Sunday. I am brought quesillo which makes me cheerful. The guys bring puro to work. A and I sit around playing angry birds but nothing else of note happens (besides work of course).
Monday. It has been decided that I will finish work fast and go into town (about an hour away) to make copies, buy gas, and call my parents. I know that I won’t actually call my parents because they will ask if I am having fun and I will ramble on about how my days alternate between being hungry, being stuffed, walking uphill, sliding downhill, measuring stuff, and sitting around. I may even mention our drunk guide, admit to having a bit of a crush on A (although I’m fairly certain it’s Stockholm syndrome-esque), and start to cry.
Anyhoo, we all finish early enough so that Don B and Don S can bring A and I into town. I know that I have truly turned Bolivian when instead of checking my email or finding a quiet place to read I go visit Dona V and Don J, the host parents of a fellow Peace Corps volunteer. We sit and chat and sip mate and eat cheese and no one gets drunk and it is perfectly delightful. We talk at length about the insects that could kill me in the campo, Che Guevarra (this is where his last stand was), Erika (the PCV) and her fiancée, and how I am ridiculously single. At one point V and J’s son gets very close to me, tells me that I have perfect eyebrows, and asks if I tweeze. His mother tells me that he has suffered a blow to the head and isn’t quite right but I agree….my eyebrows are indeed perfect.
On the walk back I call the ex-BBT because I promised I would provide proof of life. He also asks if I’ve called my parents but I explain how it could be a long conversation because everything has happened to which he responds, “You got married?” This cracks me up for some reason.