me that I needed to add the cream three times a day and not to wash my hand for 5-7 days (That was fun especially living in the campo). As I gathered my stuff to leave she picked up a silver canister said, “Normally we use liquid nitrogen, but not on Fridays.” While pondering my unfortunate luck and the brutal attack I just experienced on my fingers I heard a voice from the many people sitting in the waiting area say, “¡Ay Dios mío, mira a su mano!” (Oh my god, look at her hand!) I thought, I know; it’s Friday.

Happy Easter

I have had some pretty amazing Easters in the past, but this year takes the cake. I traveled with three friends to the great department and city of Arequipa. The city is exquisite, especially the Plaza de Armas and surrounding area where all the buildings are made of a beautiful white stone. I unfortunately got the ‘Peace Corps Plague’ the first day I was there and spent it between bed and bathroom. Ultimately, I took the mighty Cipro because I did not want to spend my vacation sick in bed. Having conquered whatever plagued my digestive tract I woke the next morning to a very unwelcome head cold. Well I did not let it get me done, but I certainly was not up to par. I roamed the city with Karen and Megann and we visited a convent. This convent was not a normal convent where the nuns take a vow of poverty. Each nun had their own apartment and the wealthier ones had servants. The place was a city. Now the nuns that live there are much more your standard nuns vow of poverty and communal living. We then spent our evening resting because we had an early morning ahead of us to head out to Colca Canyon.

We rose at 3am and were picked up 20-30 minutes later by the tourist van. After we stopped at several other hostels for other tourists we headed into the mountains past Misti Volcano. We stopped in a town near the canyon for breakfast and then headed to a lookout point to see condors the fly over the canyon. Then we drove a bit further, dropped off the day trippers and then were dropped off after a couple for kilometers. We were a small group: guide, Karen, Megann, me, a Spaniard, Italian and American. After walking down switch-backs for three hours we reached the bottom. My knees were wobbling and my head was pounding – clearly two days of hiking with a head cold after intestinal issues was not the best decision – but I continued on. We then hiked up for about an hour and stopped for lunch. Aside from the shaky legs and pounding head the canyon was beautiful and the company was great. After lunch we hiked to camp and arrived there after nightfall. I took a cold shower, ate soup, drank water, had some vitamin C, arranged to take a mule out of the canyon the next day and then put myself to bed. The next morning I met with the mule riding group to get started for the day. As I walked around my mule she bit my on the arm and after my initial reaction faded all I thought was, “fair enough, you are going to carry me out of this canyon and I respect you for setting the tone of our next couple hours.” I met my friends at the top and then we walking a mile to breakfast. After eating we strolled around this beautiful town and I learned that it was a Peace Corps volunteer’s site. I admit a streak of jealousy flashed because this site was gorgeous and had green!

Karen, Megan and I made our way back to Arequipa after a stop at the hot springs. We had a bus to catch at 8pm to head back to our sites. We had dinner in Arequipa, got money and bought some chocolate. We boarded our bus and got underway on time. At this point I would not say that the vacation was fantastic, but I did get to see a different part of Peru and hang out with people that I did not know very well. On the bus I took a sleep aid because sleeping on buses is not easy and I needed some much needed rest. Because of this I did not really think much of the fact that we stopped around 3 in the morning in a small coastal town. At 7ish I awoke for breakfast and learned from Karen that we had been sitting there since early in the morning because of a strike. We spent the entire day in this town and the bus moved back every hour or so as the miners who were striking would advance. As the day progressed and we heard news we learned that the miners were striking because of poor working conditions. In Chala, the police were on the roofs with guns and the miners were in the hills with rocks. By lunchtime the town was running low on water and food and there were 30 buses and their passengers roaming around. As the sun started to set over the ocean the people on our bus began a meeting to decide what action should be taken. The consensus was to walk across the strike line and switch places with passengers trying to head south. Karen, Megann and I decided that there was no way in hell that we were going to cross the strike line. Finally the bus company sent instructions to move a couple miles back down the road to a complex. This was not the greatest solution, but at least we were moving in the right direction, away from the strike. After buying some overpriced crackers, Karen, Megann and I settled on the bus to sleep and around 11pm the buses started up and headed south, back to Arequipa.

Now the first night on the bus I did not know that I was sleeping next to one of the loudest snorers off all time, but this second night without the sleep aid and the crazy snorer next to me sleep was merely a dream. I slept for a little while but sometime around 3am the snorer started and I stopped. In order to prevent any roomers, Karen and Megann were not sitting next to me, they were on different rows. I spent this time listening to music to try to drown out the reverberating growling sounds coming from my neighbor and gazing out my window at the moonlit landscape. There was a line of buses flying down the road with a police escort. After some time we were stopped by another strike and our bus was hit by a miner’s rock and broke one of the windows on the second level. I looked out my window a bit, but after seeing miners and police walking around outside I closed my curtain. After a little while we finally got the caravan underway and arrived in Arequipa around 10am. The buses went directly to the airport. Word spread quickly that the Peruvian government/police would be flying passengers stuck in the strike to Lima. We proceeded to sit in line for several hours and then our bus was called to go in and receive boarding-passes. We spent about an hour in line having to resist getting shoved out of line. After we got our passes and headed out to the tarmac to await the arrival of our plane I received an unfortunate call from nature. I made my way back inside to the restroom and got a second surprise, just icing on the cake at this point, fortunately I learned to be prepared early on in life. I returned to my place in line and we watched the plane land and passengers exit looking about as disheveled as we did. We boarded a police plane from the rear ramp. We sat down on the metal benched that lined the sides and our luggage was in a pile down the center of the plane. There were about four windows. After everyone was seated we took off and spent an hour and a half listening to the engine roar. We landed at about 7:30pm and made our way to a hostel. We chose to travel via combi with packs and all. During our ride I could not see Karen, just her bags. After showering we got food and tried to relax after our crazy journey especially since we were still not home. We all made it home the next day, but we had to get back on a bus to get there.

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Shorts 3.0

Let me start this next series of short stories with a simple greeting to the world out there that I have failed to communicate with over the last several months. Hello World!! I hope that you enjoy these stories

The Bare Necessities, the Simple Bare Necessities

Usually the first question that pops into my mind when I travel to a new place is: What are the bathroom facilities like? Not that I am a picky person, but I like to be prepared, especially because in my experience most other countries do not have restrooms available to the public everywhere. (While this is a topic for another time, it baffles me when you go to a store and ask to use the restroom and they respond with, “Oh, we don’t have one.” Oh, come on you work somewhere between an 8 and 10 hour shift and you don’t pee the entire time? Anyways, moving on.) My latrine, I feel, is a particularly special one. It was built by the Red Cross approximately 15 years ago, has three walls of blue, corrugated tin, a black, cracked ventilation pipe, no roof and a grey blanket which operates as the door/curtain. The standard latrine is completely sealed except for the toilet/hole and a possible ventilation pipe, which means that usually it just appears to be a black abyss below that the occasional Boy Scout ventures to shine a flashlight into and have a laugh or common “Oooh gross” with his friends. My latrine has an opening on the left side that illuminates the pit below, a particularly special feature.

Now using my latrine would be entirely insignificant if I lived in a lush forested area, but as it were I live in the desert where the only trees are the mango and fig trees off in the distance in the chakra (farm fields). The three features that make my latrine special are the skylight, the curtain and the extra ventilation. The skylight is pleasant during the morning and great at night when one can enjoy the stars while tending to life’s necessities, but during the middle of the day in the summer time the cement toilet seat is boiling lava hot and while sitting there in the sun one slowly roasts. In combination with the skylight the curtain adds to the ambiance. First it smells to high heaven and secondly it is only attached at the top so it can freely blow in the breeze. This curtain is a thick wool-like material and is attached at the corners of the frame so it dips in the middle. This dip just so happens to be the perfect height for people around my height to view the rest of the world while standing and pulling your pants up. During the afternoon in Ocucaje a breeze picks up from the west southwest and blows directly at the latrine which is only an annoyance when using it. While sitting on the toilet in the afternoon the curtain essentially suffocates you and if anyone is observing you then they see a mold of what you are doing, sort of like Han Solo when frozen in carbonate. If for some reason the wind is oblique to the latrine then of course the curtain blows to the side exposing whoever is in it to the world.

I mentioned before that my latrine has extra ventilation beyond the pipe. When walking towards the latrine from the house there is a hole at the base of it on the right side. My first reaction to the illumination of the contents below was, “Oh, how special” but I will say that it has been somewhat helpful. I have learned that I am the only person in my family that uses the latrine. How you might ask have I come to this conclusion? Well if you use the restroom several times a day and live somewhere for long enough it is easy to notice that you are the only one causing the contents below to change. While this observation would normally be tucked away in the memory bank, it is useful to me as a water and sanitation volunteer. Understanding people’s bathroom habits is valuable information because it raises the questions, where do people go if not in the latrine and why do they not use the latrines? Thus the work of a Wat/San volunteer continues.


The other day my friend Teigan was over at my house enjoying a lovely cafecito as my crazy host family revolved around us. A cafecito is coffee/tea with bread and in our case peanut butter and fruit. A few moments later Teigan says to me, “Kate, there are roaches crawling out of the chairs!” to which I responded, “Yep, this is my life.” The chairs at my dining table have wicker seats so it is an easy place for roaches to hang out and emerge from in the fading light. While this little scenario was less than pleasing it is not the worst I had seen so far and I proceeded to share the following with Teigan.

A week ago I was sitting down for breakfast and had placed a tea bag in my mug that sat next to my plate with bread and fruit. I proceed to pour some hot water to make tea from a large blue thermos from which I always pour hot water and still do to this day. When I looked in my mug I notice several of the small dark brown roaches floating in the water. They had apparently crawled up around the lid and when the hot water hit them they died. Now, I am not sure if I was just not awake yet or am a strangely non-reactive person, but at the moment I observed the roaches I picked up my cup removed the tea bag, walked outside and threw the water out in the dirt. Then I returned to the breakfast table and poured myself a fresh cup of tea and proceeded with my day. I guess I just assume that to everyone in Peace Corps and the developing world would just move on because there is not really anything that can be done.

Aissa & Latrine

Aissa is a five year old girl that I live with; she is the grand niece of my host mom and to put it simply she is hell on wheels. She is very smart and rambunctious, with a streak of the devil in her which comes out when she teases her grandmother and great aunt who are 50+ and 70+, respectively. For several weeks Aissa took to following me all around the house which is not really a problem except for when you need a few private moments. One of the particularly comical moments during my day was when Aissa would accompany me to the latrine. At first she would hold the curtain so that it was secure and from the first story you understand that this was nice. Then it became a game of peek-a-boo, with her peeking in on me. From here we moved on to racing to the latrine. I would head to the latrine and she would run in and leave me waiting outside. I thought well this is a good thing she is using the latrine and washing her hands afterwards. At least I am teaching someone to wash their hands; I guess that is how it works, one person at a time.

One day I was heading out to the latrine with Aissa beside me and I went in to do the necessities. Aissa proceeded to do the same, but just outside the latrine. I said, “Aissa, what are you doing?” She replied, “Its fine, everyone knows me here.” Well, alright then as long as everyone knows you. We then proceeded back down the hill towards out house to wash our hands.

That is all I have for now, more stories to come!



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