Rain

It is raining hard tonight. The sound of the fat drops pattering on the roof is therapeutic. I’ve been quite bummed out today, and the rhythm is calming. I’m sitting on a rocking chair on my front porch, watching the rain splash off roofs and the banana trees bend in the wind. The setting is serene, but I don’t take as much solace from it as I should. I have a headache that no pills have helped; remnants from last night’s big party in San Jose. My host family has decided that it is a good time to do karaoke at max volume. And to top things off, the shit smell has just wafted into my face.

At this moment, I am homesick.

This past weekend, I met up with all of the volunteers in country (about a hundred in total) for a party bidding the Tico 15 group farewell. It was a blast. It was an all day, all night party that made me feel normal again. I was speaking English, I had the privacy of a hotel room, and most importantly, I had a hot shower. These luxuries make coming home to the Puerto a brutal reminder of exactly how far away from home I am. It makes me miss my apartment on West Street, where Derek and I spent Sunday nights ordering Thai food and watching the Discovery Channel. Tonight, I choked down more rice and beans.

I know that I shouldn’t whine. I could be in Africa in a hut without electricity or water. But something else is bothering me: I am sad to see Tico 15 leave. Tico 15 is the group of PCVs who came here two years ago and are ready to head home. Many Tico 15ers have played major roles in my training and adjustment into Tico life and culture. The most important of these PCVs is Marianne. She lives here in my site, and is handing the torch to me. Although she may disagree, she has done a fantastic job here, and has set the bar quite high for me. She has shown me the ropes, and introduced me to people I need to know, and is now packing her bags. But I don’t want her to go.

Marianne has been my lifeline here. When work at the school or albergue has been too stressful, I can count on her to provide me with good conversation, and episodes of Scrubs. When I get too sick of bland Tico food, I head over to her place and we cook up a storm; she makes a mean Bolognese sauce. Marianne is a Southern Baptist reverend’s daughter from Fort Worth, Texas who has had a falling out with God; a subject about which we speak often. If she hears a good salsa song playing, she has to dance to it. Her lessons have made me a bit less terrible on the dance floor. She has helped me establish myself here. I just hope that I can get along okay when the cord is cut and she returns home.

It is raining harder now. The gutters are filling up with thick brown water. I realize now that I have had it pretty easy thus far; Posh Corps if you will. If I am going to make it here, I’m going to have to get used to being uncomfortable. West Street is long gone. Nobody is going to hold my hand anymore. And while my host family may have no sense of reasonable stereo volume control, they are my support here. So with headache still throbbing, I leave the rain to sing awful Spanish songs inside with my family. And while my family’s voices sound like dying animals’, I find a surprising comfort in the dissonance, and sing along.